Paul doesn’t begin this passage with practical advice or even spiritual encouragement. He starts with awe—with a hymn, a bold declaration of who Jesus is. Before we get to what we should do, Paul reminds us of who Christ is. This passage, Colossians 1:15–20, is considered one of the earliest confessions of faith in the church. It wasn’t written to stir emotion or serve as a poetic flourish, it was written to anchor the soul. And we need that kind of anchor today. In a world where everything seems uncertain…where values shift, where truth feels up for grabs, where even our own identities are in constant flux, we need something solid, someone unshakeable.
Too many people, even in the church, have settled for a small, sanitized version of Jesus. A pocket-sized Savior. A wise teacher, a moral example, a gentle figurehead to bless our already-made plans. But the Jesus of Scripture is none of those things. He is supreme. He is cosmic. He is not just part of the story; He is the Author of the story.
Paul writes, “He is the image of the invisible God.” That’s staggering. Think of it this way: you can’t stare directly into the sun without damaging your eyes. It’s too bright, too powerful. But if you hold up a mirror, you can see a reflection of that light. Now, Christ doesn’t merely reflect God’s character like a mirror. He is the radiance, the exact imprint. The Greek word used here is “eikon”, the same word used to describe the image stamped on a coin. Jesus is not a shadow, not a distant echo. He is the very likeness of God pressed into human flesh. Want to know what God is like? Look at Jesus. Watch Him touch the untouchable. Watch Him challenge religious hypocrisy. Watch Him carry a cross. That’s what God is like: holy, merciful, just, and shockingly full of grace.
Then Paul says, “He is the firstborn of all creation.” That can sound, at first glance, like Jesus was created—but Paul isn’t saying that. In the biblical world, “firstborn” doesn’t mean the first created; it means the one who holds the highest rank—the one with authority. It’s about status, not sequence. It’s like saying He’s the rightful heir, the one with all power and all claim. Jesus isn’t a part of creation—He is Lord over it. Think of a painter standing before a canvas. He’s not one of the brushstrokes. He’s the hand that made every stroke.
Paul doesn’t stop there. He presses deeper: “For in Him all things were created…” Everything. Every mountain peak, every grain of sand, every bird’s song, every newborn’s cry, every galaxy, every strand of DNA; it’s all His work. Creation is not random. It is art. And Christ is the artist.
And here’s the shock: not only was it made by Him, it was made for Him. You were made for Him.
That changes everything.
Paul shifts focus in verse 18 from the vast cosmos to something closer to home: the Church. He writes, “He is the head of the body, the Church.” That might sound simple at first, but don’t rush past it. Paul isn’t offering a cute analogy here, he’s describing a living reality. In any body, the head is what gives direction. It’s where the brain resides. It tells the hands what to do, the feet where to go, the heart how fast to beat. Without the head, the body is lost, disoriented and eventually lifeless.
So when Paul says Christ is the head of the Church, he’s making a bold statement: Jesus isn’t just a figurehead or a founder we remember with sentiment. He is the living authority of the Church. The Church doesn’t belong to us; it belongs to Him. That means we don’t get to treat it like a club we join or a business we run.
This has real, practical implications:
• The Church doesn’t belong to the people who’ve attended the longest.
• The pastor isn’t the CEO.
• The congregation isn’t a customer base.
• The programs aren’t the product.
The Church is a body, and Jesus is its head. And if a body is severed from its head, it doesn’t keep functioning. It doesn’t just get confused, it dies. That’s what happens when churches drift from Christ. They may keep up appearances for a while; busy calendars, nice buildings, inspirational messages—but if Christ isn’t the head, the life fades. What remains is just activity. Just motion. Not mission.
Being part of the Church also means we don’t get to center it around our personal preferences. It’s not about whether we like the music, the preaching style, or the paint color in the fellowship hall. The Church exists to reflect the glory of Jesus. Everything else...our styles, our traditions, our comforts are secondary. When Christ is truly at the center, we stop asking, “What do I want?” and start asking, “What does He want?”
Then Paul adds, “He is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead.” Once again, Paul’s not talking about birth order, he’s talking about authority and status. Others have been raised from the dead. Lazarus, Jairus’ daughter, the widow’s son but they all died again. Jesus is the first to rise, never to die again. He’s the forerunner of a new kind of life.
Think of the first crocus poking through the snow at the end of winter. That single bloom isn’t just a pretty flower—it’s a promise. It says spring is coming. More life is on the way. Jesus’ resurrection is that crocus. It says the long winter of sin and death is ending. The thaw has begun. New creation is bursting forth.
That’s why this matters: all the brokenness we see in ourselves and even in the Church is not the end of the story. The betrayal, the burnout, the arguments, the apathy none of that gets the final word. Christ does. And He speaks resurrection. He brings hope, not just to individuals, but to His entire Body.
Paul brings this soaring passage to a powerful crescendo with a simple but weighty phrase: “That in everything He might be preeminent.” Notice what he doesn’t say. He doesn’t say that Christ would be prominent, or important, or included. He says preeminent. That means first. Highest. Supreme over all. Christ doesn’t want a place in your life. He doesn’t even want a prominent place. He wants the place. The throne. The center.
This is where Paul shifts from theology to discipleship. He’s not just telling us about who Christ is on a cosmic scale. He’s calling us to respond. So let’s bring this down to earth. Let’s get personal.
Is Christ first in your life?
That’s not a guilt trip. That’s a grace-filled invitation. Because when Christ is first, everything else finds its place.
Is He first in your schedule? Do your days revolve around Him, or do you try to fit Him into the margins? Think about how you start your day. Does He get your attention before your phone does? Is your calendar filled only with meetings and obligations, or is there sacred space for worship, prayer, rest, and service?
Is He first in your family? Not just in a plaque on the wall or a prayer before dinner, but in how you love, forgive, and raise one another. When Christ is first in the family, we stop trying to win arguments and start trying to honor Him. Our homes become places of peace, not pressure. Grace, not perfection.
Is He first in your ambitions? What drives you? What are you chasing? Is your success measured by the applause of people or by the approval of God?
We all have dreams and goals. And many of them are good! But even good things can become idols when they take first place in our hearts. Careers, hobbies, reputations, financial security, even family, can all become little gods if we’re not careful.
Something is sitting in the driver’s seat of your life. Something is steering your decisions, shaping your priorities, and directing your energy. If it’s not Jesus, it’s something else. And no matter how noble or rewarding that something might seem, it can’t hold you together. Not when life hits hard. Not when grief comes, or loss, or betrayal. Those other things weren’t built to carry the weight of your soul.
But Christ was.
He’s the only one who can bear the full weight of your hopes and fears, your dreams and failures, your past and your future. He is the One who holds all things together...including you.
So this isn’t just a call to admire Christ. It’s a call to enthrone Him. To give Him the first place in everything—your time, your relationships, your decisions, your heart. Because when Christ is preeminent, everything else falls into its rightful place. Not always easy, not always tidy, but secure. Anchored. Whole.
Put Him first. He alone is worthy. He alone can hold you together.
Paul now makes a breathtaking shift from the cosmic scope of Christ’s supremacy to the deeply personal nature of His grace. He writes, “In Him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell…” Notice that word: pleased. Not tolerated, not reluctantly allowed, not assigned out of duty. The Father delighted to have His fullness dwell in the Son. Jesus didn’t just carry a part of God—He carried all of Him. Every attribute. Every ounce of divinity. The fullness of God’s power, presence, holiness, and mercy resided in Christ—not temporarily, but permanently, joyfully, completely.
And why does that matter? Because through Christ, Paul says, God is reconciling all things to Himself. The word “reconcile” implies that something was broken. The relationship between Creator and creation was severed. There was a rift. Not minor or accidental, but wide and devastating. And here’s the shock: it wasn’t fixed through good advice or religious behavior. It wasn’t solved with rituals or resolutions. Reconciliation came by the blood of the cross.
Picture two cliffs with a vast, uncrossable chasm between them. On one side, a holy and perfect God; on the other, sinful and rebellious humanity. We couldn’t build a bridge strong enough to span that gap. No amount of morality, charity, or spirituality could reach across. So Christ came. He stretched out His arms on the cross and became the bridge. His blood ran down, not as a symbol, but as a sacrifice. His death made peace between heaven and earth.
And then Paul makes it personal. He writes, “And you, who once were alienated and hostile in mind…” That’s not flattering, but it’s true. Our starting point with God wasn’t neutral. We weren’t just a little off course. We were alienated—cut off, distant, estranged. And more than that, we were hostile. Not just in actions, but in our minds and attitudes. Like a teenager slamming a door and shouting, “You’re not the boss of me!”—that was us toward God. Resistant. Defiant.
But now, Paul says, we’ve been reconciled. Not by our own effort or by finally getting it right. Not because we managed to clean ourselves up. No, the reconciliation came “in His body of flesh by His death.” Jesus took on a real body. Skin. Bone. Nerves. He felt every blow, every nail, every insult. And He endured it for us. Imagine standing guilty in the courtroom of heaven, the charges read aloud one by one. And then Jesus steps forward and says, “I’ll take the sentence. Charge me instead.”
Why would He do that? Paul says it’s “in order to present you holy and blameless and above reproach before Him.” That’s your identity in Christ. Not perfect in yourself but declared righteous in Him. Not because you feel holy, but because He is. You might look in the mirror and see a mess, but God looks at you through the lens of Christ and sees “not guilty.”
This gospel truth humbles the proud and lifts the despairing. Pride says, “Look what I’ve done.” Despair says, “Look how far I’ve fallen.” But the gospel says, “You were worse off than you knew...and more loved than you can imagine.”
Paul closes this powerful passage not with a bow, but with a challenge. He writes, “...if indeed you continue in the faith, stable and steadfast, not shifting from the hope of the gospel that you heard…” At first glance, that if might make us nervous. Is Paul suggesting our salvation is in jeopardy? That God’s grace is conditional?
Not at all.
Paul isn’t questioning our security, he’s describing its evidence. He’s not saying true faith might disappear. He’s saying real faith endures. It continues. It roots down. When the storms come, and they will come, it holds firm. Like a tree with deep roots that doesn’t topple in the wind. Like a soldier who refuses to abandon the post, even when the battle rages. Paul is saying, “Stay where grace has planted you. Don’t drift. Don’t wander. Hold fast.”
But what makes that kind of steadfastness possible? What gives faith its staying power?
Paul answers: “...not shifting from the hope of the gospel.” That’s the anchor. Not our own strength, not our ability to be good enough or consistent enough but the rugged, durable hope of the gospel. This isn’t shallow optimism or wishful thinking. It’s not about having “good vibes” or maintaining a sunny outlook. The gospel isn’t sentimental, it’s solid. It’s the historic, earth-shaking news that Christ died, was buried, and rose again. That He conquered death and sin and shame and that we are now reconciled, not because of who we are, but because of what He has done.
And this gospel, Paul says, is not a secret. It’s not tucked away in a religious corner, reserved for the elite or the enlightened. It has been “proclaimed in all creation under heaven.” In other words, the good news is on the move. It’s global. It’s public. It’s for everyone.
And Paul knows this firsthand. He reminds us that he, once the Church’s greatest threat, has now become its most passionate messenger. The man who once dragged Christians from their homes now goes to the ends of the earth to tell people about Jesus. That’s not just transformation; that’s resurrection. That’s grace. The gospel doesn’t take bad people and make them slightly better. It takes dead people and brings them to life. It takes enemies and makes them sons and daughters. It takes those who once resisted God and makes them part of His family.
So what do we do with all of this?
Paul’s message calls for response:
– Rest in your reconciliation. You don’t have to strive to earn God’s love. You already have it in Christ.
– Continue in the faith. Keep showing up. Keep trusting. Keep going even when it’s hard.
– Hold fast to the gospel. Let it be your anchor. Let it shape your identity, your decisions, your direction.
Because the One who made the stars also made you. And He’s not letting go. He holds all things together...including you.
That’s the gospel. That’s our hope. And that’s worth holding onto with everything we’ve got.
