Part 1 | Part 2 

Now that Peter has established the greatness of our salvation—both because it is God’s work, and because it has completely changed us—he turns to the “so what?” question, to application. How then should we live? How do people whom God has completely changed live in the world, among people whom he has not changed? 

The answer to this question will take up the rest of Peter’s letter. 

He begins with the overarching principle: don’t live like the unchanged. Abstain from fleshly lusts (1P 2.11). Behave yourself excellently, in such a way that even people who want to say bad things about you will have to slander you to do it (1P 2.12). 

What does that look like? Peter begins this section with a single imperative verb—one that we’re going to find driving the lifestyle choices for the rest of the epistle. 

“Submit,” he says (1P 2.13). And for the rest of this chapter, he’s going to focus on how we live in society: in reference to the state (1P 2.13-17), and in reference to our jobs (1P 2.18-20). 

Our lifestyle before the state, the government, is to submit—to do what they say. And “they,” Peter specifies, includes both the guy at the top, the king, and lower-level functionaries, governors (1P 2.13-14). Why should we do that? Well, because God wants us to, and he has an outcome in mind: we can “put to silence the ignorance of foolish men” (1P 2.15). 

In Peter’s day, the locals suspected Christians of being disloyal to Rome because they would not offer a sacrifice to Caesar or call him lord. Because they would not sacrifice to the Roman gods, they were called “atheists.” Peters calls that ignorance and foolishness, and of course he’s right. But how do we disarm the haters? 

Not the way a lot of Christians are acting today. You behave yourself. You do what the leaders say. Now, in our political system, the leaders tell us what to do through laws. And Peter says, you submit. You show a cooperative spirit. You obey the law. 

Now, of course, Peter himself disobeyed authoritative orders when they contradicted the direct command of God (Ac 4.15-22). And we have legal ways to resist ungodly laws. But we do so, Peter says, in ways that evidence goodwill and the desire to respect governmental authority, whether it represents our party or that of the other guys. 

Peter adds one more thought. Our interaction with the government should be genuine, not as a cover for secret disobedience (1P 2.16). We treat everyone with respect, as in the image of God (1P 2.17). 

Now Peter extends the principle to our jobs. We respond to the boss just as we do to civil authorities: we do what we’re told, and respectfully—and even if he’s unreasonable (1P 2.18). We endure injustice, and we find favor with God (1P 2.19-20)—who, it can be observed, has suffered the greatest injustice of all. 

Peter closes the chapter with a summary statement. In these relationships, we follow the example of Christ, who bore that greatest injustice and did so without responding to his revilers in kind. He never “owned the libtards.” He simply entrusted himself to the God who judges righteously and does all things well (1P 2.23). 

And it was this controlled and trusting action that accomplished our salvation—that accomplished all those great effects we’ve read about in chapter 1. 

Our submission to unjust authorities is not going to accomplish anything near that level; the cross work of Christ is unique in the history of the universe. But by giving our maltreaters a picture of Christ, we may well introduce them to him and make them fellow beneficiaries of his work. And the consequences for them will be every bit as eternal as the work of Christ himself. 

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Part 1 

In his first chapter, Peter has been focusing on the greatness of our salvation. After asserting its greatness outright, he advances his first evidence of its greatness: its source in the Triune God and in his Word. 

As he begins chapter 2, he continues this discussion by focusing on the effect of our salvation. 

I’d suggest that the first effect is implied rather than asserted; Peter exhorts his readers to turn from the old ways (1P 2.1) and pursue the Word—the great source that he has just been discussing—in order to grow in this new thing, this salvation (1P 2.2). The implication, of course, is that salvation empowers us to change, to reject the old ways—or as Paul terms this, the “old man” (Ro 6.6; Ep 4.22)—so as to live under the goodness (1P 2.3) of God himself. 

Then he turns to more explicit effects. 

The first two are astounding. God has taken a bunch of sinners, enemies, and turned them, metaphorically speaking, into building blocks in a temple—and second, into priests (to mix his metaphor in a way that expands it and highlights its astounding nature) who offer sacrifices  that are acceptable to God. 

From enemies to priests, welcome in God’s presence and pleasing to him. 

A complete transformation. 

Our forerunner, Christ, is both priest and sacrifice; we are both temple and priest. 

The third effect is no less impressive: because we believe in Christ, the “chief cornerstone” in the temple of which we are a part, we “shall not be confounded” (1P 2.6). We have assurance and confidence because our faith is solidly grounded in the unshakeable Christ. 

A part of this confidence is that our cornerstone will stand against all attackers and in fact will be an offensive weapon, a stone that makes his enemies stumble in defeat (1P 2.7-8). 

The fourth effect, in contrast to the assured defeat of God’s enemies, is our new standing in Christ. Peter has already noted that we’re priests who offer acceptable sacrifices, and here he repeats that idea, but he extends it as well: we are “a chosen generation (race), a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people of his own possession” (1P 2.9). 

There’s much to note here. First, God has given us as a group an identity, just as he did to Abram’s descendants in his great covenant with him. We are, as it were, a spiritual ethnicity; we are a family.  

Secondly, he mentions the priesthood again, but he ornaments it significantly; we’re not just a priesthood, but a royal priesthood. 

We skim over those words without realizing how significant that expression was in biblical times. In Israel, it was impossible to be both king and priest; the kings were from Judah, and the priests were from Levi, and never the twain would meet. King Uzziah tried to usurp the priestly duty of burning incense in the temple—he was the Queen Elizabeth II of his day, having ruled for well over half a century—and he was struck with lifelong leprosy for his trouble (2Ch 26.18-19). 

Two generations before Judah or Levi even existed, Melchizedek, the Jebusite priest of the Most High God, was both king and priest (Ge 14.18), but he was in a unique priestly order, available by special appointment only. Christ, we’re told, is ordained a priest after the order of Melchizedek (Ps 110.4; He 5.10). And now, we find, we are kings and priests as well. 

Remarkable privilege. Remarkable consequence of a divine work. 

The next label on us is “a holy nation.” In the same sense in which we are a spiritual ethnicity parallel to Abram’s descendants, so we are a divinely constituted nation parallel to Israel’s standing at Sinai. Since Abram they had been a people; now, under Moses, they are a nation. 

And so are we. 

The fourth label is “a people of his own possession” (KJV “a peculiar people”). We’re not just a people and a nation; we are a different kind of people, a special people, a people that belong particularly to God. We’re his fine china, set aside in a special china cabinet, one in which he takes great pleasure. 

“Mine,” he says. 

Peter finds a fifth effect of our great salvation. We have been brought out of darkness, he says, and placed in the light (1P 2.9). We can see. We can rejoice, in the same way we rejoice on a warm, sunny day after a cold, dark winter. The brightness in our minds and hearts elevates our spirits and enables us to proceed certainly, confidently, joyously. 

One more. We have obtained mercy (1P 2.10). Mercy withholds from us the terrible consequences that we justly deserve, and it frees us to live, to do, to thrive, without fear and without despair. 

What a great salvation. 

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We all know Peter, the disciple with the big mouth. The impulsive one. The one who made grandiose claims about his own loyalty, but hours later panicked and denied the Lord. The one who went out and wept bitterly. 

But Jesus is not like Peter. Days later, after cooking breakfast for his disciples on the shore of the Sea of Galilee (Jn 21.12), Jesus takes Peter aside for a walk on the beach (Jn 21.20) and redirects him from failure and shame to ministry. As Peter had denied him three times, Jesus tells him three times to “feed my sheep” (Jn 21.15-17). 

And boy, does he. He pronounces Jesus’ victory at Pentecost (Ac 2.14-36), and days later he faces down the Jewish Supreme Court, accusing them of having crucified the Messiah (Ac 4.5-12). And so begins a life of productive ministry. 

Decades later, as an old man about to face his own crucifixion for his faith, Peter writes a couple letters to churches in what we now call Turkey (1P 1.1). I’d like to take a few posts to work through what he says in the first one. 

He opens by attributing the work of our salvation to all three persons in the Triune God (1P 1.2)—and then, logically, turns to detail that astonishing work. 

He first exults in the greatness of its goal: “the end of your faith, even the salvation of your souls” (1P 1.9). We have received a confident anticipation, an expectation (KJV “a lively hope”), of good things to come: first, an inheritance, a future gift, that is “incorruptible, undefiled, and unfading” (1P 1.4). This promised inheritance will not—cannot—decay, become soiled, or lose its shine. It’s not fragile, like a rose. It will be there for us. 

But will we be there for it? Peter now describes a second good thing to come: protection, or preservation, or endurance. He says we “are kept by the power of God through faith unto salvation” (1P 1.5). This fact he has already implied in verse 4: our inheritance is “reserved in heaven for” us. 

Yes, we’ll make it. 

My Dad presented with dementia at age 85, and I was his caregiver for the last (almost) six years of his life. I watched his memory recede, decade by decade, until he no longer remembered even being in combat in World War II. He even regressed to before the time he was converted in his 40s; he started swearing again. That got me thinking. 

At his graveside service, I came to this passage. We are kept, Peter says, not by our own desperate grip on the Father, but by his almighty power, which is strong enough to preserve, protect, and defend us through whatever trials and obstacles we may face (1P 1.6-9). 

Now Peter turns to exult in the greatness of salvation’s source. He picks up his earlier reference to the Triune God and specifies the part each Person of the Godhead plays, beginning with the Spirit, who empowered the Hebrew prophets to predict a phenomenon they couldn’t understand even as they wrote about it: that the Son would suffer—and die—before he was glorified as Savior and King (1P 1.10-12). Then he praises the Father, the Judge, who planned our redemption (1P 1.17-18) and resurrected and glorified the Son (1P 1.21), and the Son, who accomplished it (1P 1.18-20). 

All of this empowers and motivates us to respond in holiness and obedience (1P 1.13-16, 22). We are infinitely out of our depth. 

Peter exults in another source: the Word of God, his communication to us through the inspiring work of the Spirit. This Word, like our inheritance, is “incorruptible” (1P 1.23) and unfading (1P 1.24). It, too, is not like the fragile rose. 

So here we stand, informed by the Word of God, and saved and kept by the power of God. 

Yes, indeed, we’ll make it. 

Next time: we, too, like Peter, are radically redirected. 

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