The readings for this week are Colossians 1.1–14 and Luke 10.25–37.

For me, one of the most striking things about this piece from Colossians is the sense of certainty that pervades it. 'Hope' and 'faith' are words we often use to express something indefinite or insecure — but when the author uses them here, it’s in the context of something known. This is not a hope that is held intangibly and ephemerally, but one that is concrete and permanent: “the hope laid up for you in heaven.” There is no doubt here — heaven, and what’s waiting for us there, is, in the mind of this writer at least, a certainty.

This certainty towards which we are drawn is then presented as transformative for who we are. There’s an honest recognition that we are works in progress — people who are yet to be filled with the knowledge of God’s purposes, wisdom, and understanding (v.9); people who still need to become stronger, more patient, and more able to experience joy (v.10). Yet this recognition is secondary to the power of the hope that brings it about: our transformation into people capable of living lives worthy of the Lord, and fully pleasing to him, is an outworking of a salvation already won for us — not the process by which that salvation is secured. Verse 13 tells us, “He has rescued us from the power of darkness and transferred us into the kingdom of his beloved Son.”

If you take nothing else away from this, take that: you have been rescued from the power of darkness. It doesn’t matter whether you feel it today, or feel worthy of it tomorrow — it is the immutable foundation of who you are. Not because of anything you’ve done, and not because you deserve it, but simply because God loves you, and he rose from the dead for you.

If we manage to wrap our heads and hearts even slightly around that reality, it really does begin to change who we are and what we do — not from guilt or fear, but out of a sense of empowerment and acceptance. An ability, perhaps, to draw down into the present the grace, love, and peace that is yet to come.

There’s something of an echo of this effect in the gospel reading this week. The Parable of the Good Samaritan is pretty well known — but there’s one character who often gets overlooked: the innkeeper. Yes, the Samaritan is brave enough to stop on the road and tend to a stranger — but the real healing happens later, in the inn, over several days. The Samaritan pays up front for a certain level of care, but then leaves the innkeeper with this command and promise: “Take care of him; and when I come back, I will repay you whatever more you spend.”

Having received a foretaste of the Samaritan’s riches, the innkeeper is empowered — by a certain hope of more to come — to offer care, love, and healing to the weary, beaten man entrusted to him.

Is it too much of a stretch to recast that sentence with the Samaritan as God, ourselves as the innkeeper, and the world as the one in need of healing?

Wouldn’t that be a pretty amazing story to be a part of?