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Pastor Tyler Lynde opens Made New in our In Christ series by taking us to Ephesians 2:10–13 and inviting us to trace the journey from “far off” to “brought near.” He frames the whole message with a simple conviction: revival is not a trend line; it’s a turning. Statistics can be encouraging—rising Bible sales, packed worship nights, surging Christian content—but numbers on a chart don’t equal hearts made new. Tyler reaches back to Jonathan Edwards’ timeless markers to clear the fog: deep conviction of sin that leads to real repentance, a growing love for Jesus that dethrones self, and lives aligned with Scripture, not with the currents of culture or the latest spiritual fad. Where those things show up, a movement isn’t just stirring; new life is taking root.

From there Tyler takes us into the text. “For we are his workmanship,” Paul writes, “created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them.” Tyler lingers over that word workmanship. In Greek it’s poema, the root of our word poem. It’s not about being literary art hung on a wall; it’s about being living works of art formed by the Master Craftsman. God doesn’t mass-produce us. He handcrafts us. Tyler makes the connection Paul makes elsewhere: in Romans 1:20 the created world is God’s poema too—galaxies and granite ranges, oceans and sparrows bearing witness to his power and nature. The God whose breath animated Adam from dust is the God who breathes new life into those dead in trespasses and sins. That’s why Tyler threads in 2 Corinthians 5:17: if anyone is in Christ, new creation has come. The old is gone; the new has arrived. Salvation is not self-help or moral polish. It is resurrection.

But Tyler is careful about order. Paul’s cadence matters: saved by grace through faith, not by works, lest we boast; and then, as a consequence of that grace, crafted for good works God prepared in advance. Works do not earn God’s favor; they reveal it. Tyler quotes John Stott to drive the point home: good works are indispensable to salvation—not as its ground or means but as its consequence and evidence. That order guards us from pride on one side and apathy on the other. It means obedience isn’t the price of admission to the kingdom; it’s the fruit of belonging to the King. It means the Spirit remakes our desires so that love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control begin to grow where bitterness, anxiety, and self-assertion once lived. Tyler has seen it in hospital rooms, cubicles, and coffee shops—someone walks through a trial with a settled peace and coworkers ask where that strength comes from. The answer is not technique; it’s a Person.

This is where Tyler’s vision of revival widens beyond sanctuary doors. Edwards noted that real renewal spills into streets. History backs him up: taverns emptying not because of boycotts but because hearts changed; crime rates dropping because integrity began to matter; compassion rising so the poor were fed and divides were mended; churches recognizing they are not called to outsource love. Tyler wants that kind of spillover here and now—a church responsive to practical needs, ready to share food with families and shoulder burdens so neighbors can taste the mercy that came near to us. That, he says, is what it looks like when we walk in the good works prepared for us.

Then Tyler points out an unexpected first command in Ephesians: remember. Before Paul tells anyone to go do, he says remember. Remember who you were. Remember how far off you were. Tyler walks us through Paul’s litany. You were separated from Christ, with no claim on him and no interest in him. You were alienated from the commonwealth of Israel, cut off from the life of God’s people. You were strangers to the covenants of promise, without the covenant marks or the covenant hope. You were without hope and without God in the world, not because you denied all gods, but because you did not know the one true God. For Gentiles in Ephesus that was the air they breathed; temples towered above them yet offered no salvation. Tyler insists that remembering this distance is not a guilt trip; it’s the soil of humility and gratitude. Even for those who grew up in church and can’t remember a day they didn’t hear Jesus’ name, there have been moments of rebellion, compromise, or spiritual numbness when the emptiness of sin proved itself. Tyler shares his own testimony of early faith and later temptations to remind us that sin’s promises never deliver and always cost more than they claim. Remembering who we were keeps us from swaggering into the world and helps us step into it with mercy.

After the ache of remembering comes the hinge of the gospel: “But now in Christ Jesus you who once were far off have been brought near by the blood of Christ.” Tyler pauses here, because this is the line that changes everything. The distance was real; the divide was deadly. And the means of nearness was not inspiration, resolve, or religious effort; it was blood. Jesus did not coach us across the chasm; he crossed it to get us. The Son left glory, put on flesh, walked obedience in our place, and then bore sin, disease, death, hell, and the grave on a cross that should have been ours. Tyler asks us to hear the hammer fall, to see the nails driven, and to remember the words from the cross asking the Father to forgive. Christianity is not one option among many spiritual paths. It is the only story where God comes down to do for us what we could never do for ourselves, reconciling enemies and making us family by his costly love. By that blood we are not just forgiven; we are welcomed, brought all the way in, seated with Christ in heavenly places, and given his Spirit so we can walk out our new life on ordinary Tuesdays.

Tyler then circles back to that workmanship language. If we are God’s poema, we are not museum pieces. We are living poems of grace, written to be read in offices, dorms, kitchens, and neighborhoods. The Artist did not frame us to be admired at a distance; he formed us to participate in his creative goodness. That means we obey not because someone is watching but because we love the One who loved us first. It means the fruit of the Spirit becomes public witness: a steady joy at work, a patient word at home, a reconciled relationship where blame once ruled. It means we carry one another’s burdens, feed the hungry, advocate for truth with gentleness, and step toward people who feel far off with the same grace that brought us near. Tyler anchors this movement in Revelation 12:11: we overcome by the blood of the Lamb and the word of our testimony. The blood secures our victory; our testimony spreads its implications to places that need hope.

Remembering does not only look backward. Tyler stitches Psalm 103 into the close with another kind of remembering. Forget not all his benefits. He forgives all your iniquity. He heals all your diseases. He redeems your life from the pit. He crowns you with steadfast love and mercy. He satisfies you with good so your youth is renewed like the eagle’s. In other words, remember the God who saves and the way he continues to meet you, body and soul. That remembrance fuels gratitude, and gratitude fuels faithfulness. When we bless the Lord in the details of our days, we step into the good works already waiting along our path.

Throughout Made New, Tyler keeps the pace of Ephesians itself. The first half of the letter unveils identity; the second half spells out purpose. In Christ, our identity is secure: chosen, alive, redeemed, near. Because of that identity, our purpose becomes clear: walk. Walk in the works God prepared. Walk in love. Walk as children of light. Walk in wisdom. Revival, then, is not sustained by hype but by people who pray, remember, and walk—people whose obedience becomes their new default because the Spirit has rewritten their hearts. That is how churches become bright with holy love and cities feel the ripple of grace.

If you have felt far, Tyler has a simple invitation. The distance you sense is real, but it is not permanent. Christ has come all the way to you. Turn. Believe. Be brought near by the blood that still speaks a better word. And if you wonder what to do next, you do not have to invent a plan. The path is already prepared. Look for the good just ahead of you and take the next faithful step. Remember who you were without Christ so humility can stay fresh. Remember what he has done so gratitude can stay loud. Then walk as God’s workmanship—his living poem—so that the beauty of the One who made you new becomes visible in the places you already live. In Christ, this is not theory. It is the steady miracle of a resurrected life.