Paul opens 2 Corinthians 3 with a small piece of wordplay that turns out to carry a large idea: the Corinthian believers themselves are his letter of recommendation — written not in ink but by the Spirit, not on stone but on human hearts. That observation seems almost to launch Paul's thinking toward the old and new covenants, and the contrast between letter and Spirit. We trace that thread through to chapters 4 and 5, where the same contrast keeps returning in a different form: temporary versus permanent, troubles that won't last long versus a glory that lasts forever. We also pause on the word reconciliation — one of Paul's great themes, and a word that carries particular weight in an Australian context — and find that it may be less a once-and-done event than an ongoing commitment, which is perhaps exactly what "forever" implies.

Almost every New Testament epistle opens with "grace and peace" — and it turns out to be a phrase worth pausing on. It captures something essential, and makes an excellent email sign-off. Paul's opening to 2 Corinthians also includes an apology for changed travel plans, which the lesson uses as a springboard for discussing flexibility in ministry. But changing travel plans is a fairly trivial kind of flexibility — we develop some richer models, from play-dough to rubber to non-Newtonian fluid, to explore what flexibility actually looks like in Christian life. Paul's own flexibility goes much deeper than logistics, as his approach in Athens demonstrates. And Jonah reminds us that the hardest flexibility of all is being willing to change your own mind about a people God has changed his mind about.

1 Corinthians 15 centres on the idea of resurrection. We explore what the chapter has to say to Adventists specifically, for whom the state of the dead and the mechanics of resurrection are dear doctrinal territory. But the discussion finds its heart in the mystery of what the resurrection body actually is — and what continuity might exist between who we are now and who we will be. George MacDonald's fairy tale The Day Boy and the Night Girl turns out to be the best companion text we could find: a story about two people for whom the fulfillment of everything they know turns out to be something at once recognisable and incomparably greater.

1 Corinthians 13 is possibly the most well-known chapter in the Bible, and for good reason — it speaks for itself. Love is preeminent. The heart of our discussion is the second half, where Paul's argument is harder to follow: what does it mean that prophecy, tongues, and special knowledge are, in some sense, the milk of infancy? Growing in the Christian life may mean being consumed by fewer things, not more. The overriding principle Paul appeals to is one every child already knows.

1 Corinthians 14 opens in a way that might feel familiar to Adventists — an emphasis on prophecy over tongues. But Paul's description of prophecy diverges quickly from how we typically think of it. His critique of tongues is that it doesn't build up the community; but that same standard has to be applied to prophecy too. And his picture of the congregation is striking — widespread prophetic gifts distributed among many, not concentrated in one important figure. We sit with what that means for us, and land on a question more than an answer: what would it actually mean to take contemporary prophecy seriously today?

Paul's argument in 1 Corinthians 8 is elegant: food sacrificed to idols is fine to eat, since idols are meaningless — but avoid it if eating would lead a fellow believer astray. Context matters, and so does audience. We explore the analogy of modest dressing, where modesty is always partly defined by who you expect to be seen by. But the nuance emerges quickly: almost anything could offend somebody, so taken to its logical extreme the principle seems to paralyse rather than liberate. We ask — more than answer — what this looks like in a world where things are shared instantly with everyone, everywhere. Paul returns to the food question in 1 Corinthians 10 with a sharper point: as well as context or audience, we need to be alert about who you are ultimately serving (God or demons).

Paul is not afraid to talk about sex — but his approach is more nuanced than the church's reputation suggests. In 1 Corinthians 5 he tells the church to get involved when something has gone badly wrong; by chapter 7 he is describing singleness and marriage as different gifts, resisting the idea that one way of living is spiritually superior. We explore what shifts when the question changes from "what sex is allowed?" to "what kind of sex is good?" — and find Paul's answer in 1 Corinthians 6 surprisingly rich: more than skin on skin, a spiritual mystery, and a warning against the kind of intimacy that leaves you lonelier than before. The boundaries may matter less than what our relationships actually produce.

What would Paul make of denominational pride? We can sincerely reject division within our own tradition while quietly celebrating everything that makes us distinct from other Christians — and not notice the tension. In 1 Corinthians 4, Paul cuts through it: "Isn't everything you have and everything you are sheer gifts from God? So what's the point of all this comparing and competing?" In this (again belated) episode we sit with the possibility that the need to protect a distinct identity is driven, at least partly, by fear. And we ask the more unsettling question underneath it all — what if Jesus really is enough?

The gospel has always looked foolish to the wise — and Paul in 1 Corinthians 1 seems untroubled by this. In this belated episode (holidays interrupted the edit process, sorry) we explore what it means that God chose the foolish things to shame the wise. Even Israel fits this description geopolitically at the time of Jesus. But we push back gently on any sharp divide between faith and reason: science turns out to involve more intuition and less proven certainty than its reputation suggests. And trusting God on the basis of sensing who he is may not be so different from trusting a friend: technically hard to prove from evidence, but considered a moral beauty rather than a logical error. It is not that we believe a God exists. It is that we believe this God exists.

What is an apostle, and what does it mean to be called? We open a new season in 1 and 2 Corinthians by sitting with Paul's own answer — which turns out to be surprisingly counterintuitive. His calling isn't grounded in competence or confidence; in 1 Corinthians 2:3 he identifies it with weakness. We explore what it means for Jesus to be not just something Paul thought about often, but the presence inhabiting all of his thinking. And we find an unexpected freedom in the idea of duty: when optimism and pessimism both let you down, doing something because it is good and right to try — regardless of outcome — turns out to be the more honest foundation. Paul's voice still echoes. His ministry, in a sense, never stopped.