Creation in Two Movements

The writers of Scripture often communicate in a way similar to a painter. They begin with broad strokes, laying out the larger picture, and then return to fill in the details, giving greater clarity and depth to what has already been introduced.

The creation account follows this pattern.

Some have suggested that Genesis presents two different creation stories. But a closer reading shows that it is one story told in two movements. The first is painted with wide, sweeping strokes. The second returns with a finer brush, adding the detail necessary for understanding.

In Genesis 1, we are told that God created humanity:

“Male and female He created them.” (Genesis 1:27)

The statement is clear but brief. It tells us what happened, but not yet how or why.

Genesis 1 also reveals something else. God first creates space and establishes boundaries within that space. The waters are separated from the waters. Dry land appears. Order is established where there had been none. Then, having formed these spaces, God fills them. The sky is filled with birds. The waters with fish and every living creature. The land with animals—and finally, with humanity, male and female.

Creation is not random. It is ordered, intentional, and purposeful.

Genesis 2 slows the narrative and brings us closer. What was stated broadly is now shown intimately. God has provided everything humanity needs to live, to flourish, and to multiply. Everything is placed in order, and everything is declared good.

Yet in the midst of that order, a boundary is introduced.

“Of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat…” (Genesis 2:17)

This is the first command given to humanity. It introduces the possibility of choice—and with it, the reality of consequence. Life is given freely, but it is not independent of the One who gives it.

Genesis 2 also differs from Genesis 1 in how humanity is described.

In Genesis 1, God speaks, and creation comes into existence.

In Genesis 2, humanity is not the result of a distant command, but of a purposeful and personal act.

God does not simply speak.

He stoops.
He forms.
He breathes.

“And man became a living being.” (Genesis 2:7)

What had been formed from the dust becomes alive through the breath of God. Life is not something humanity possesses within itself—it is something given. And what God gives, He alone sustains.

This detail is foundational.

From the beginning, humanity is dependent. Life is not self-originating, nor is it self-sustaining. It is life received. This truth echoes throughout Scripture, shaping how we understand not only creation but also death, resurrection, and redemption.

The account then moves one step further.

The creation of woman is not presented as a separate or secondary act, but as one that reveals the unity of humanity:

“And the rib which the LORD God had taken from man He made into a woman.” (Genesis 2:22)

This is more than a detail—it is a declaration.

Humanity is not designed for isolation, but for relationships. Males and females share a common origin, a shared life, and a shared purpose. They are distinct, yet inseparably connected. And it is in their unity that the image of God is reflected in its fullness.

This relational design points beyond itself.

Just as humanity is formed from God and dependent on Him for life, humanity is also formed for connection with one another and ultimately with the Creator Himself.

These opening chapters establish patterns that continue throughout the rest of Scripture:

Life comes from God.
Separation from Him brings death.
Relationship is central to His design.
And what is broken must ultimately be restored.

Genesis does not simply tell us how humanity began.

It tells us what humanity was created to be. We were created for relationships, with each other and with our creator. The aspect of relationship was so dear to the creator that He created for us a home, a garden home, the very home of God himself here on earth.

Within His home, lies a choice, not a difficult choice, but a simple yet profound choice: life or death.

Easter through Psalms 23

There are many great psalms in the book of Psalms, but three stand out especially at this time of year: Psalms 22, 23, and 24. David wrote them out of the struggles and realities of his own life, yet many have seen in them a deeper fulfillment in Christ—His suffering, His rest in death, and His triumph.

Psalm 22 takes us to the cross. There we hear the words Jesus cried out in His suffering: “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” Many believe that as He hung upon the cross, Christ not only quoted the opening line of Psalm 22, but drew attention to the whole psalm, which so vividly anticipates the suffering of the Messiah.

Psalm 24 is often understood as a psalm of triumph and ascension. “Lift up your heads, O ye gates.” It is the song of the conquering King returning in victory.

But what of Psalm 23?

Especially in this season, Psalm 23 seems to stand between the suffering of Psalm 22 and the triumph of Psalm 24. It is the psalm of trust, the psalm of rest, the psalm of the Shepherd in the valley.

David writes as a shepherd who knows what it is to be shepherded: “The LORD is my shepherd.” That alone is remarkable. The shepherd is being shepherded by the LORD.

And here the psalm opens before us in a deeper way. In John 10, Jesus calls Himself the Good Shepherd. David, imperfect though he was, served as a type of Christ. As shepherd-king, he was called to care for Israel, to defend the flock, and even to risk his life for others. In this, David points beyond himself to Christ, the true Shepherd-King, who came to shepherd His people and lay down His life for the sheep.

So when we read Psalm 23, we hear not only David’s confidence in God, but also a deeper echo of Christ Himself in His humanity. The Good Shepherd, while on earth, was Himself being shepherded by the Father. He lived in trust. He walked in obedience. He rested in the care of the One who sent Him.

That is why the words strike us so deeply: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for You are with me.”

David knew something of danger, fear, and death. But Christ walked into that valley more fully than David ever could. He entered Gethsemane. He endured the cross. He passed into the silence of the tomb. Yet He is not only the One who walks through the valley—He is the One who has authority over it, as He demonstrated when He stood before the tomb of Lazarus and called him back to life. The Father was with Him, and as Jesus called Lazarus from the grave, the Father called the Good Shepherd from the grave.

“Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.”

The shepherd carried both rod and staff. The rod was a weapon of protection against beasts and enemies. The staff was an instrument of guidance, rescue, and care. Both speak of the faithful presence of God. The Lord not only defends His sheep; He leads them, rescues them, and keeps them.

And because Christ, the Good Shepherd, walked through death for us, we who belong to Him may live without fear. He prepares a table before us in the presence of our enemies. He anoints our heads with oil. Our cup runs over. In the midst of a hostile world, covenant blessing is still ours because of Him.

So Psalm 23 is not merely a funeral psalm, though it has rightly comforted mourners through the centuries. It is a resurrection hope psalm. It is the song of the One who passed through death under the care of His Father and now gives life to His people.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and because the Good Shepherd laid down His life for me, I shall dwell in the house of the LORD forever.

This Easter season, we remember that Christ lived, died, was buried, and rose again. He rested in the grave from the work of redemption He had accomplished, and on resurrection morning He triumphed over death. Because He gave His life, we receive life. Because He entered the valley, we need not fear it. Because He rose, we shall dwell in the house of the LORD forever.

Amen.

“I Have Loved You”

Malachi 1:2

“I have loved you,” says the LORD.
Yet you say, “In what way have You loved us?”

The book of Malachi begins in a surprising way. Before God corrects His people, before He points out their failures, He begins with a simple declaration:

“I have loved you.”

Everything that follows in Malachi rests on that truth. God does not speak first as a judge, but as a loving Father, reminding His children of something they have forgotten.

Yet the people respond with a troubling question:

“In what way have You loved us?”

Their circumstances had become difficult. Israel was no longer a great kingdom. They lived under foreign rule. Life felt small and uncertain. And slowly, quietly, doubt crept into their hearts.

When life became difficult, they began to question God’s love.

We sometimes do the same thing. When prayers seem unanswered, or life becomes heavy, we begin to wonder where God’s love has gone.

But Malachi reminds us that God’s love is not measured by our circumstances. It is rooted in His character.

God loved His people before they recognized it.
He loved them when they doubted it.
And His love would ultimately be revealed in Christ.

Sometimes the most important truth we need to hear again is the simplest one:

“I have loved you,” says the Lord.

And everything God does flows from that love.

Blessings,

     Pastor Lester Bentley