Ephesians Chapter 6 – Commentary & Explanation
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Sometimes when I turn the page to Ephesians 2, I pause for a second. I don’t know why. Maybe because chapter 1 felt like warm sunlight and blessings dripping down like honey… and chapter 2 reminds me where we actually came from. It’s a bit jarring, like stepping from a warm room into a cold hallway. But in a good way, because it makes the warmth sweeter when you step back in.
Dead. Not “kinda tired spiritually.” Not “a little confused.” Dead.
Paul isn’t sugarcoating anything, he just goes for the jugular.
And honestly, I think we forget sometimes how dead we were.
Dead people don’t move. Don’t save themselves. Don’t crawl toward God. They just… lie there.
When I was younger, I used to think of sin like a naughty list. But Paul here—he says sin wasn’t just misbehavior. It was a grave.
And we were in it.
This always hits a nerve. Like, yeah Paul, we know we messed up, give us a break, right?
But then I sigh and think… okay yes, I did walk like that. There were seasons I went with the flow of the world simply because it was easier than swimming upstream.
And the “prince of the power of the air”—that’s spiritual darkness Paul’s talking about. The whispered lies. The voices that say,
“Give up.”
“You’re nothing.”
“No one cares.”
“You'll never be free.”
We’ve all felt that wind pass through our mind once or twice.
We all.
I like that Paul includes himself.
He doesn’t stand above the crowd. He says we, like he’s sitting beside us on an old couch somewhere, elbows touching, saying, “Hey, I’ve been there too.”
And we all have.
Our flesh can be loud, like a hungry animal.
The cravings, the impulses, the stubbornness.
And Paul says because of all that, we were “children of wrath” — which sounds scary (because it is), but wait… he’s building up to something.
These two words feel like a thunderstorm breaking open and suddenly sunlight pouring through the clouds.
But God.
Not “but you improved.”
Not “but you tried your best.”
Not “but you became very spiritual.”
Just — But God.
Every time I read this, I swear I get goosebumps. Like the hair on my arms stand up because the shift is so dramatic.
We were dead.
But God.
We were enslaved.
But God.
We were drowning.
But God.
If your whole life had a hinge moment, it’s right here.
Great love.
Not average.
Not polite.
Great.
Huge. Like an ocean wave knocking you off your feet.
God made us alive.
We didn’t resuscitate ourselves.
He breathed into us again.
“By grace you have been saved.” Paul slips it in early, like he can’t hold it in. He’ll repeat it later too, but here he whispers it first.
This one always feels unreal.
Because honestly… I still feel like a mess some days.
Still battling old thoughts, old moods, old habits.
Still feeling insecure about random things.
And Paul says—
“You’re seated in heavenly places with Christ.”
It’s like God sees the finished version of us even while we’re still very much under construction.
Paul basically says:
God saved you so He can keep showing you grace… forever.
Not once.
Not twice.
But in the coming ages.
Infinite future. Endless kindness. Wave after wave.
Kinda wild if you think about it too long.
This verse is like the crown jewel of Ephesians.
Kids memorize it. Adults quote it. Preachers build sermons around it.
But when you read it slow, it still stuns you.
Saved by grace.
Through faith.
Not from ourselves.
A gift.
Like someone handing you something precious at a moment you absolutely did not deserve anything nice.
Ever had that? When you’re having a terrible day and someone brings you coffee or hugs you or speaks life into you? And you almost wanna cry because it feels too kind?
That’s grace.
You can’t brag about salvation.
There’s no trophy.
No report card.
God didn’t adopt us because we performed well.
He rescued us because He loved us.
Period.
End of story.
This one touches something deep.
Workmanship.
Like a poem.
Like a painting.
Like a hand-carved bowl polished forever until the wood shines.
We’re His masterpiece even when we feel like scrap pieces.
Created for good works—not saved by good works, but saved for them.
It’s beautiful how Paul puts it in order.
Paul doesn’t want them to forget their past.
Not to shame them… but so they appreciate grace more deeply.
Remember where you came from.
Remember who you were.
Sometimes remembering is painful, but it makes gratitude richer.
Wow.
Paul lists how empty they were.
No Messiah.
No promise.
No covenant.
No hope.
It’s like standing in a desert with cracked lips and no shade for miles.
“But now.”
Another shift.
Another hinge.
You were far.
But now — near.
And not near because you crawled.
Near because Jesus pulled you in with His own blood.
Sometimes God’s love feels like being drawn into a warm room after standing outside in winter.
Your fingers still cold but slowly warming.
Jesus doesn’t give peace as much as He is peace.
The way fire gives warmth simply because it burns.
He broke the dividing wall between Jews and Gentiles.
All the hostility—gone.
Destroyed.
We build walls.
Jesus knocks them down.
Jesus didn’t come to create a hybrid religion.
He created a new humanity.
A new kind of people who live by the Spirit, not by laws written on tablets.
A people where identity comes from Christ, not culture.
Both groups—Jew and Gentile—brought back to God the same way:
through the cross.
No one gets in through the VIP entrance.
All come through blood.
All come through grace.
Paul says Jesus preached peace even to people who never saw Him physically.
Meaning the gospel is Jesus’ voice still echoing through time, reaching hearts across continents, cultures, and centuries.
Peace to the ones who grew up in church.
Peace to the ones who never heard His name.
Peace to the near.
Peace to the far.
Access.
Not blocked.
Not restricted.
Not “wait outside.”
We have access to the Father like beloved children running into a room without knocking.
Paul keeps layering identity.
Not strangers.
Not outsiders.
Not unwanted.
But fellow citizens.
Members of God’s household.
Part of the family.
And honestly, sometimes those three words—“no longer strangers”—feel like balm on old wounds.
Our faith isn’t floating in the air.
It has foundation stones.
Generations of believers, prophets, apostles, martyrs, pastors, grandmothers who prayed quietly, people who held onto Jesus when everything else was falling apart.
And at the center—
Christ the cornerstone.
The perfect alignment.
The church grows, not like a business, but like a living organism.
Like vines climbing upward toward the sun.
Like coral building quietly in deep water.
And somehow, we’re all part of this growing, breathing temple.
Being built.
Ongoing.
Still in progress.
Still messy.
Still noisy like a construction site.
But built together — not alone.
Sometimes you need someone else next to you, holding you up spiritually like scaffolding.
And God is making us His dwelling place.
Not visiting.
Dwelling.
Ephesians 2 always feels like a walk from death into life.
From darkness into light.
From far to near.
From wrath to grace.
From strangers to family.
It’s dramatic, emotional, beautiful—like a story only God could write.
And the best part?
Paul doesn’t say “you were upgraded.”
He says, “You were made alive.”
There’s a heartbeat in this chapter.
You can almost hear it if you read slow.
God loved you so much even when you were dead.
He pulled you close when you weren’t looking for Him.
He gave you peace when your soul was at war.
He made you part of something bigger, something holy, something eternal.
And chapter 2 ends with this quiet truth:
God lives in you.
Even in the messy days.
Even in the confused nights.
Even when you feel unfinished.
Because you are His workmanship.
His home.
His story-in-progress.
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