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A stamped passport and a couple of brand-new grandbaby photos set the tone before Pastor Mark Medley stepped into a living room-sized masterclass on Ephesians 4. Fresh from nearly a month of travel through India and Sri Lanka—multiple flights, countless cups of curry, graduates sent into ministry, and “many, many new friends”—Mark returned home grateful and energized. Then he smiled like only a proud grandfather can and introduced Hazel Hope Rochat and Ivy Liel Medley to the room. It was a fitting on-ramp for a message that kept circling back to family, because in our current series, In Christ, he led us from identity to formation, from where God has already placed us to who we are becoming together.

Mark reminded us that the first half of Ephesians sings the refrain in Christ, celebrating everything Jesus has already secured for us: chosen, adopted, justified, redeemed, forgiven, included, sealed, rooted and grounded in love. That is our position—secure, unshakeable, finished. But then chapter 4 turns a corner and introduces a complementary phrase: growing up into Christ. There is a place we are by God’s work, and there is a place we are going by God’s work through the body. To make that shift tangible, he told the story of his granddaughter, Emma’Lee Jade Seiple. After early months marked by neglect, she came into Noah and Ally’s home fragile and behind. Last May, at her adoption ceremony, the judge declared what adoption always declares: the old ties are cut, the new ones are formed, and every right and privilege is conferred as if she had always belonged. Sometimes the judge even places the gavel in the child’s hand to mark the moment—old has gone, new has come. Emma is now unequivocally a Seiple. Still, she is learning, day by day, what it means to live like she belongs. That’s the picture. The gavel has fallen over our lives in Christ; now we learn the habits, hopes, and responsibilities of beloved sons and daughters. Some of us, Mark said, may need to “bang the gavel” in our hearts and settle it again: the past no longer has the governing word over us.

So how does God grow securely adopted children into mature heirs? Ephesians 4 answers with a surprising generosity. Jesus not only rescues; he equips. And he does this by giving people to the church—apostles, prophets, evangelists, pastors, and teachers—so that the saints are equipped for the work of ministry, the body is built up, unity deepens, knowledge of the Son of God increases, and we arrive at maturity that reflects the fullness of Christ. Each gift manifests something of Jesus himself. Apostles don’t merely bear a title; they build relational authority, like fathers who both encourage and correct so their children become steady, Jesus-loving adults. Prophets keep the horizon in view and recalibrate drift, zealous for God’s purpose and holiness. Evangelists won’t let the family’s love fold in on itself; they turn our eyes to those outside the room because maturity cannot be self-absorbed. Pastors gather and guard, shaping a safe fold that learns to care for itself. Teachers bring the Word to bear on ordinary life, kindling appetite for Scripture and defending against error. The point isn’t celebrity leaders or a platform culture; the point is an equipped people who build one another up in love.

The key term is equip, and Mark paused to savor it. The Greek word has the sense of mending what’s broken, framing what’s rising, and training for what’s ahead. Three pictures help: a bone set rightly in a clinic, a structure joined true at a building site, an athlete coached in a gym. Equipping is healing, building, and training. It isn’t theory; it’s the daily practice of becoming fit for love and mission in homes, schools, jobs, neighborhoods, and, yes, the gathered church. Ministry is everything we do, not just something that happens behind a pulpit. When the body works like a body, it rushes toward injury, compensates with strength, and knits life back together. Anyone who has stubbed a toe and woken up with sore calves understands how one part’s pain becomes the whole body’s concern. In the same way, Mark testified, when his family suffered deep grief four years ago, the body of Christ altered its rhythms and surrounded them—practically, emotionally, spiritually, pastorally. Knowing you are carried changes how you suffer and how you heal. It is beautiful to be loved by a people who see you and show up.

Ephesians 4 sketches the fruit of such equipping in communal terms. Maturity is not solo; stability replaces confusion when every part works properly and every joint supplies. We are no longer children tossed by clever words or trending doctrines, because we learn to speak the same core truths and step in the same direction. Paul uses two phrases—“fitted together” and “joined together”—to describe this. The first carries the idea of being shaped to speak the same thing in agreement; the second imagines the joint that connects bones so movement becomes possible. Joints are connection points where grace flows. The church becomes visible as Christ’s hands, ligaments, and joints in motion when we put ourselves in proximity and prioritize connection. That’s why Mark kept asking gently probing questions. How much do you prioritize your connection to the body? Where are your connecting points? How are you both supplying and receiving supply from other joints? If we want to grow into what God has destined us to be, we cannot do it apart from one another.

“Speaking the truth in love” is central to this process. Mark noted that when Ephesians later describes how Christ loves the church, it says he gave himself over for her and washes her with the water of the word. There the word is rhema, a term that points to fitting, timely speech—words drawn from God’s eternal Logos that meet the present moment. Not every word is for every moment. Wise, timely speech nourishes, cherishes, and creates a safe environment where growth becomes plausible. Leaders often see what could be and feel the ache of what isn’t. Parents, spouses, pastors, business owners—we all know that pull. The temptation is to push, to guilt, to legislate change. But, Mark said, you have to love people from here to there, which means you have to love them here. Don’t let the marriage you want become the enemy of the marriage you have. Don’t let the child you hope for become the enemy of the child before you. Don’t let the church you imagine become the enemy of the church you’re called to serve today. Christ didn’t hand us over to an ideal; he handed himself over for us. Love today is how tomorrow takes shape.

Names matter in this vision. Paul’s letters brim with greetings because formation runs on relationships. When he closed his letter to the Romans, he greeted more than thirty-five people by name—men and women, Jews and Greeks, nobles and servants, Africans and Europeans—most of them living under the hostility of the empire. Behind each greeting is a faith story and a relational thread. The apostle, theologian, church planter, miracle-worker still thought and lived at the level of people, because knowledge, gifts, and plans mean little if you are not connected. In Romans 12 he restated what we hear in Ephesians 4: we are one body with many members who do not all have the same function; our diverse grace-gifts are meant to be used for one another. Maturity looks like a community fitting and joining together until its shared life reflects the measure and stature of Christ.

Mark brought all of this down to earth with a story from our own congregation. Debbie moved to East Tennessee with a background in church leadership and a heart that beat for prayer and the Word. In a class that helps people discern gifts, passions, abilities, personality, and experiences, she clarified how God had wired her and where her burden lay. Add in her administrative skills and medical know-how, and a focused idea formed: assemble a team that offers consistent prayer and pastoral care for those who are hospitalized or homebound. She proposed it, mobilized volunteers, and helped create rhythms of visits, prayer, and practical help. When God began moving her out of state, she handed the ministry to Peg Parker, and the work continued. None of this makes headlines, but small, faithful joints change the whole. It is the kind of quiet love through which a church “builds itself up in love.”

That’s the arc of Ephesians 4 as Mark walked us through it in this season of In Christ. Jesus is more generous than we know. He has done everything necessary to bring us home, and then he gives himself again through people so that the body can become what it already is in him. The Spirit heals what is broken, frames what is rising, and trains what must endure. He draws us into the steadying practices of speaking truth in love, offering timely words that fit the moment, and refusing to trade patience and presence for pressure and performance. He invites us to treat our relationships—households, teams, congregations—as places where language brings life to today’s burdens and where our joints, fitted and joined, carry one another toward Christ.

It is worth repeating: maturity is communal. We grow sturdy when we grow together. Unity and stability rise when each part works properly, and instability fades as we refuse to be driven by every gust of teaching detached from love. The destination is high—nothing less than the measure of the stature of the fullness of Christ—but the road is made of ordinary faithfulness, shared tables, and words that heal. From baptism to hospital bed, from nursery to neighborhood, from grief to hope, Jesus keeps handing himself to his people through his people. Our part is to be present, to be connected, to be willing to be both healed and used. The gavel has fallen. We belong. Now, together, we learn to live like it.