Ephesians Chapter 6 – Commentary & Explanation
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Ephesians 4 feels like that moment when a loving mentor sits you down—not to scold you, but to gently say, “Alright, family… let’s actually live this out now.” It’s practical. Emotional. Sometimes uncomfortably direct. And yet there’s this softness underneath everything Paul says, like he’s guiding us with a hand on our shoulder.
As I read through it again, I can almost imagine the room where this letter might have first been read aloud… maybe people sitting together on woven mats, children fidgeting in the back, the smell of warm bread drifting from somewhere nearby, and someone reading Paul’s words slowly enough that each line sinks deep.
Let’s go through it verse by verse.
Paul says urge, not lightly suggest. Almost like he’s leaning forward, eyes warm, voice steady:
“Live in a way that reflects the calling you already have.”
He’s not saying “Earn God’s love.”
He’s saying “Walk like someone who’s already been loved.”
I remember a pastor once saying, “Sometimes our feet forget what our heart already knows.” This verse feels like that. A reminder.
Ah, humility. The word I both love and dread, depending on the day.
Paul ties it with gentleness and patience—like three siblings that always travel together.
Humility without gentleness becomes harsh.
Gentleness without patience fades fast.
Patience without humility becomes prideful endurance.
And then he says “bearing with one another in love.”
Which basically means:
put up with each other… lovingly.
Anyone who has siblings or church friends or coworkers… you know this is real.
Unity isn’t something we create. It’s something the Spirit made, and we protect.
Sometimes I think Christians confuse unity with sameness. But Paul isn’t asking us to become clones. He’s asking us to guard the bond we already share.
It’s like a fragile vase you carry carefully—because one careless moment and unity cracks.
Paul starts listing all the “one’s,” like counting pillars holding up a house.
One God.
One Savior.
One Spirit.
One hope.
He’s basically saying, “You’re all part of the same big story, stop acting like separate tribes.”
I once attended a church retreat where two groups wouldn’t even sit together during meals—they argued about worship styles (believe it or not). But when we read this passage, you’d think someone turned a light on. The room felt… softer. More aware. More one.
Not all of us have the same grace in the same way.
Some people are good at teaching, some at comforting, others at serving quietly in corners. Christ gives different gifts for different purposes. It’s His creativity.
You’re not supposed to be someone else’s version of useful. Only your own.
Paul quotes Psalm 68 here, describing Jesus lifting people out of captivity and then giving gifts, like a victorious king returning home distributing spoils.
Christ didn’t just save us; He equipped us.
Paul briefly explains how Jesus went low (incarnation, death) and then went high (resurrection, ascension). It’s like Christ filled the lowest places with hope and the highest places with glory.
He’s everywhere. Filling all things. Holding everything together.
These are like the anchor roles in the church body.
Not celebrities. Not bosses. Not spiritual elites.
They’re servants whose purpose is…
Saints means you and me. Ordinary believers.
Church isn’t a one-man show—we’re all part of the work.
One time, a woman at my old church said, “I’m not really ministry material.” But she prayed for people with a gentleness that made grown men cry.
That’s ministry.
It’s not always on stage.
This is the long game.
Christian growth isn’t microwave speed; it’s slow-cooker slow.
Unity.
Knowledge.
Maturity.
Fullness.
God’s vision for us is huge. Much bigger than our usual goals.
Spiritual immaturity feels like being thrown around in life with no anchor. Feelings everywhere. Opinions everywhere. The latest “cool teaching” stirring confusion.
Growing up in Christ brings stability.
A rootedness.
A steadiness.
Like sitting at the edge of the sea watching waves crash but not being dragged under.
Ah yes… the delicate balance.
Truth without love becomes a hammer.
Love without truth becomes sugar water.
But together—they heal.
Paul says this is how we grow into Christ.
I’ve been corrected in harsh ways before, and honestly it makes you shut down inside. But when someone tells you truth with gentleness… it builds you instead of breaking you.
We’re connected. Deeply. Spiritually. Even when we forget it.
Christ is like the ligaments holding everything together. Every believer has a part, a role, a purpose.
When each of us works as we’re meant to, the whole body grows in love. It’s beautiful and chaotic and holy all at once.
This is where Paul gets very practical. The whole tone feels like he shifts from theology to heart-talk. Kind of like: Alright, let’s talk lifestyle now.
He’s not talking about ethnicity. He’s talking about unbelieving lifestyles—empty minds, wandering hearts, people disconnected from God.
Basically:
“Don’t live like you don’t know Jesus anymore.”
Disconnection from God affects everything—thoughts, desires, clarity.
Paul’s describing spiritual confusion, like walking in a fog where nothing feels meaningful or true.
I’ve been in those seasons. A foggy heart is a real thing.
When someone stops caring about what’s right, they slowly slip toward destructive habits. Paul says spiritual numbness leads to moral numbness.
A scary but honest truth.
This line always feels like a sharp but loving mom-voice saying, “This is NOT who you are!”
Paul is reminding them:
“You learned Jesus differently.”
Hearing Him (not just hearing about Him) changes a person.
Christ Himself is the teacher.
Like taking off filthy clothes after a long, sweaty day.
The old self is full of deceit, desires that promise happiness but deliver emptiness.
Renewal happens in the mind first.
New thoughts.
New desires.
New perspective.
I once had someone tell me, “Salvation is instant, but renovation takes time.” Pretty accurate.
This new self is crafted by God—righteous, holy, clean.
You’re not who you used to be.
Even if you sometimes feel like the old you sneaks back in, the new identity is still yours.
Tell the truth.
Not half-truths, not gentle lies, not “I’ll just avoid the topic.”
Truth builds trust.
We belong to each other, Paul says. Truth protects unity.
Anger isn’t sinful by itself.
But what we do with it matters.
Don’t let anger simmer overnight.
It grows sour.
It grows roots.
It invites spiritual darkness.
I’ve learned this the hard way.
Anger that lingers becomes a doorway.
A crack.
A foothold.
Paul says shut that door fast.
Instead of taking—work.
Instead of hoarding—give.
God’s way transforms takers into givers.
No rotting words.
No gossip.
No tearing down.
Speak what builds others up, what heals, what encourages.
Words are like seeds—they grow something, good or bad.
This line always makes me pause.
Grieve means make sad.
The Spirit isn’t an impersonal force—He has feelings.
Our attitudes and choices affect Him.
It’s a beautiful and sobering truth.
Bitterness is like mold—it spreads quietly.
Paul says get rid of it all. Every form. Every shade.
Why?
Because God forgave you.
This verse feels like a soft blanket on a cold day.
Kindness.
Tenderness.
Forgiveness.
It’s like Paul ends the chapter with a hug, honestly.
This chapter is both challenging and comforting.
It calls us higher.
It pulls us deeper.
It invites us to live like people who truly know Christ.
Not perfectly.
Not instantly.
But honestly.
Softly.
Daily.
And the whole thing carries this whisper beneath it:
“Let love guide everything.”
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