“What we now behold through faith, we shall one day behold by sight.”

Four funerals in one month. Each service different, each story unique, yet all drawing our eyes to the same unshakable truth: “Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord” (Rev. 14:13).

There’s something about standing by so many graves in such a short span that presses eternity close. You can almost feel the thinness of the veil between what is seen and what is unseen. Death has a way of clarifying what we truly believe about life, about faith, and about Christ Himself.

In the midst of these weeks, I found myself returning to John Owen’s The Glory of Christ. Near the end of his own life, Owen wrote with a depth of faith that could only come from a man who had spent years beholding Christ through suffering, loss, and grace. In one section, he reflects on what it means to behold the glory of Christ now by faith and, one day, by sight.

“How little a portion is it that we know of him! … How imperfect are our conceptions of him! … Constantly, steadily, and clearly to behold his glory in this life we are not able; for we walk by faith, and not by sight.”

Even the greatest saints see but dimly. The most faithful believer, the most mature theologian, the most devoted worshipper—all of us, Owen says, behold the glory of Christ “but in part.” Our sight is real, but limited. We see His glory revealed in Scripture, in the Gospel, in the sacraments, in the beauty of His providence—but it is a mediated sight, filtered through faith. We see, as Paul says, “through a glass, darkly” (1 Cor. 13:12).

Still, what grace it is that we see at all! “For God, who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ” (2 Cor. 4:6). That light—the light of faith—is not the full radiance of heaven, but it is true light nonetheless. It’s the dawn before the day. And it sustains us.

Owen continues:

“Such, I say, is the sight of the glory of Christ which we have in this world by faith. It is dark,—it is but in part. It is but weak, transient, imperfect, partial. It is but little that we can at any time discover of it; it is but a little while that we can abide in the contemplation of what we do discover.”

What a humble and honest description of our walk with Christ. We glimpse His glory in prayer, in worship, in His Word—but the distractions of life, the weariness of the flesh, the weakness of the mind often obscure our view. Faith catches sight of Him, but cannot yet fully hold Him.

And yet, for all its imperfection, that sight of Christ by faith is the very life of the believer. It’s what keeps us pressing on. It’s what sustains the sorrowing heart at the graveside. We live by faith, yes—but it is faith in a Christ we truly know, and whose glory we already taste.

But Owen doesn’t stop there. He lifts our eyes beyond the veil.

“Vision, or the sight which we shall have of the glory of Christ in heaven, is immediate, direct, intuitive; and therefore steady, even, and constant… We shall see him as he is—not as now, in an imperfect description of him.”

What we behold now by faith, we will one day behold by sight. No more dim glass, no more fading light. No longer the mediated glory of the Gospel page, but the immediate glory of the Person Himself. “We shall see him as he is” (1 John 3:2).

That, for Owen—and for every Christian—is the blessed hope. The light of faith will give way to the light of glory. And that glory will not merely surround us; it will transform us. Owen describes it this way:

“In heaven there shall be a superadded light of glory… and in the first instance of its operation, it perfectly transforms the soul into the image and likeness of Christ.”

This is what death means for those who are in Christ. The body may be sown in weakness, but the soul rises in glory. Faith gives way to sight; sight gives way to likeness. The believer’s first true vision of Christ is also the moment he becomes fully like Him.

I have thought often of that in recent weeks. Each saint we have laid to rest now fully beholds what we only see through a glass dimly. They no longer walk by faith—they see. They no longer catch faint glimpses of the Savior—they gaze upon Him directly, fully, eternally. And that sight, Owen says, is not fleeting or fragile. It is steady, even, constant.

We, meanwhile, remain for a time in this world of partial light. Our faith falters; our sight dims. But we live in hope, knowing that the light of faith is but the first glow of a coming dawn. One day, the darkness will pass, the veil will lift, and we will behold Him as He is.

And in that moment, all the funerals, all the tears, all the aching separation will dissolve in the brilliance of His glory.

SDG

When Israel turned from the living God to worship idols, both in the wilderness and later in the divided kingdom, their choice of image seems peculiar. Of all the creatures they might have chosen, why calves?

In Exodus 32, Aaron shaped a golden calf and declared, “These are your gods, O Israel, who brought you up out of the land of Egypt.” Centuries later, King Jeroboam repeated the same formula when he set up two golden calves in Bethel and Dan (1 Kings 12:28). The story repeats itself: new setting, same sin.

But why calves? What did that image mean to them—and what does it reveal about us?

The Calf as a Symbol of Strength

In the ancient Near East, the bull symbolized divine strength and vitality. Egypt had its sacred Apis bull, a living representation of the god Ptah. Canaan’s Baal was often shown standing upon a bull, marking his supposed power over fertility and storms.

So when Israel made a calf, they weren’t inventing a new religion; they were borrowing imagery from their neighbors. The bull was the cultural shorthand for “divine power.” It looked impressive. It felt familiar.

But in choosing the symbol of worldly strength, Israel betrayed the God who had delivered them by His unseen hand. They wanted to see the power they worshiped.

The Calf as a Misrepresentation of Yahweh

In both Exodus and 1 Kings, the people didn’t claim to be worshiping a new god. Aaron proclaimed a “feast to the LORD” (Ex. 32:5). Jeroboam told the people, “Behold your gods, O Israel, who brought you up out of the land of Egypt.”

Their sin wasn’t rejecting Yahweh by name, but misrepresenting Him in form. They wanted a visible stand-in for the invisible God—a domesticated image of His glory.

The second commandment forbids not only false gods but false ways of worshiping the true God. Whenever we try to make God tangible on our own terms, we cease to worship and begin to manipulate. It is easier to make an image than to hear His Word, easier to parade a statue than to bear a cross.

And if we’re honest, the same temptation shows up in our worship today. It’s easier to design a service that makes us the audience—pleasing our tastes, stirring our emotions, satisfying our sensibilities—than to bow before the Lord and adore Him on His terms. We can be moved by music yet unmoved by majesty, stirred by style yet untouched by holiness. True worship isn’t about what pleases our ears, but what exalts His name.

The Calf as a Tradition of Rebellion

Jeroboam’s decision to use calves wasn’t random. It was a deliberate echo of Israel’s earlier rebellion. He needed a politically convenient religion that kept his people from traveling to Jerusalem, so he revived the most recognizable “alternative” form of worship in Israel’s memory.

How tragic that the image of their greatest shame became a model for national worship! Sin, once tolerated, soon becomes tradition. What began as impatience at Sinai became institutionalized idolatry in Samaria.

The same happens today. What we justify as “just a little compromise” often becomes the very thing we defend as “our way of doing things.”

The Calf as a Controllable God

A calf—or young bull—is strong, yes, but also domesticated. You can feed it, contain it, and lead it where you want it to go. That’s the real appeal of idolatry: a god we can control.

Israel wanted a deity who would bless their plans, not interrupt them. They wanted the security of religion without the risk of obedience.

Modern idolatry works the same way. We may not melt down our earrings to forge a calf, but we still fashion gods that fit our expectations.

• The god of comfort, who never calls us to sacrifice.
• The god of tolerance, who never confronts sin.
• The god of prosperity, who never lets us suffer.
• The god of nationalism, who conveniently loves all the same people we do.

We reshape God into a manageable image—something we can display but not obey.

As the old Audio Adrenaline song put it, “My God died on the cross, not at McDonald’s.” It’s a funny line, but also a stinging indictment. We’ve turned the holy God of Scripture into a drive-thru deity—quick, cheap, and customizable. “Have it your way” may work for hamburgers, but not for heaven.

A Misguided Longing Fulfilled

Israel’s idolatry was, in a strange way, an impatient expression of a real longing—the desire for a visible manifestation of God’s presence. They wanted to see and follow the One who led them out of Egypt.

The golden calf was a sinful counterfeit of what would one day be fulfilled lawfully and graciously in the incarnation:

“The Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen His glory” (John 1:14).

The calf was humanity’s attempt to bring God near on our terms. Christ is God’s answer—He came near on His.

So Why Calves?

Because the human heart still craves a god we can manage. We want power without purity, presence without repentance, blessing without lordship.

Israel’s calves may be long melted down, but the molds remain—in our politics, our pulpits, and our private devotions. The temptation is always to fashion a god in our own image rather than to bow before the One who made us in His.

But the gospel holds out something better. The true God cannot be captured or controlled, yet in Christ He has drawn near—not as a golden calf, but as the Lamb who was slain.

“Little children, keep yourselves from idols.” (1 John 5:21)

SDG