Have you ever found yourself in a situation where you desperately needed someone to bail you out? Maybe it was a financial crisis, a poor decision that spiraled out of control, or a moment when you realized you were completely in over your head. For many of us, the people who showed up in those moments were our parents—not because we deserved their help, but because we needed it, and they loved us.

This pattern of parental love offers us a glimpse into something far greater: the heart of God toward humanity.

The Problem We All Face

The story of Scripture presents us with a sobering reality. Humanity was created in the image of God to live in perfect relationship with Him—what we might call paradise. But when given freedom, we used that freedom to rebel. We lost everything: our fellowship with God, our purpose, and our place in His presence.

The consequences weren't trivial. Because we committed cosmic treason against our Creator, we face judgment. The punishment we deserve is death—not just physical death, but spiritual and potentially eternal separation from God. This is the state we're all born into, carrying a sinful nature that naturally rebels against God.

It's a dire situation, one we cannot fix ourselves. We're like children who've made such a catastrophic mess that no amount of effort on our part can clean it up.

The Why Behind Salvation

This brings us to the most important question: Why would God offer us a way out?

Romans 6:23 tells us, "For the wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord." We deserve condemnation, yet God offers us a gift. Not because we earned it. Not because we deserved it. But why?

John 3:16-21 answers this question with stunning clarity. Let's look at these familiar words with fresh eyes:

"For God so loved the world that he gave his only son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him."

The answer is love. God's love is the motivation behind His offer of salvation.

God doesn't save us because our sin wasn't serious—it was deadly serious. He doesn't save us because He lowered His standards—His holiness remains perfect. He doesn't save us because we deserved another chance—we forfeited all our chances. God saves us for one reason alone: He loves us.

Love Gave Before Judgment Fell

The passage in John 3 echoes an Old Testament story. In the book of Numbers, when the Israelites rebelled, God sent venomous serpents among them. Those bitten would die. But God also provided a remedy: Moses erected a bronze serpent on a pole, and anyone who looked at it would be healed.

Jesus references this story deliberately. Just as that bronze serpent was lifted up, so Jesus would be lifted up on a cross. The remedy came before the final judgment. God provided the means of salvation while there was still time to receive it.

This is the stunning grace of the gospel: we stand condemned already, but we haven't yet experienced the final sentence. As long as we have breath in our bodies, we have the opportunity to receive the gift God offers through His Son.

God gave us Jesus before the hammer of judgment fell. He didn't wait until we cleaned ourselves up. He didn't require us to prove ourselves worthy. While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.

Love Offers Life to All Who Believe

Notice the scope of God's love: "For God so loved the world." Not just a select few. Not just the religious elite or the morally upright. The world. Everyone.

The offer of salvation is wide enough for us all. There's no depth of sin that places anyone beyond the reach of Jesus Christ. No criminal record too long. No past too dark. No heart too hardened.

But here's the crucial detail: this gift is offered "to all who believe."

Belief is more than intellectual acknowledgment. It's not simply knowing facts about Jesus or agreeing that He existed. The Greek word translated "believe" has its root in the word for "faith"—it means trust, reliance, surrender.

The Israelites in the desert didn't just know about the bronze serpent. They had to actually look at it. They had to act on what they knew. Similarly, eternal life is not achieved by our effort but received by our faith. We must look to Christ in genuine trust.

The question we must ask ourselves: Have I actually trusted in Christ, or do I simply know about Him? Am I living out this belief, or do I just possess information?

Love Confronts Reality

God's love doesn't sentimentalize our condition. It tells us the truth, and sometimes truth is uncomfortable.

The passage makes clear that Jesus didn't come to condemn the world—the world was already condemned. We weren't morally neutral beings who went astray. We were guilty from the start. Condemnation isn't just a future possibility; it's a present condition apart from Christ.

A good parent doesn't pretend their child has never done anything wrong. They confront reality. They name the issue, warn of consequences, and tell the truth—not to control or shame, but because truth is necessary for healing.

God does the same. He doesn't minimize our sin or gloss over it. He loves us enough to tell us the truth: apart from Christ, we remain condemned.

This means Jesus isn't optional. Rejecting Him isn't a minor mistake—it's choosing to remain under the condemnation that already rests upon us.

Why Do We Hide?

If God's love is so great and His offer so generous, why do people resist?

Jesus answers this question: "Light has come into the world, but people loved the darkness rather than the light because their works were evil."

We hide because light exposes. In darkness, we can conceal our sin, our motives, our shame. We can even hide behind good deeds, pointing to our own righteousness rather than Christ's.

But hiding doesn't deal with sin—it only postpones the reckoning. Healing begins when truth comes out, when we step into the light and stand honestly before our loving Father.

Think of a child who's done something wrong. They hide, avoid eye contact, hope no one will notice. Sometimes they hide from fear of punishment. Sometimes from shame. But hiding doesn't make the wrong disappear.

God calls us into the light—not to destroy us or shame us, but to free us. He already knows what we've done. The question is: will we continue hiding, or will we bring our sin into His presence and let Him deal with it?

Coming Into the Light

For those who haven't yet trusted in Jesus, coming into the light means repenting of sin and placing faith in Him. It means acknowledging that you cannot save yourself and receiving the gift God offers.

For believers, coming into the light means walking honestly with God—confessing sin, rejecting secrecy, living righteously as beloved children of the Father.

You don't have to clean yourself up before coming to God. That's not how grace works. We don't take a shower so we can present ourselves clean before God. We come to God dirty, and He cleans us.

The Wonder of the Gospel

The great wonder of the gospel isn't that God saves good people. The wonder is that He loves guilty people enough to make a way for them to be saved.

We were not abandoned. We've not been ignored. We've not been left without hope. God moved toward us by sending His Son into the world to suffer and die in our place.

If you haven't given your life to Jesus, stop resisting. God is calling you. He's given you every opportunity. Receive the free gift of grace through faith in Jesus Christ.

If you're already a believer, stop pushing away God's love. Stop feeling unworthy. You're not worthy—but He loves you anyway. Walk in the light and love of Jesus Christ, knowing you are His prized possession, loved so deeply that He was willing to suffer on your behalf.

Come out of hiding. Come into the light. Live in the love of the Father who gave everything to save you.

Thinking Biblically About Minneapolis
 
Like many of you, I have been following the news surrounding the unrest and violence unfolding in Minneapolis. Opinions are everywhere—especially on social media—spanning every political and social perspective. Many are even invoking Scripture to justify their positions, defend their actions, and condemn those who disagree.

That reality is precisely why I believe the Church cannot remain silent. We are not called to be reactionary or sensational, but neither are we called to retreat. When the world is loud, the Church must be clear—not quiet. Pastors, in particular, have a responsibility to help God’s people think biblically, morally, and rationally about what is happening in the world around us.

With that in mind, I want to share some reflections on what has happened—and what continues to happen—in Minneapolis. My goal is not to defend a political party or advance an ideological agenda, but to look at these events through the lens of Scripture. I want us to resist empty, emotional rhetoric and instead pursue careful, critical, and spiritual thinking. I do not claim to have all the facts, nor do I assume my conclusions are beyond correction. I remain open to having my mind changed by new information or better arguments, and I hope we are all willing to extend the same humility to one another.

A Biblical Perspective on Immigration
At the heart of this conflict lies the question of immigration. One approach prioritizes openness and hospitality to such a degree that concerns about public safety, borders, and national order are often minimized or dismissed. Another approach, reacting against that risk, would seek to close borders altogether, valuing protection at the expense of compassion. Both represent moral imbalances. Wisdom requires resisting solutions that elevate one virtue by abandoning another, and instead pursuing an approach that safeguards human dignity while preserving social order.

Scripture provides helpful guidance, particularly in God’s commands to Israel regarding foreigners and sojourners. While Israel was a theocratic nation and the United States is a constitutional republic, God’s law still reveals enduring principles about justice, hospitality, and order.

When Israel was delivered from Egypt, they did not leave alone. “A mixed multitude also went up with them” (Exod. 12:38). Foreigners were welcomed to join God’s people. Later, Israel was commanded not to oppress the sojourner, remembering that they themselves had once been strangers in Egypt. In Leviticus 19—the same chapter that commands, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself”—God also says, “You shall treat the stranger who sojourns with you as the native among you, and you shall love him as yourself” (19:34).

This call to love the foreigner should not surprise us. Jesus Himself was a refugee in Egypt as a child, and His teaching consistently calls His followers to love without partiality, to overcome evil with good, and to extend mercy even to enemies.

However, Scripture does not present hospitality without accountability. A closer look at the Mosaic Law shows that sojourners living among Israel were held to the same standards as native Israelites. They were expected to submit to God’s authority and live according to His laws—observing Sabbath regulations (Ex. 20:10), purity laws (Lev. 17:15), and prohibitions against blasphemy (Lev. 24:16). Those who openly rejected God’s law, whether native or foreigner, were cut off from the community (Num. 15:30–31). In modern terms, this amounted to exile or expulsion.

Israel was commanded to welcome foreigners, but not at the expense of its identity as a people devoted to the Lord. Compassion and cultural preservation were not opposites; they were held together.

This is where the modern conversation often breaks down. Many appeal to Scripture to support immigration while ignoring the broader biblical framework of law, order, and accountability. We should ask whether Scripture is being handled faithfully or merely used as a collection of prooftexts to support predetermined conclusions.

As Americans, we can affirm that immigration is a good and honorable thing while also expressing legitimate concerns about assimilation and cultural stability. If someone desires America to reflect Christian values, that commitment must extend beyond selective Bible verses. We do not get to embrace God’s Word when it is convenient and dismiss it when it is costly. Scripture calls for submission, not customization.

This concern becomes even more pressing as we welcome large numbers of people with fundamentally different worldviews and no interest in assimilating into American society. Israel welcomed foreigners—but not those seeking to redefine Israel on their own terms. A nation cannot survive if it abandons its identity entirely. Compassion without order ultimately leads to chaos.

Citizens of Heaven, Stewards on Earth
At the same time, Christians must remember that our ultimate citizenship is in heaven. Like Israel during the Babylonian exile, we live as God’s people in a land that does not fully reflect His values. Yet exile did not mean disengagement. Through the prophet Jeremiah, God commanded His people to build homes, plant gardens, raise families, and “seek the welfare of the city” where they lived, praying for it and working for its good (Jer. 29:7).

That calling remains ours today. We do not abandon our nation, nor do we idolize it. We labor for its good, pray for its leaders, and shine the light of Christ—even among those who love the darkness. Our allegiance is first to God and His truth, and from that allegiance flows a commitment to justice, compassion, order, and peace.

Laws Must Be Enforced
Recognizing the tension between welcoming the stranger and maintaining a stable, ordered society, we must also address the role of law enforcement. Scripture shows us that God did not merely give Israel laws—He also prescribed consequences for breaking them. The severity of punishment corresponded to the severity of the offense, with capital punishment reserved for the most extreme cases. God intended His laws to be enforced. That is how societies function.

Governments exist, in part, to establish and enforce laws on behalf of the people they govern. Laws that are not enforced cease to function as laws at all; they become suggestions—easily ignored and selectively applied. When laws are not enforced, order erodes, and eventually, civilized society collapses.

In the United States, immigration laws are enforced in part by Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), a federal agency operating under the authority of the Department of Homeland Security (DHS). DHS was established in the aftermath of the September 11 attacks, when foreign nationals entered the country with the explicit intent to cause mass harm. Its stated mission is to “safeguard the American people, the homeland, and its values.” Sometimes that responsibility includes investigating those who pose a threat and removing individuals who refuse to abide by the law.

At present, we appear to be caught in a propaganda war. Some view ICE agents as courageous public servants enforcing the law and removing violent criminals from our streets. Others see ICE as a threat to immigrant communities, including those who entered the country illegally but have otherwise lived peacefully. Compassion often motivates this concern, and that compassion should not be dismissed.

What should be rejected, however, is the emotionally driven and often unsubstantiated rhetoric coming from both sides. On one end, ICE is described as terrorizing communities, abducting children, or operating as a modern “secret police” by throwing people into concentration camps. On the other, protestors are broadly labeled terrorists or murderers. This language is neither accurate nor helpful. It hardens positions, replaces reason with outrage, and demands loyalty to a side rather than commitment to truth.

There is a better path. It is possible to support ICE’s lawful role while also insisting on accountability, restraint, and humane conduct. Authority does not grant permission to act unjustly. Likewise, it is possible to support the enforcement of immigration laws without harboring hatred toward immigrants. Many of us cherish friendships with immigrants who have become legal citizens, contribute to our communities, and share our faith. Supporting the rule of law and loving immigrants are not opposing commitments.

If someone believes our immigration laws are unjust, they are free to critique them, protest them peacefully, and work toward reform. What they are not justified in doing is obstructing law enforcement or engaging in violence. Protest ceases to be peaceful the moment it interferes with officials who have been lawfully authorized to carry out their duties. Simply put, we cannot protest laws by breaking laws. Protest seeks persuasion; obstruction seeks coercion.

Lives Lost, Truth Required
Tragically, two people have lost their lives in recent weeks while interfering with federal law enforcement. These deaths should grieve us. I sympathize deeply with the families and loved ones who are mourning, and I hope these incidents are investigated thoroughly and fairly. At the same time, grief must not short-circuit discernment. If we wish to remain impartial, we must ask not only what happened, but why.

In the case of Renee Good, video evidence and expert analysis suggest that the officer reasonably believed his life was in danger when a vehicle appeared to be moving toward him. While I do not celebrate what happened, and while I do not believe it was her intent to harm the officer, intent is not always knowable in the moment. From the officer’s perspective, lethal force appears to have been justifiably used in self-defense.

In my opinion, the same cannot be said in the case of Alex Pretti. Based on the available footage, Pretti did not draw his weapon, did not threaten officers, and was even disarmed before being shot. He appeared to be attempting to assist a woman thrown to the ground after she was confronted by an ICE officer. In this case, he did not seem to pose a threat to anyone’s life and his death does not appear justified, so the individuals responsible need to be held accountable. Law enforcement does not have moral or legal license to take a life without reasonable cause.

Some readers will disagree with my conclusions, and I welcome their thoughtful dialogue. What I am not interested in is recycled talking points from either end of the political spectrum. Too often, our allegiance to a side dictates our conclusions before we examine the facts. If we support ICE, we feel pressured to justify every action. If we oppose ICE, we feel obligated to portray every officer as evil and every arrest as injustice. In doing so, we sacrifice truth to protect our preconceptions.

Personally, I did not share the views of Good or Pretti, but I did not want either of them to die. I wish they had not been drawn into chaos or convinced that interfering with law enforcement was a righteous act. Both would likely still be alive had they remained home or protested peacefully. Scripture instructs us to “be subject to the governing authorities” (Rom. 13:1), not because authorities are infallible, but because disorder breeds destruction. The evidence of this is clear in Minneapolis.

Truth Without Tribalism
As Christians, we are called to love even our enemies and to use speech that heals rather than poisons. We should be careful about what we share and amplify—especially online. Does it honor God? Does it reflect truth? Or does it merely provoke outrage while earning approval from those who already agree with us? James warns us that the tongue is “a restless evil, full of deadly poison” (James 3:8). That warning applies just as much to digital speech as it does to spoken words.

Political leaders and commentators will continue to stoke fear and anger. That is unlikely to change. But we are not required to follow them into the fire. We worship the God of truth. Our allegiance is to Jesus, not to a party or politician. We must seek truth without tribalism, facts before conclusions, and charity even in disagreement.

I do not care whether you are on the left or the right, a Republican or Democrat—I love you either way. I want conversation, not shouting; dialogue, not threats; disagreement without dehumanization. Like him or not, Charlie Kirk often said, “When people stop talking, bad things happen.” Let us keep talking, keep listening, and keep learning from one another, even if we arrive at different destinations. We need to have the controversial conversations that we've been avoiding out of fear of conflict and losing those we love. Let’s learn to forgive, to repay evil with good, and to resolve the conflict that has polarized our people. Let’s keep loving our God and our neighbors in the name of Christ until He returns or calls us home.

Before I was a pastor, I was a journalist. I spent years chasing stories that people received with joy—and writing them with joy, too. I wrote about teams winning championship games, the kind of nights when a whole city feels lighter. I covered elections that felt historic. I reported on soldiers returning home from war, their joy already visible before they ever made it down the hallway and into waiting arms. And sometimes the joy was smaller but still sweet—like a long-anticipated restaurant finally opening in town, a sign that something new and good had arrived.
Those stories mattered. They were good news. They were joyful to tell. But they all had something in common: they didn’t last. The cheers faded. The crowds went home. The moment passed. Even the best headlines eventually gave way to ordinary days.
That’s why the angel’s announcement in Luke 2 feels so different. “I bring you good news of great joy.” Not joy for a moment. Not joy for a season. But joy for all the people—joy strong enough for shepherds working the night shift, wide enough for sinners in need, and steady enough for people like us, right where we are.
And what made this news joyful wasn’t a change in circumstances. It was the arrival of a Person.

The angel doesn’t say, “Everything is about to get easier.” He says, “Unto you is born this day… a Savior.” Joy enters the world not because life suddenly cooperates, but because God comes close.
This is the wonder of Christmas. The eternal Son of God took on flesh. The One who made the stars stepped into the darkness beneath them. God didn’t send instructions—He sent Himself.
There is something deeply joyful about knowing that God did not stay distant from our pain, our weakness, or our waiting. In Jesus, God knows hunger and weariness. He knows grief and temptation. He knows what it’s like to live in a broken world—and He chose to enter it anyway.
Christmas joy isn’t loud or forced. It’s the quiet gladness of knowing we are not alone anymore.

Joy isn’t the same thing as happiness. Happiness rises and falls with how things are going. Joy runs deeper.
Happiness says, “Things are going my way.”
Joy says, “God has come my way.”
Joy doesn’t ignore pain. It simply refuses to let pain have the final word. The Bible speaks of joy in prison cells, joy in suffering, joy through tears—not because life is easy, but because God is faithful.
Charles Spurgeon once wrote, “When sinners receive Jesus, they receive him joyfully, so that there is joy on both sides. It is a joyful business altogether; the Savior is glad to save, and the sinner is glad to be saved.” 
There is joy in the heart of God toward sinners, and there is joy in the heart that finally rests in Him. That kind of joy isn’t fragile. It’s received, not manufactured. And it’s especially good news at Christmas.

The joy announced in Bethlehem was never shallow. From the very beginning, it was headed somewhere. The baby laid in a manger would grow to carry our sin. The tiny hands wrapped in cloth would one day be stretched out on a cross. Joy does not skip suffering—it passes straight through it.
At the cross, Jesus bore our guilt and shame. At the resurrection, He broke the power of death. Because of Him, forgiveness is real, hope is secure, and joy has a future. As Tim Keller once said, “Accepted in Christ, we now run the race ‘for the joy that is set before us’ rather than ‘for fear that comes behind us.’” That is the quiet freedom of the gospel!
We are no longer driven forward by guilt, shame, or the fear of who we used to be. The old life—marked by sin, striving, and self-salvation—no longer chases us down. Forgiveness stands behind us now, not condemnation. And ahead of us is joy—life with Christ, both here and forever. Grace, not fear, propels us forward. So we lift our eyes, stop looking over our shoulder, and fix our gaze on the joy set before us.

Advent joy lives in between. Christ has come—but the world is still broken. We rejoice, even as we groan. We celebrate what has been accomplished, while longing for what is still to come.
This is why joy can exist alongside sorrow. We know how the story ends. We know who holds the future. Joy doesn’t deny the tension—it trusts the promise.

We don’t find joy by chasing it. We find joy by staying close to Jesus.
Joy grows as we remind ourselves what is true: our sins are forgiven, God is with us, and this world is not the end of the story. Joy deepens through simple, ordinary practices—opening Scripture, praying honestly, singing even when we don’t feel like it, staying connected to God’s people.
Sometimes joy starts quietly. Like a candle lit in the dark. Small, but steady.
And Advent teaches us to wait that way—not with despair, but with hope.

Even today—even when plans change, roads are unsafe, and church gatherings are canceled—the good news still stands. Christ has come. Christ has saved. Christ will come again.
That is joy the world cannot cancel. Not weather. Not weariness. Not sorrow. Not even death.
This Christmas season, may our joy be real and deep—not because life is perfect, but because Jesus is present.

1. How does the angel’s announcement of “good news of great joy” challenge the way you usually think about joy at Christmas?
2. Where do you most feel the tension of waiting right now—and how does the promise of Christ’s coming speak into that?
3. What is one simple way you can turn your attention toward Jesus this week and make space for joy to grow?

The Christmas season brings with it a familiar rhythm—lights strung across rooftops, carols echoing through shopping centers, gifts wrapped in festive paper. Yet beneath the cultural celebration lies a theological truth so profound that it demands our full attention: God became flesh and dwelt among us.

This isn't merely a nice sentiment for greeting cards. The incarnation—God taking on human form in Jesus Christ—stands as the cornerstone of Christian faith. Without it, everything crumbles. But with it, everything changes.

The Problem of the Unseen God

Throughout human history, people have struggled to know God. We've caught glimpses, heard whispers, seen shadows of the divine. In the Old Testament, God revealed Himself through patriarchs and prophets, through burning bushes and pillars of cloud. Moses spoke with God face to face, yet even he couldn't see God's full glory without perishing.

We lived with an incomplete picture, like trying to know someone only through their online profile. We had information, but not the full reality. We had descriptions, but not direct encounter.

The Gospel of John addresses this head-on: "No one has ever seen God. The only God who is at the Father's side, he has made him known" (John 1:18). Before Christ, humanity operated with partial revelation. After Christ, we have the complete picture.

Jesus: The Perfect Revelation

John's Gospel opens with stunning theological precision: "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God" (John 1:1). This Word—this divine communication—"became flesh and dwelt among us" (John 1:14).

Jesus didn't just bring a message about God. He IS God's message. He is the exact imprint of God's nature, the radiance of His glory. When we look at Jesus, we're not looking at a representation or symbol—we're looking at God Himself.

This means Jesus corrects our distortions of God. Like a caricature drawing at a fair that exaggerates certain features while distorting others, we often create images of God that suit our preferences. We emphasize the attributes we like and downplay the ones that make us uncomfortable. We fashion a god of our own making—which is simply idolatry with better marketing.

But Jesus shatters our comfortable caricatures. He reveals God as He truly is: perfectly just and perfectly merciful, absolutely holy and overwhelmingly gracious, strong enough to overturn tables in righteous anger yet gentle enough to welcome children. The God of the Old Testament and the God revealed in Jesus are the same—we simply see Him more clearly in the incarnation.

The Search for Something More

When Jesus told His disciples, "I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me" (John 14:6), He made an exclusive claim that modern ears find uncomfortable. Yet this statement reveals something crucial: Jesus is all we need.

We live in a culture of spiritual mixing, where people claim to follow Jesus while also embracing contradictory philosophies. "I'm a Christian and a Buddhist." "I believe in Jesus and karma." "I follow Christ and the universe." But such combinations reveal a fundamental misunderstanding: if Jesus is truly who He claims to be—the Word made flesh, the perfect revelation of God—then He alone satisfies every spiritual longing.

The problem isn't that Jesus is insufficient. The problem is that we haven't truly recognized who He is. We treat Him like a supplement to our lives rather than the foundation of our existence. We want "Jesus plus"—Jesus plus success, Jesus plus comfort, Jesus plus our preferred lifestyle.

But Jesus doesn't offer to be an addition to our lives. He offers to be our life. He is the way, the truth, and the life—the source of everything real, everything meaningful, everything eternal. When we truly see Him, we realize we don't need anything more.

The Rescue Mission

Yet the incarnation wasn't merely about revelation. God didn't become flesh simply to clear up our theological confusion. The Word became flesh on a rescue mission.

Consider the story of Baby Jessica, the 18-month-old who fell 22 feet down an abandoned well in 1987. Wedged in an eight-inch opening, she couldn't move, couldn't climb, couldn't save herself. All she could do was cry for help. For 58 hours, rescue workers drilled down beside her, then tunneled over to where she was trapped. Only when someone came down to her level could she be brought home.

This is the gospel in miniature. We've fallen into sin, trapped by our rebellion against God. We're wedged in a pit of our own making, unable to climb out through good works or religious effort. We can only cry for help.

And God answered. "But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God" (John 1:12). Jesus came down to our level—took on flesh, lived in perfect obedience, suffered and died—so that we could be brought home. He descended into the darkness to bring us into the light.

The incarnation reveals that God is not distant or disinterested. He is a pursuing Father who enters into His creation to rescue His children. He makes Himself known not as a theological curiosity but as an invitation: Come home.

Recognizing the Real Jesus

This Christmas season, we face a choice. We can celebrate the cultural Jesus—the convenient, comfortable figure who blesses our traditions without challenging our lives. Or we can recognize the real Jesus—the Word made flesh who reveals the heart of God, satisfies the longing of our souls, and rescues us from our sin.

The real Jesus corrects our distortions. He clarifies God's true character. He settles our restless search for transcendence. He makes God known so we can be welcomed home.

This is why the incarnation matters. This is why Christmas is more than sentiment and celebration. The Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and nothing has been the same since.

The question is: will we see Him for who He truly is?

There’s a gravitational pull inside every one of us—a quiet drift toward making something other than Jesus the center of our lives. It happens without fanfare or rebellion. A worry grows louder. A desire gets heavier. A responsibility becomes all-consuming. And before we even notice, our hearts start orbiting around something too small, too fragile, too temporary to hold the weight of our souls.
And when anything other than Jesus becomes the center, everything starts to shake.
Our peace thins out.
Our gratitude dries up.
Our joy flickers like a candle in the wind.
Because we were never made to hold our lives together—we were made to be held.
But the gospel breaks in with a better word:
Jesus is the center of everything.
Not by preference.
Not by personality.
By reality.
Paul says in Colossians 1 that all things—all things—were created through Him and for Him, and in Him all things hold together. The universe doesn’t hold Him up. He holds up the universe. And that includes you—your past, your pain, your purpose, the pieces of you you don’t know what to do with.
Alistair Begg so often reminds us that “the main things are the plain things”—and here’s the plainest truth you will ever hear:
There is no life that stands firm unless Christ stands at the center.
And here’s where the fire of the gospel meets the tenderness of Jesus:
He is not content to be an accessory in the life He purchased with His blood. He will not stay on the margins. He will not be managed. He is too glorious, too lovely, too sufficient to be anything less than Lord, Friend, Shepherd, Savior, and Center.
And yet—oh, how kind He is with our wandering hearts.
He does not shrug His shoulders when we drift.
He does not cross His arms when our gratitude fades.
He does not roll His eyes when we place lesser things on thrones they cannot occupy.
He comes for us.
Again and again.
Not with shame, but with mercy.
Not with scolding, but with steadfast love.
He recenters us with grace far stronger than our self-made chaos.
And here—on the doorstep of Thanksgiving—this truth becomes a refuge:
Gratitude doesn’t come from perfect circumstances.
It comes from a perfect Christ.
It’s not rooted in the year we hoped for, but in the Savior who never failed us.
Not in what we accomplished, but in what He finished.
Not in the security we built, but in the salvation He secured.
Gratitude blooms where Christ is the center, because when we look at Him, we remember that every good gift flows from His hand—
the breath in our lungs,
the people we love,
the grace that saved us,
the mercy that holds us,
the strength that keeps us,
the hope that carries us to the end.
So maybe this Thanksgiving the most freeing, life-giving, soul-steadying prayer is this:
“Jesus, take Your rightful place at the center again.”
Be the center of my gratitude—because every blessing whispers Your name.
Be the center of my peace—because I am held by hands that will never let me go.
Be the center of my joy—because nothing in this world compares to You.
And as you gather around tables, or navigate complicated feelings, or sit in a quiet room with a heart that’s heavier than you expected—lift your eyes.
Look at the One who holds the galaxies in place and still holds you close.
Look at the One who conquered the grave and still walks beside you.
Look at the One who is worthy of being the center—not just of everything, but of you.
Because Jesus is, and always will be, the center of everything.
And when He is the center of your life, you can face anything—with gratitude, with peace, and with a heart anchored in a love that will never let you go.

There are moments in life when winning feels easy, almost natural—when the diagnosis comes back clean, when the relationship finally heals, when the prayer you’ve begged God for finally breaks open into joy. But there are other moments—deep, dark, quiet moments—when life feels like Good Friday. Moments when hope flickers. When guilt feels heavier than grace. When sin feels stronger than obedience. When you wonder if you’re too far gone, too weak, too inconsistent, too broken. And it’s in those heavy moments—when your stomach knots, your chest tightens, and the doubt whispers loudest—that you need to hear this with every fiber of your soul: The gospel always wins.

Not sometimes.
Not occasionally.
Not if you’re good enough.
Always.

Not because you are strong, but because Christ is. Not because you hold onto Him tightly, but because He holds onto you with a grip that will never loosen, never slip, never fail.

If you had stood at the foot of the cross that Friday afternoon, nothing in you would have thought, “This is victory.” Everything about that moment screamed defeat. The Son of God, stripped, beaten, exposed to the mockery of crowds He created. The hands that healed lepers pinned to a tree by Roman spikes. The mouth that spoke galaxies into being cracked with thirst. The eyes that blazed with heaven’s compassion now swollen and darkened. Every breath a gasp. Every movement agony.

And if you had looked into the sky as it went black in the middle of the day, you would have felt in your gut what the disciples felt: It’s over. We lost. Hope is dead.

But heaven saw something entirely different.

Good Friday was not the collapse of God’s plan; it was the climax of it.
The darkness that covered the land was not the darkness of defeat; it was the shadow of divine judgment being poured out—not on the guilty, but on the innocent Lamb who took the guilty place. When Jesus bowed His head, it wasn’t the sigh of a loser—it was the war cry of a Victor: “It is finished.”

And in that moment—when earth trembled and the temple veil split—sin was broken, death was sentenced, and hell was put on notice.
The gospel wins in the very place evil thought it had won.

Before Christ found us, we weren’t “doing our best.” We weren’t “pretty good people who occasionally stumbled.” Scripture tells a far more sobering truth than we like to admit. Paul says in Ephesians 2:1, “You were dead in your trespasses and sins.” Not sick. Not wounded. Not spiritually tired. Dead. No pulse. No power. No life.

Paul doesn’t soften the blow. In Romans 5:10, he writes that we were not neutral seekers trying to figure things out—we were enemies of God, hostile to His rule, running from His holiness. And in Ephesians 2:3, he presses even deeper: we were “children of wrath,” the rightful objects of divine judgment. Not innocent. Not misunderstood. Not mostly good. We were condemned.

We had no spiritual oxygen, no ability to swim upward toward God. We weren’t drowning people hoping for rescue—we were already sunk to the bottom, breathless, lifeless, and unable to do anything but decay. Our story wasn’t, “God helped me when I was struggling.” Our story was, “God found me when I was gone.”

And into that hopelessness stepped Jesus. He didn’t come to revive the spiritually weary or to hand out moral improvement plans. He came to do what no one else could: raise the dead. As Paul says in Ephesians 2:5, “Even when we were dead in our trespasses, God made us alive together with Christ.” Christ didn’t assist the weak—He resurrected the lifeless. And that is why the gospel always wins.

At the cross, something happened so cosmic, so cataclysmic, so eternity-shifting that language trembles under the weight of it.

Jesus absorbed every ounce of divine wrath that had your name on it.
Every accusation the law could make against you—every sinful thought, every hidden failure, every shameful chapter—was transferred to Him and crushed beneath His blood. The record of debt, Paul says, was “canceled,” “wiped out,” “nailed to the cross.” Not reduced. Not postponed. Destroyed.

And while your sin was being condemned, your enemy was being dethroned. The rulers and authorities of darkness—every satanic claim, every demonic whisper, every enslaving power—were “disarmed” and “put to open shame.” The devil lost his only weapon—condemnation—because the only thing he could condemn you for has been buried in a tomb that Jesus walked out of.

Satan can hiss, but he can no longer accuse.
He can growl, but he can no longer own.
He can roar, but he cannot devour.
The cross broke his teeth.

Because Jesus didn’t stay dead, everything about your story has changed. When the stone rolled away, it wasn’t only His body that rose — your future rose with Him. Resurrection is not merely an event you admire; it is a reality you now inhabit. In Christ, you stepped out of the grave you once called home. You were not merely improved; you were reborn. You were not patched up; you were made alive.

Because of the cross and empty tomb, you are forgiven — not partially, not tentatively, not until your next failure, but fully and forever. You are justified — covered in the very righteousness of Christ Himself, a righteousness you didn’t earn and cannot lose. You are reconciled — brought home to a Father who doesn’t tolerate you but delights in you. You are adopted — spoken for, cherished, wanted. You are made new — resurrected into a life that death cannot touch. You are sealed with the Spirit — held by a power stronger than your worst day. And you are loved — with a love older than the stars and stronger than the grave that tried to silence Him.

Who you were is gone.
Who you are is blood-bought, Spirit-filled, and eternally secure.
You are hidden with Christ in God — and there is no safer place in the universe.

And this is why the gospel always wins: because Jesus is the undefeated King. He crushed the serpent under His heel. He bore the full weight of sin and broke its chains. He entered the grave and emptied it. He ascended in triumph and reigns forever. And the hands that reign are the same hands that were pierced to hold you — not loosely, but lovingly, eternally, unbreakably.

You are not clinging to a fragile salvation that might slip through your fingers at any moment. You are held by a Christ who cannot lose. This is the rock beneath your feet when emotions shake, when shame whispers, when failure stings, when suffering presses in. Christ’s victory is not a mood; it is a fact. His triumph is not a feeling; it is a finished work. The gospel wins because Christ won. The gospel keeps winning because Christ keeps reigning. And the gospel will win in your story because Christ will never — ever — let you go.

So rest.
Rest not in your resolve but in His resurrection.
Rest not in your consistency but in His cross.
Rest not in your faithfulness but in His finished work.

You are not fighting for victory; you are living from the blood-bought, hell-defeating, resurrection-guaranteed victory of the risen Christ. And nothing — not sin, not shame, not fear, not suffering, not failure, not death itself — nothing can overturn what Jesus finished on Good Friday.

Let me tell you something I love about our church.

You're a church that genuinely cares for others.

Over the past few years, Jen and I have experienced that firsthand. When I was recovering from illness, you filled our kitchen with casseroles, soups, and homemade desserts. When Pastor Appreciation Month rolled around, your cards showed up at the exact moments I needed them most. And this past year, as Jen and I have walked the adoption journey, you’ve prayed, checked in, and reminded us again and again that we’re not walking it alone.

Those things might seem small, but they’re not. They’re sacred.
Because behind every meal, every note, and every prayer is the same heartbeat that marked the first church in Antioch — the heartbeat of encouragement.

Acts 11 tells us that when word reached Jerusalem about what God was doing in Antioch, the church sent a man named Barnabas to go see it for himself.
And Luke writes:

“When he came and saw the grace of God, he was glad, and he exhorted them all to remain faithful to the Lord with steadfast purpose.”
(Acts 11:23)

That’s what encouragers do.
They see grace before they see flaws.
They rejoice in what God is doing instead of worrying about what’s missing.
And they call people to keep going — not because everything is perfect, but because God is faithful.

Barnabas didn’t show up in Antioch to critique.
He showed up to celebrate.
He looked at a young, messy, growing church and said, “God’s grace is real here — stay faithful.”
And Luke tells us that because of that, “a great many people were added to the Lord.”

That’s the power of encouragement — it multiplies what God is doing.

Now, can I be honest with you for a second?
Ministry isn’t easy.

Sometimes people disagree — about what we say, how we say it, or what we didn’t say.
Sometimes we get misunderstood or misrepresented.
Sometimes we pour out and feel like we’ve got nothing left to give.

As I prepare to transition out of Pataskala Grace next year and into Newark Grace, I've faced a lot of fears. Fears like "will people come? Can we fundraiser enough to pay for rent, expenses, and my salary? Will people accept us?"

There have been moments where I’ve wondered, Is this really worth it?

But every time that thought has crept in, God’s answered it through one of you — a text, a prayer, a pat on the back, a handwritten note.
Those moments have been like oxygen for my soul.
They remind me that God still works through His people — and that even when ministry is hard, the mission is worth it.

And that’s what encouragement really is: reminding each other that it’s worth it.

Here's what I know. It's not only Tim and I who need encouragement. It's all of us who make up Pataskala Grace, whether you serve on stage, in a classroom, a sound booth, or simply show up on Sunday morning.

If we want to be a multiplying church like Antioch, we have to be a church full of Barnabases.

So here’s what that looks like this week:
1. See grace before flaws.
When you walk into church this Sunday, look for evidence of God’s grace — not what’s missing, but what’s moving.
2. Encourage intentionally.
Write one note, send one text, or have one face-to-face moment where you say, “I see God’s hand in your life. Keep going.”
3. Fuel someone’s faithfulness.
Encouragement isn’t just saying “You’re doing great.” It’s saying, “Stay faithful to the Lord. He’s worth it.”

You never know what one small word of encouragement might do.
It might lift a weary parent.
It might steady a ministry leader.
It might be the reason someone keeps showing up.

Lord Jesus, thank You for building Your church through people who notice Your grace and speak life.
Teach me to see what You’re doing before I see what’s wrong.
Help me be a Barnabas this week — someone who builds others up, strengthens their faith, and fuels Your mission.
Amen.

I have a confession: I love reality shows.
Not the trashy kinds where people throw roses or tables — I mean the adventurous kinds.

Recently, Jen and I have been watching The Amazing Race.
It’s incredible to watch these pairs travel across Europe, racing through train stations, facing high-stakes challenges, and seeing some of the most beautiful places on earth.
And of course — I’m enjoying all of it from a couch.

I think most of us can relate to that.
We love seeing people do amazing things — as long as we can stay comfortable while they do it.
And honestly, I think that’s how a lot of us feel about faith sometimes too.

We love watching people meet Jesus.
We love seeing someone get baptized, hearing their story, watching them grow, and thinking, “Wow, God is really at work.”
But deep down, we often feel most comfortable when other people do the work and we just get to observe and celebrate.

Here’s the problem: Jesus never called His followers to be spectators.
He called us to be participants.
He didn’t save us to sit on the sidelines — He saved us to send us into the story.

Because here’s the truth:
The gospel never stops with the person who receives it — it moves through them.
Saved people are sent people.

When Jesus gave the Great Commission, He didn’t give it to the spiritual elite.
He gave it to fishermen, doubters, and former cowards who were still figuring things out.
And He looked at them and said, “Go.”

That’s good news for us — because it means you don’t need a seminary degree, a perfectly worded testimony, or a flawless track record to be part of God’s mission.
You just need to say yes.

The Great Commission doesn’t start with your ability; it starts with His authority.

“All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to Me. Therefore, go…”

Translation: You don’t have to be the hero of this story.
You just have to trust the One who already is.

Jesus sends us because He’s faithful, not because we’re flawless.
And that means your neighborhood, your workplace, your school, your coffee shop — those are your mission fields.
You don’t have to cross an ocean; you just have to cross the street.
You don’t have to preach a sermon; you just have to live like grace is real.

Saved people are sent people.
And you, friend, are one of them.

1. Ask: “Where has God already sent me?” (Hint: it’s probably where you already are.)
2. Notice: One person this week who looks like they could use encouragement or hope.
3. Do something small but intentional: a text, an invite, a prayer, a conversation.

You never know how far one small “yes” can go.
Every time you step out in faith, you’re part of the same story God started in Matthew 28 — a story that’s still multiplying today.

Jesus, thank You for saving me — and for trusting me enough to send me.
Help me see every conversation, every interruption, and every ordinary moment as a chance to show Your love.
Give me courage to go, grace to listen, and joy to join what You’re doing.
Amen.

When Babylon came for Jerusalem, it didn’t just topple walls. It tried to topple identities. Daniel and his friends were hauled into exile, stripped of home, temple, and community. They were given new names, new diets, new books to read—everything meant to rewire their loyalty.

The message was clear: Forget who you are. Forget whose you are.

Our world operates in much the same way. It doesn’t exile us to Babylon, but it does whisper new identities every day: You are your job title. You are your GPA. You are your body type. You are your mistakes. You are your politics. You are what you post. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the culture tries to rename us.

And if we’re honest, it wears us down.

But then comes Daniel. Just a teenager, far from home, with every reason to give in—he makes a quiet but seismic decision: he resolved not to defile himself with the king’s food or the wine he drank.

That may seem small to us—just food and drink. But for Daniel, it was loaded with meaning. Eating from the king’s table likely meant breaking God’s dietary laws, and even more, it symbolized total dependence on Nebuchadnezzar for life and provision. To eat that food was to say, “My future rests in Babylon’s hands.” Daniel couldn’t do that. So, with courage and humility, he asked permission to abstain.

Notice how his resistance unfolds: with conviction, consideration, and collaboration. He doesn’t throw a fit or demand special treatment. He proposes a test—a ten-day trial of vegetables and water. And at the end, the results are undeniable: Daniel and his friends look healthier, stronger, and sharper than all the rest. Their quiet act of faith shines brighter than Babylon’s entire training program.

And God is behind it all. God gave them favor with their overseer. God preserved their vitality. God granted them wisdom and skill until they stood before Nebuchadnezzar himself. By the chapter’s end, these exiles are ten times better than all the king’s magicians and enchanters.

Daniel’s resolve shows us that faithfulness in exile isn’t about making one dramatic stand, but about a hundred quiet choices to trust God in the ordinary details of life.

But if we stop with Daniel, we miss the gospel. His courage was only a shadow of a greater faithfulness to come.

Centuries later, Jesus Christ walked into our exile. He too was pressured to compromise—tempted in the wilderness with bread, kingdoms, and shortcuts. He too was renamed and mocked: blasphemer, drunkard, friend of sinners. And yet, unlike Israel who compromised, and unlike us who stumble, Jesus stood firm. He resolved to do His Father’s will all the way to the cross.

But here’s the stunning difference: Daniel resisted defilement. Jesus bore ours. He took on our assimilation, our compromises, our failures, our divided hearts. At the cross, He let Babylon’s worst and Rome’s worst and our worst fall on Him—so that we could be renamed forever: beloved, forgiven, children of God.

So how do we remain faithful in a culture demanding compromise? Not by summoning superhuman grit, but by clinging to the God who keeps exiles.

Remember who you are in Christ. The world will try to rename you, but your truest name has already been spoken over you: child of God.

Practice small obediences. Like Daniel, faithfulness often looks ordinary: closing the laptop to pray, speaking truth kindly when it’s easier to stay silent, resisting envy when the scroll tempts your heart.

Trust the God who sustains. The same God who gave Daniel favor gives you His Spirit. You are never standing alone.

Fix your eyes on Jesus. Your resolve may falter, but His never does. His obedience counts for you, His grace covers you, and His resurrection secures your hope.

Babylon did not last. And the Babylons of today—whether they come in the form of cultural pressures, personal compromises, or systemic idols—won’t last either. Exile isn’t forever. Christ is risen, and His kingdom is unshakable.

So take heart. Endure the exile. Not because your resolve is perfect, but because His love is.

“Now to Him who is able to keep you from stumbling and to present you blameless before the presence of His glory with great joy…” (Jude 24).

There are mornings when my alarm plays gentle worship music and I wake up, pour the coffee, and turn straight to my Bible like I’m walking into the throne room of heaven.

And then there are mornings I scroll Instagram before my eyes even focus.

I’m a pastor. I love Jesus. And I confess that I still have mornings—entire weeks, even—when it’s easier to reach for noise than for the Word. Nights when I convince myself a Guardians game or another reread of a comic book will quiet my soul better than the Psalms ever could.

But it never works. Because nothing satisfies the soul like the sound of Scripture opening.

When I crack open the spine and sit beneath the words that breathed galaxies into existence, I remember what I’ve been missing.

God doesn’t just speak in the Bible.
He whispers, shouts, sings, and bleeds.

But what happens when we stop listening?

Crack open the book of Judges, and you’ll find out. And I know—it’s not the first place you’d expect a devotional about Bible reading to land. It’s dark. Bleak. One of those parts of the Bible that feels more like a warning label than an inspirational quote. You won’t find many life verses on Etsy from Judges. But that’s exactly why we need it.

Because Judges shows us what life looks like when we abandon the voice of God.

The book opens with promise—Israel in the land, ready to walk with the God who rescued them. But it doesn’t take long for forgetfulness to turn into faithlessness. Over and over again, the people drift. They ignore God’s Word. They do what feels right. And it always ends the same way: destruction, despair, and desperation.

The cycle is brutal. Sin. Suffering. Crying out. Rescue. Repeat. It’s like watching someone stuck in a loop they don’t know how to break. The deeper you go into Judges, the worse it gets. And by the end, it’s almost unwatchable. Civil war. Moral collapse. Unthinkable violence. The last verse lands like a tombstone:
“Everyone did what was right in his own eyes.”

No compass. No King. No Word. Just chaos.

Judges is a mirror for what happens when we trade the voice of God for the noise of our desires. When Scripture becomes a closed book on the shelf instead of the lamp to our feet. It’s not just ancient history—it’s the modern condition. When we stop hearing from God, we don’t just get lost. We get wrecked.

And yet—grace whispers, even here.

Because even this story—one so bleak and broken—speaks His name. The Judges themselves, flawed as they were, pointed forward to a greater Deliverer. Every rescue, temporary as it was, hinted at the One who would come to break the cycle of sin once and for all. The darkness doesn’t drown Him. It only sets the stage for the light.

The blood on the pages of Judges cries out for justice. And Jesus is the answer.

Yet, when we turn one page from the ending of Judges, Ruth opens like a whisper in a world of screaming chaos.

The first line of the book places us squarely in the same timeline as Judges: “In the days when the judges ruled…” That’s not just a timestamp—it’s a theological thunderclap. It means this tender story of love and loyalty is set during one of the most violent, godless, and gut-wrenching chapters in all of Israel’s history. A time when “everyone did what was right in his own eyes”—which is Bible-speak for “the wheels had completely come off.”

But right there in the rubble of Israel’s rebellion, God was writing a story that would lead to redemption.

Ruth doesn’t begin in strength, but in sorrow. A famine. A funeral. A family undone. Naomi is bitter. Ruth is barren. They are poor, vulnerable, and overlooked. No kings. No prophets. No miracles. Just two widows, limping back to Bethlehem with nothing but broken hearts and empty hands.

And yet… God was there.

He was there in the barley field. In the routine. In the silence. He was there in Boaz—a man of quiet strength and fierce compassion, whose kindness foreshadowed the kindness of Another.

Boaz is called a “kinsman-redeemer,” a legal role in ancient Israel that allowed a relative to step in and rescue a family line from extinction. He redeems Ruth—not just her name or her future, but her entire story. He gives her a new home, a new hope, a new legacy.

And here’s what’s astonishing: Ruth, the Moabite outsider, becomes the great-grandmother of King David. And from David’s line comes Jesus—the true and better Redeemer, born in the very same town where Ruth gleaned grain and grace.

Do you see it?

Even in the time of the Judges—when Israel forgot their God—God had not forgotten His people. While nations spiraled and leaders fell, He was weaving a story of salvation in the background. A love story that whispers the name of Jesus.

Because that’s what Scripture always does.

When things feel hopeless, it reminds us: Christ is still coming.
When the night is darkest, it says: He is still working.
When you think the story is over, the page turns.
And grace shows up in the field.

Ruth is not just a tale of romance—it’s a portrait of redemption. A woman beloved. A redeemer who risks everything. A future rewritten by grace.

And it’s all pointing forward to the One who would one day walk into our broken story, take our shame, and make us His own. Not with a bag of barley, but with His blood.

The Redeemer has come.
And every story—even this one—speaks His name.

There’s a reason we say every story speaks His name. Because woven through every page of Scripture is a crimson thread—the blood of a Savior, the silhouette of a Redeemer, the whisper of the Word made flesh.

You cannot read the Bible and miss Jesus—not if you’re really looking. He’s there in the beginning, the Word by whom all things were made. He’s the seed promised in Genesis, the Passover Lamb in Exodus, the priest and the sacrifice in Leviticus. He’s the greater Joshua, the better David, the faithful prophet, the suffering servant, the Son given and the King enthroned.

Jesus isn’t just in the Bible—He is the point of the Bible.

And that’s why studying Scripture is indispensable to knowing God and following Jesus. You cannot separate them. To know the Father, you must come through the Son. And to come to the Son, you must hear the Word. “Faith comes from hearing,” Paul says, “and hearing through the word of Christ.”

The Bible is not just ancient ink on thin pages. It is the voice of your Maker. The breath of the Spirit. The light in the dark. The daily bread your soul craves. It is how God reveals Himself and reintroduces you to yourself. Because the more you see Jesus, the more clearly you see everything else.

You see the world rightly—not as it pretends to be, but as it truly is.
You see sin for what it is—deception, destruction, death.
You see yourself—not as worthless, not as invincible, but as someone broken and beloved, in need of mercy and made for glory.

This is not Bible reading to impress God or earn points. This is coming to the Word because Jesus meets us there. And when He meets us, He changes us.

You open the Book—and the Book opens you.

When you feel dry, Scripture is the cool glass of water.
When you feel empty, it feeds you.
When you feel lost, it leads you.
When you feel ashamed, it covers you with grace.
When you feel weak, it reminds you: your strength is not in yourself, but in your Savior.

So open the Word—not as a box to check, but as a lifeline to grip.
Let its pages draw you near to the One who came near.
Let its words do their holy work—teaching, rebuking, correcting, and training you in righteousness.
Because when you come to the Scriptures, you come to the Savior.

And every story—even yours—speaks His name.

Here's something you may not know about me. I’ve gotten really into comics lately. Really into them. Over the past year, it’s become one of my hobbies. I’ve even had some of my youth group kids start calling me a nerd because of it — and you know what? They’re right. I am a bit of a nerd. (So what if I have a different Superhero shirt for every single day of Momentum and can talk for hours about Jonathan Hickman's Fantastic Four run?)

And this summer, two of my favorites — Superman and The Fantastic Four — are getting new movies. I love superheroes because they always manage to save the day. No matter how bad the odds, no matter how powerful the villain, they pull it off. And they do it looking impossibly cool — not a hair out of place, no panic in their eyes, no weakness to be seen.

If I’m honest, I wish I could live like that. Strong. Self-sufficient. Bulletproof. But there’s a word for that desire — Proverbs calls it pride.

Pride is one of the most dangerous obstacle between us and a life of fearing and following God. It is subtle, slippery, and shockingly durable. It tells you that you can fix yourself. That you can build your own reputation, protect your own security, and defend your own righteousness. Pride is the voice that says, “You are enough,” while subtly implying that God isn’t.

Proverbs is unsparing about what pride does:

“Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.” — Proverbs 16:18

Pride doesn’t just sabotage your relationships or leave you lonely — it sets you up for a spectacular crash. It builds a tower of confidence that looks impressive but is structurally unsound, ready to collapse. And when it does, it ruins reputations, poisons community, and even fractures your relationship with God.

Pride convinces us that we are strong enough, wise enough, spiritual enough, or smart enough to carry the weight of our own lives. Like a bad comic book character trying to play God, pride insists we are the hero of the story.

But the wisdom of Proverbs reminds us we’re not.

Humility, on the other hand, is what truly changes the story. Proverbs 29:23 says:

“One’s pride will bring him low, but he who is lowly in spirit will obtain honor.”

In God’s kingdom, the only way up is down.

Humility is not weakness; it is the right view of yourself before a holy God. It is agreeing with God about your need. It is recognizing that every ounce of strength, every gift, every blessing, every opportunity — it is all grace. And humility is the soil in which real wisdom grows.

And that’s where Jesus comes in.

Think about Him — the King of glory, who had cosmic power beyond any superhero story, yet took the form of a servant. The One who could have come down with lightning and legions of angels, but instead laid down His life. The only true Superman who let Himself be crucified by the very people He came to rescue.

Why?

So you could finally let go of pretending to be the hero.
So you could stop trying to rescue yourself.
So you could rest in the only Savior who never fails.

Pride tells you to hide your weakness.
The gospel tells you to boast in it (2 Cor. 12:9).

Pride tells you to project an image of perfection.
The gospel frees you to confess sin and find mercy.

Pride demands you be served.
The gospel calls you to serve.

Pride isolates you in lonely self-sufficiency.
The gospel places you in a family, held together by grace.

And that’s why Proverbs is so serious about pride — because pride is anti-gospel. Pride is spiritual kryptonite. Pride says, “I am enough,” while the cross of Jesus forever declares, “Only Christ is.”

Pastor Tim gave us a challenge this week: Do you need to repent of some prideful behavior?

If I’m honest, I do. I still want to look strong, sound smart, and protect my reputation. But the gospel invites me to remember that humility is the best path — the only path — to true rest.

So let me ask you:
•Where is pride creeping into your conversations?
•Where are you trying to be Superman instead of a servant?
•Where have you refused to ask for help, because you wanted to look capable?

Proverbs calls you to lay it down. To confess it. To remember that Jesus already carried the burden you’re trying to shoulder.

Maybe you need to write something down this week:
•“I am not the hero of this story.”
•“Jesus is enough.”
•“It’s okay to be small.”
•“My weakness is the backdrop of God’s strength.”

Tape it to your mirror, your dashboard, or your Bible. Let it preach to you every morning.

Friend, you are not Superman. Neither am I.

But there is a Savior who is stronger than any enemy, wiser than any advisor, and kinder than any hero you could invent. He gave up His power to rescue the proud, so that we might be humbled, healed, and made whole.

Lay down the cape this week.
Step out of the spotlight.
Confess where you’ve tried to be your own Savior.
And let Jesus — the true and better hero — carry you.

That’s a story better than any comic book I’ve ever read.

I’m going to let you in on a little secret: I’m writing this devotional before Brian even preaches the sermon that goes with it.

That’s because by the time you’re reading this, I’ll be on vacation—on the Gulf Coast of Alabama, sand between my toes, likely trying (and failing) to disconnect from emails, and doing my best not to get sunburned. We’re headed down for a full-family trip with Jen’s crew to celebrate her sister’s wedding, which promises to be beautiful and full of memories.

One of the parts I’m most looking forward to, though, is spending time with our nephews—Mason and Owen. They’re full of energy and that kind of childlike wonder that makes you forget about deadlines and to-do lists.

And here’s the thing: I know how to be Uncle Josh. But if I’m honest? I have absolutely no clue how to be a parent.

As many of you know, Jen and I are on the adoption journey. We’re praying for the future—dreaming about the child God may bring into our lives. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel overwhelming. At 40 years old, the weight of parenting—of shepherding a soul, shaping a life, discipling a child—it feels sacred. And a little terrifying.

Thankfully, God’s Word doesn’t leave us guessing.

The book of Proverbs gives us wisdom that’s not trendy or tactical—but timeless. It doesn’t offer quick fixes or foolproof methods. But it does offer a vision: parenting rooted in grace and truth, anchored in the fear of the Lord, and aimed not just at behavior but at the heart.

And that’s what this devotional is all about. Whether you’ve been a parent for years, or like me, are just preparing for the possibility—God’s Word has something to say. Something steady. Something true.

It’s no surprise that parenting can feel like holy pressure. Whether you’re knee-deep in diapers or dropping your kid off at college, the task is the same: raise a child made in God’s image… but deeply affected by sin.

Proverbs 22:6 says, “Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it.”

This isn’t a magic formula. It’s a principle, not a promise. But it speaks to a truth we often overlook: children don’t drift toward wisdom. They need to be trained. That word—train—carries the idea of deliberate formation. It’s not passive. It’s not “figure it out as you go.” It’s intentional, relational, and theological.

And Proverbs 29 doesn’t hold back on the cost of neglect. “A child left to himself brings shame to his mother” (v.15). “Discipline your son, and he will give you rest” (v.17). The contrast is stark: training leads to peace, neglect leads to pain. If you leave a child to be “authentically themselves,” they won’t grow into wisdom—they’ll grow into folly. Because sin doesn’t need watering to grow. It grows just fine on its own.

But here’s the rub: correction feels… mean. Unloving. Harsh. Especially in a culture where autonomy is the highest value and parental authority is often viewed as repressive. But biblical discipline isn’t punishment—it’s love with a backbone.

Proverbs speaks of “the rod and reproof” (29:15)—yes, even that rod. But the point isn’t about spanking vs. not spanking. The point is this: love that refuses to correct isn’t love at all. God’s love doesn’t let us wander into ruin without warning. He disciplines those He loves (Hebrews 12:6). Not to crush us, but to shape us.

That’s the model for us as parents, or future parents. Discipline without grace is abuse. But grace without discipline is neglect. Parenting, in the wisdom of Proverbs, is about both—reproof that leads to wisdom, and love that never walks away.

Here’s the gospel-shaped hope in all of this: you will mess up. You will raise your voice when you should’ve listened. You will cave when you should’ve corrected. You will feel like you’re failing. But the good news is: Jesus didn’t just die for rebellious children—He died for weary parents, too.

And not only that—He modeled sonship. He obeyed the Father perfectly, delighted in His will fully, and took our place completely. He became the Perfect Son so that you and I, and one day our kids, could become the Father’s beloved.

If parenting is about shaping hearts, Jesus is the one who makes heart transformation possible. The Spirit, not your strategies, will ultimately bring the growth. So take a deep breath. You’re not alone. You’re not abandoned. And you’re not without help.

Whether you’re raising toddlers or praying for future children like we are—start here:

Pray before you parent. Beg God for wisdom daily. You need it.
Pursue your child’s heart, not just their behavior. Rules without relationship breed rebellion.
Practice repentance. Apologize when you blow it. Let your kids see grace in motion.
Prioritize what matters most. You’re not raising scholars, athletes, or influencers. You’re raising disciples.
Partner with the Church. You’re not meant to do this alone. Surround yourself with a gospel community who will encourage and challenge you.

So no, I don’t have all the parenting answers. But I have a God who does. And His Word—especially Proverbs—reminds me that wise parenting isn’t about perfection. It’s about pointing little hearts to a big Savior.

And maybe, one day, that Amazon package on my porch will be diapers or Legos… and not a book I forgot I ordered at 1am.

But even then—I’ll need the wisdom of God. And I’m thankful He’s already given it.

Have you ever had an Amazon box show up on your front porch… and you have no idea what’s inside?

That happens to me. And if I’m honest, it happens a little too often.

It’s usually something I clicked on late at night, convinced I needed it. Some gadget. Some book. Some “deal of the day.” Nothing major. But it adds up. Not just financially—but spiritually. Because behind every impulsive purchase, there’s often a restless heart looking for something. Comfort. Control. Contentment. We might be scrolling for something to solve a problem or fill a void—but what we’re really doing is searching for peace.

And money—whether we realize it or not—has a way of revealing what we’re really seeking.

As a pastor, I’ll be honest: I’d rather preach a dozen sermons on prayer, grace, or even suffering than give one message about money. It’s awkward. People squirm. Defenses go up. And let’s face it—talking about money can feel like meddling.

But here’s the truth: if we let the Word of God set the agenda, we can’t avoid this topic.

The book of Proverbs includes over 100 verses directly related to money, wealth, work, poverty, and generosity. If you expand that to the whole Bible, you’ll find over 2,300 verses on money and possessions—more than on heaven and hell combined. The only subject Jesus talked about more was the kingdom of God.

That should tell us something: money matters deeply to God.

Not because He needs our cash—but because He wants our hearts. And nothing tests the affections of our heart quite like money. That’s why Proverbs 13:14–15 reminds us that the teaching of the wise is a fountain of life, and that good sense wins favor. In other words, wisdom around money is not just practical—it’s spiritual. It’s about walking in the kind of wisdom that reflects the heart of God.

We tend to ask ourselves very surface-level questions:"Can I afford this?" "Is this a good deal?" "Will this make my life easier?"
But Proverbs invites a deeper, more honest evaluation.

Questions like:
What does my spending say about what I trust?
Where is my heart finding comfort—God or stuff?
Is generosity a rhythm in my life or just a reaction to guilt?

Let’s get real:

Greed might not look like Scrooge McDuck swimming in coins. It might look like needing the newest gadget so people think you’re relevant.

Fear might not be stockpiling gold bars. It might be obsessing over your savings account like your life depends on it.

Discontentment doesn’t always show up loud. Sometimes it just quietly fuels your Amazon Prime habit and your dream of a different zip code.

If money is the mirror, what is it showing you?

This is where the gospel enters—not with condemnation, but with clarity. Not with guilt, but with grace. The gospel doesn’t just tell you to do better with your money—it tells you who you are, whose you are, and what’s already been done for you. And when that truth takes root, everything changes.

Jesus talked about money constantly. Why? Not because He was short on cash. Not because He was building a capital campaign. But because He knew what money tends to do to our hearts.

He knew how money promises control but delivers anxiety.
How it whispers security but breeds scarcity.
How it offers status but never satisfies.

That’s why He said, “Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also” (Matt. 6:21). That’s not just financial advice. That’s spiritual diagnosis. Your budget is a map. And if you follow it, it will show you what you really believe about God—whether He’s generous or stingy, trustworthy or not, enough or never quite sufficient.

And yet, into all our mess and misuse of money, Jesus comes—not to scold, but to save.

In 2 Corinthians 8:9, Paul writes,
“For you know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though he was rich, yet for your sake he became poor, so that you by his poverty might become rich.”

That is the gospel of generosity.

Jesus—eternally rich in glory, seated in perfect fellowship with the Father—stepped into poverty. Not just material poverty, but spiritual bankruptcy. He entered a world driven by greed and enslaved by scarcity, and He emptied Himself. He took the form of a servant. He gave up heaven’s riches to redeem rebels with empty hands and broken wallets. He didn’t give 10%. He gave everything.

He poured out His blood. He canceled our debts. He paid what we owed and credited us with the full riches of His righteousness.

And He did it not to model a budgeting system, but to secure our salvation.

That changes everything.

When Jesus becomes your true Treasure, money stops being your master.
When you remember you’ve already been given everything in Christ (Eph. 1:3), you stop chasing peace through purchases.
When you believe you’ve been adopted by the King of heaven, you stop grasping like an orphan and start giving like a son.

The gospel frees you from the lie that more is the answer.
It reminds you that Christ is your portion—and your peace.

It means you can work with integrity, not to prove your worth, but because you’re already called valuable.
You can spend wisely, not to feel in control, but because God is in control.
You can give generously, not to earn applause, but because grace has made you rich.

And when you live like that—when your financial life begins to echo the music of the gospel—you become an outpost of heaven in a culture of greed. A story of sufficiency in a world of scarcity. A sermon on grace preached not from a pulpit, but from your wallet.

Let’s get practical. If we’re going to walk in wisdom, here are three soul-shaping steps you can take this week:

1. Pray Through Your Purchases. Seriously. Sit with your bank statement or budget and ask God: “Where am I trusting in money more than You?”
This isn’t about guilt. It’s about grace-fueled awareness. Invite the Spirit to speak through your spending.

2. Choose Generosity on Purpose. Don’t wait until you feel “ready” to give. Start small if you have to. Generosity isn’t about the amount—it’s about the direction of your heart.
Practice the discipline of giving in a way that actually costs something. Let it hurt a little. That’s where the joy breaks through.

3. Talk About It in Community, Find a trusted friend or mentor and ask: “How have you grown in wisdom with money?” Money grips in secrecy. But when it’s brought into the light—when it’s processed with gospel friends—it loses its grip.

Here’s what I want to leave you with:

If you are in Christ, you are already rich.
Not in things—but in grace.
Not in status—but in security.
Not in cash—but in the cross.

You don’t have to spend your way to peace.
You don’t have to save your way to significance.
You don’t have to earn your way to freedom.

It’s already yours.

So now, let your money tell the truth about your heart:
You have more than enough—because you have Jesus.
And He’s not just your Provider. He is your Treasure.

“Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace.” – Proverbs 3:17

We live in an age of conflict.
Our headlines are filled with stories of wars, political feuds, and ideological fractures. Social media platforms function less like community gathering spaces and more like digital battlegrounds. Even among Christians, conflict is increasingly normalized—if not celebrated—as a sign of conviction or boldness.
In a culture this loud, tense, and divided, peace can feel like a distant ideal, better suited for the Psalms than for real life. But Proverbs, that earthy and practical book of wisdom, insists otherwise. “All her paths are peace,” it says (Prov. 3:17). Wisdom doesn’t lead us toward more chaos, more division, or more grudges. Wisdom leads us into peace.
So why does that path feel so hard to walk?


The Obstacles to Peace
Proverbs is not naïve. It doesn’t assume peace comes naturally or easily. It names the barriers clearly—and in the process, it helps us examine our own hearts.
1. Anger & Resentment
Proverbs 29:11 says, “A fool gives full vent to his spirit, but a wise man quietly holds it back.”
Anger is perhaps the most socially acceptable sin in our age. Whether it’s expressed as outrage online or quiet bitterness offline, many of us live with low-grade fury in our souls. Sometimes that anger is loud—shouting matches, sarcasm, short tempers. But often, it’s quiet: the cold shoulder, the silent treatment, the replayed offense that simmers just beneath the surface.
Wisdom teaches us that anger, when left unresolved, erodes peace from within. It is no friend of reconciliation, and it often masks deeper issues—pride, pain, fear of vulnerability. The gospel calls us not merely to manage anger but to crucify it, remembering that Christ bore the wrath of God on our behalf so we could extend mercy to others.
2. Pride
“By insolence comes nothing but strife, but with those who take advice is wisdom” (Prov. 13:10).
How many conflicts persist—not because the issue is unsolvable—but because neither party is willing to admit fault? Pride keeps us from apologizing. It convinces us we’re always the victim. It exaggerates offenses and minimizes our sin.
The cross of Christ obliterates pride. It reminds us that we are sinners who contributed to the conflict between man and God. And it also reminds us that reconciliation is possible—not through defensiveness, but through humility. Jesus made peace by going first. So should we.
3. Greed & Control
Proverbs 28:25 says, “A greedy man stirs up strife, but the one who trusts in the Lord will be enriched.”
Greed doesn’t always look like money. Often, it looks like control—an unwillingness to release a relationship, an outcome, or a reputation into God’s hands. When we insist on our way, our narrative, our comfort, we create conflict that could be avoided by trust in God’s sovereignty.
Peace grows where trust in God deepens. When we believe He sees, He knows, and He will act, we are free to let go of what we cannot control.


The Peace of Christ
Jesus is not merely a model of peacemaking—He is our peace (Eph. 2:14). The most essential conflict in all of history was the one between a holy God and sinful humanity. And Jesus resolved it—not by minimizing sin, but by dealing with it at the cross.
In doing so, He gave us more than a clean slate. He gave us a new heart and His Spirit, who produces in us what we cannot produce in ourselves: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness… (Gal. 5:22–23). This means that any step we take toward peace—whether in a marriage, friendship, church, or workplace—is empowered by the Spirit and rooted in the gospel.
Christians are not called to be peace-fakers or peace-breakers, but peace-makers (Matt. 5:9). And making peace takes initiative, humility, and courage. But it also brings joy, healing, and unity that reflects the heart of our King.


A Call to Action
Pastor Tim’s challenge from Sunday was simple: Cure the conflict before it ruins the relationship.
It’s not just pastoral advice. It’s gospel wisdom.
So where do you start?
•  Search your heart. Ask the Spirit to reveal unresolved anger, relational pride, or an unwillingness to trust God in a difficult relationship.
•  Own your part. Even if the conflict isn’t entirely your fault, consider your contribution. Repentance is the first step on the path of peace.
•  Initiate reconciliation. Make the call. Schedule the conversation. Send the text. Don’t wait for the perfect moment—wisdom acts with urgency.
•. Forgive by grace. Remember what you’ve been forgiven, and allow the mercy of Christ to soften your heart toward others.


Final Reflection
Peace is not the absence of tension. It’s the presence of Christ in the midst of it.
The world offers temporary truces. Jesus offers lasting peace.
So don’t just wish for it. Walk in it.
Because all her paths are peace—and Jesus is walking that path with you.

“Death and life are in the power of the tongue, and those who love it will eat its fruits.” – Proverbs 18:21

People often tell me I’m good with words.
And sometimes—I believe them.
I’ve won journalism awards.
Creative writing contests.
I’ve had articles and stories published.
Words are kind of my thing.
But here’s what I also know:
I can be incredibly careless with my speech.

I’ve said things I regret—harsh things, flippant things, selfish things.
I’ve spoken when I should’ve been silent.
I’ve been silent when I should’ve spoken up.

And Proverbs 18:21 confronts me every time:

“Death and life are in the power of the tongue…”

In other words, this isn’t a game.
The way we speak—what we say, how we say it, and when—has the power to shape realities.
To heal or to wound. To bless or to curse. To bring someone closer to Christ… or drive them further away.

We’ve heard it said:
“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”

Cute.
Also: a lie.

If you’ve ever had someone speak something into your life that stuck longer than it should have—something harsh, careless, or crushing—you know the truth:
Words can wound deeply.
But in Jesus, words can also heal completely.

The writer of Proverbs doesn’t say words are harmless.
He says they’re powerful. Life or death kind of powerful.
And in a world where everyone wants to be heard, Jesus invites us to become people who speak like He did—with grace, truth, healing, and humility.

Because the tongue is not neutral.
It’s a tool. A sword. A seed. A mirror.
It reveals who’s really ruling your heart.


How Jesus Changes Our Speech
The call to “control our tongues” isn’t just about being a better person.
It’s about becoming a new person—one who has been united to Christ by faith, filled with His Spirit, and transformed from the inside out.

In Luke 6:45, Jesus says,

“Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks.”

In other words, your mouth is the microphone of your soul.
You don’t have a word problem. You have a heart problem.
And only Jesus can change your heart.

That’s why this isn’t a self-help exercise.
It’s a surrender.

When you surrendered your life to Christ, He didn’t just redeem your eternity—He reclaimed your mouth.
Now your words belong to Him.

And His words?
They calm storms.
They raise the dead.
They silence lies.
They speak identity and destiny and life into broken people.

That’s what He wants to do through your voice too


Controlling the Tongue (With the Spirit’s Help)
Proverbs 18:21 reminds us we are always speaking life or death.
So how do we walk in wisdom when we open our mouths?

1. Speak Less.
Jesus was never in a hurry to speak. He listened. He paused. He discerned.
Sometimes silence is the most loving response.
Sometimes the holy thing is to not have the last word.
The Spirit gives us the power to be quick to hear, slow to speak (James 1:19).

2. Speak Truth.
Jesus never used flattery or deceit.
He spoke truth that set people free—even when it was hard.
Wisdom means being honest, clear, and kind—especially when honesty is uncomfortable.
Not truth as a weapon, but truth with tears in your eyes.

3. Speak Life.
Jesus’ words made people come alive.
Your words should sound like His.
Encouraging. Hopeful. Healing.
This isn’t toxic positivity—it’s resurrection speech.
Because you’ve been raised with Christ, your words should carry the aroma of new creation.


Two Names
So here’s your call to action this week. Sit in silence for a few minutes and ask the Spirit to bring two names to mind:

Who do I need to apologize to?
Who have I wounded with words? Or with silence that should’ve been presence?
Repentance is part of wisdom. It’s not weakness—it’s worship.

Who do I need to encourage?
Who is on the verge of giving up and needs life spoken back into them?
Send the text. Write the note. Make the call. Speak Jesus over them.

Because when Jesus raised Lazarus, He didn’t touch him.
He spoke him out of the grave.


Final Thought
Your words were never meant to serve you.
They were meant to serve the kingdom.

In a world where people use words to build platforms, defend egos, and protect power,
Jesus uses words to restore, redeem, and rescue.

So the question isn’t just “What am I saying?”
It’s “Who does this sound like?”

Do my words sound like Jesus?

If not—good news:
The Word made flesh is still at work, shaping our speech by shaping our hearts.
Let Him speak over you.
Let Him speak through you.

Because death and life are in the power of the tongue—
And Jesus is the resurrection and the life.

“A man without self-control is like a city broken into and left without walls.” – Proverbs 25:28

There are few things more defeating than watching yourself fall into the same patterns over and over again.
You know what I mean.
That moment when you promised you’d go to bed early—because you need rest, because your soul is dry, because your alarm is rude—and then somehow it’s 1:13 a.m. and you’re four episodes deep into a show you don’t even like that much.
The screen darkens.
The silence is deafening.
And up pops that little passive-aggressive message from Netflix:
“Are you still watching?”
Oof.
You weren’t ready for that kind of judgment. Not from the platform that let you start this binge in the first place.
You stare at the screen, popcorn in your lap, sweatpants on, a vague sense of shame creeping in like, I had plans. I had goals. I had dreams…
Now it’s 11:47 p.m. and your Bible is still closed, your inbox is still full, and your self-control?
Gone.
Or that moment when you swore this time you’d walk away from the gossip, this time you’d control your appetite, this time you’d take that thought captive… but again, you didn’t.
Church, hear this: You’re not alone. You’re not broken beyond repair.
But you are in a battle.
And if you’re going to walk in wisdom, you’re going to need walls.
That’s what Solomon says in Proverbs 25:28—that without self-control, you’re like a city with no defenses.
You’re exposed. Vulnerable. Unprotected.
Every impulse can invade. Every temptation gets in. Every craving can rule you.
But Jesus didn’t die and rise again so we could live like spiritual cities with no walls.
He came to rebuild what sin broke down.

When Paul lists the fruit of the Spirit in Galatians 5, self-control is tucked there at the end. Easy to overlook. But don’t miss this: self-control is not something you muster—it’s something God grows.
It’s not the result of being Type A or highly motivated.
It’s the result of being Spirit-led.
And when the Spirit of God is at work in you, He doesn’t just save you—He shapes you.
He forms you to look more like Jesus.
And Jesus? He walked in perfect self-control.
He knew when to speak and when to be silent.
He knew when to rest and when to work.
He knew how to turn down the appetites that scream for attention—and turn up His appetite for the Father’s will.
Even in Gethsemane—when He sweat blood and begged for another way—He still chose the cross.
For you.

Let’s be real: self-control doesn’t feel glamorous.
It feels slow. Hidden. Weak.
But according to 2 Timothy 1:7, “God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control.”
In God’s eyes, self-control is not weakness. It’s power.
It’s not legalism. It’s love.
It’s not about saying no to joy—it’s about saying no to what steals it.
And the road there? It’s long. It’s messy. It’s covered in grace.
If you’re struggling today—if you feel like you’ll never grow out of these habits, these reactions, these cravings—hear me:
You are not your failures.
You are not your impulses.
You are not the worst thing you did this week.
You are in Christ.
And He is in you.
And He is not done with you.

Proverbs 8:34 says, “Blessed is the one who listens to me, watching daily at my gates, waiting beside my doors.”
You hear that?
Wisdom isn’t microwaved. It’s not mass-produced.
It grows in those who watch daily. Those who wait beside the door. Those who keep showing up.
Self-control isn’t about one big heroic moment.
It’s about a thousand tiny choices.
It’s waking up and asking the Spirit to help you put your phone down.
It’s choosing water when stress says eat.
It’s deleting the number you keep texting when you’re lonely.
It’s praying before you respond.
It’s walking away when the gossip starts.
It’s ending the scroll. Closing the tab. Getting up when you fall. Again.
And again.
And again.

If you’re wondering what to do with all this, start here:
1. Be honest with God.
Name the place where you feel weak. He already knows. And He’s not rolling His eyes. He’s waiting to help.
2. Ask the Spirit to work.
Self-control is fruit. Ask Him to grow it. Daily. Dependently. Desperately.
3. Invite someone in.
Don’t fight alone. Text a friend. Ask them to check in. Let them see the struggle so they can remind you of grace when you forget it.

You will not master self-control overnight.
That’s not how wisdom works.
But you can walk in it—today.
Not perfectly. But faithfully.
And when you fall, fall toward Jesus.
The One who never lost control, never gave in, and still chose to give Himself for you.
He is your Shepherd. Your fortress. Your wall. Your wisdom.
Let Him lead.
Keep walking.

Last week, as I was working on my sermon on Proverbs 3:5–6, my heart kept wandering to Psalm 23. Not because they are mirror texts—but because they issue the same invitation.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make straight your paths.” (Proverbs 3:5–6)

“He leads me in paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.” (Psalm 23:3)

Both proclaim this: the path of wisdom is not ultimately found through analysis, logic, or clarity—but through trust. Trust in the unsearchable wisdom, unwavering goodness, and unfailing presence of the Lord.

And both remind us who we are in this story: we are sheep.

We are sheep.

I don’t mean that in a cute, pastoral, stained-glass kind of way.
I mean—we are sheep.
We get anxious.
We wander off.
We don’t always know what’s best for us, even when it’s right in front of us.
And when life gets loud, we can forget what the Shepherd’s voice sounds like.

Jesus said in John 10:27,
“My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me.”

That’s what we were created for: communion with Christ. Hearing His voice. Trusting His lead. Walking in step with His Spirit.

But if you’ve followed Jesus for more than a day, you know: the path of righteousness is not paved with ease. It winds through wilderness. It runs straight into valleys. It cuts through sorrow and uncertainty. And it leaves us—at times—scarred.

I carry a few myself.

Some are visible:
A scar from a life-saving surgery.
One from a moment with a knife that was far sharper than I realized.

But others are harder to show.

Scars from disappointment.
From fatigue so deep I didn’t know how to pray.
From trying to carry burdens God never asked me to hold.
From seasons of obedience that felt more like exile than peace.

They ache sometimes—quiet reminders of where I’ve been and what I’ve survived by grace.

And I imagine you’ve got some too.

Scars from grief that still steals your breath.
From sin that cost more than you thought it would.
From wounds others left.
From wounds you gave yourself.

But here’s the good news that brings tears to my eyes and strength to my steps:

The Good Shepherd has scars, too.

What does it mean that Jesus has scars?

It means the Eternal Word became flesh.
He became killable. Woundable. Piercable.
Not out of weakness, but infinite resolve.
Not as an accident, but as the mission.

“I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.” (John 10:11)

He did not come to avoid suffering, but to absorb it.
He did not come to sidestep death, but to swallow it whole.

He was betrayed by a friend.
Abandoned by His own.
Stripped. Beaten. Mocked. Spat upon.
Spiked through the wrists and feet.
Lifted up, not in glory, but in agony.

Why?

Because you and I did not trust the Lord with all our hearts.
We leaned on our own understanding.
We acknowledged ourselves in all our ways.
And the path we made was not straight—but twisted in rebellion and sin.

The wages of that sin is death. And so the Shepherd laid Himself down—in our place.

Not just to give us guidance.
Not just to model sacrifice.
But to bear the wrath of God so we could be reconciled.

“He was pierced for our transgressions; He was crushed for our iniquities; upon Him was the chastisement that brought us peace, and with His wounds we are healed.” (Isaiah 53:5)

And when He rose from the grave—radiant in victory—He kept the scars.

Why?

Because they are receipts.
Proof of purchase.
Divine declarations that it is finished.
That you are His.
That your debt is paid in full.
That no accusation will ever stick.
That no sin will ever separate.

In Revelation 5, the resurrected Christ is still “a Lamb standing, as though it had been slain.”
Even in glory, His scars preach the gospel.

So now when Proverbs 3 calls you to trust the Lord with all your heart, it is not calling you into blind obedience. It is not summoning you to close your eyes and hope for the best.

It is calling you to collapse into the arms of the One who has been crucified for your sin, raised for your justification, and enthroned for your peace.

It is calling you to trust the hands that were pierced.
To follow the voice that calmed the storm.
To yield to the wisdom that chose the cross.
To walk with the One who says: “I am the Way.”

So no—you don’t need a map.
You need a Man.
The God-Man.
Jesus Christ.

You don’t need perfect clarity.
You need scars that shout, “You are safe here. You are mine.”

You don’t need a five-year plan.
You need a Shepherd who leads with rod and staff, grace and truth.

And because of who He is, you can walk the P.A.T.H.—not as a formula, but as a posture of worship:
• Place your trust in the Lord. Not in yourself. Not in outcomes. But in the Sovereign Savior who bled for you.
• Abandon your leaning. Let go of self-reliance. Lay down your demand for clarity. Repent of your desire for control.
• Turn to Him in all your ways. Invite Him into every decision, every burden, every desire.
• Heed His voice. Follow His Word. Obey even when it costs. Because the Shepherd never leads astray.

And if your steps are slow?
If you walk with a limp?
If you are tired and unsure?

You are not alone.
The One walking with you still bears the scars that bought your redemption.

Trust Him.
Follow Him.
He knows the way.
He is the Way.

It’s amazing the things I can remember.

Without even trying, I can still name the entire starting lineup of the 2004 Boston Red Sox—Johnny Damon, Orlando Cabrera, Manny Ramirez, David Ortiz… (see?). I know lyrics to obscure 90s country songs by heart, and I can vividly recall just about every time I've felt stabbed by a friend.

Yet, ask me by Wednesday morning what Sunday’s sermon was about—yes, even if I preached it myself—and the details are often embarrassingly fuzzy.

Why is it so easy for us to hold onto trivialities, hurts, and disappointments, yet struggle to retain the truths that nourish our souls?

Proverbs offers us this profound reminder:

“A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.” (Proverbs 17:17)

At first glance, this verse might feel quaint, like something you’d find stitched onto a throw pillow. But beneath the surface, there’s gospel gold waiting to be uncovered.

Friendship, as the Bible describes it, isn’t casual or convenient. It’s sacrificial and relentless. True friendship mirrors the very heart of Christ, who didn’t love us from a safe distance. Instead, Jesus stepped into our brokenness, bearing our sins and our shame upon Himself. He didn’t wait for us to clean ourselves up, but “while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8).

In the Gospel of Mark (2:1-12), we meet a paralyzed man whose friends literally tore the roof off to lower him at the feet of Jesus. Scripture beautifully records that Jesus saw their faith—not just the man’s individual need, but the collective determination and love of his friends. Their faithful friendship brought healing and redemption.

This is what it means to be the friend. It means stepping in when it’s easier to step back. It means carrying someone toward Jesus, even if it costs you your convenience or comfort.

But Proverbs also invites us to something equally profound: the humility to receive friendship. Many of us find it easier to give than to receive. Receiving friendship requires vulnerability. It means acknowledging our own weaknesses, needs, and hurts.

And here’s the gospel again: our inability to admit need—to let someone carry our mat—often reveals our resistance to grace itself. We struggle to let others step toward us because deep down we want to appear strong, capable, sufficient.

But Scripture gently rebukes this pride:

“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Corinthians 12:9)

Church, what if this week we committed not just to remember the sermon, but to actually embody it?
•Thank someone who has faithfully carried your burdens. Let them know their love made a difference.
•Pursue someone who might be quietly struggling or isolated.
•Forgive someone whose hurt you’ve carried longer than necessary.
•Repent to someone you’ve neglected or kept at a distance.

But don’t stop there. Allow yourself to receive friendship:
•Admit your needs.
•Let someone carry your mat.
•Invite someone into your struggle.

Because in doing so, you not only experience authentic friendship, but you experience Christ himself, who came not to be served, but to serve (Mark 10:45).

Let’s not just be hearers of the Word—let’s be doers (James 1:22). Let’s be friends shaped by grace, humility, and the cross. Let’s remember more than trivia and hurts. Let’s remember Christ, who stepped toward us, so we can step toward one another.

“The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge; fools despise wisdom and instruction.”
— Proverbs 1:7

We live in a culture obsessed with self—self-expression, self-reliance, self-promotion.
We’re told to follow our hearts, trust our guts, and forge our own paths.
But deep down, most of us know the truth:
We were never meant to be our own gods.

Proverbs 1:7 is not just a wise saying—it’s a wake-up call.
It tells us that true wisdom doesn’t begin with control, but with surrender.
It doesn’t start with answers.
It starts with awe.

The fear of the Lord is not terror in the face of a tyrant.
It’s the reverent trembling that happens when you realize you’re standing before the God who is madly in love with you.
Not the cleaned-up, social-media-approved version of you.
But the real you—the broken, anxious, stubborn, weary you.
He sees you. And He still chooses you.

This is the same God who, in Genesis 3, came walking in the garden—not to destroy Adam and Eve in their sin,
but to cover them.
Even in the very chapter where humanity rebelled, God made a promise:
That one day, the serpent would be crushed.
That one day, death would not have the final word.

And from that moment on, the story of Scripture has been a story of relentless love and relentless pursuit.

He promised Abraham a son—and gave him descendants as numerous as the stars.
He promised Moses His presence—and went before Israel in a pillar of fire.
He promised David an eternal throne—and fulfilled it in Christ.
He promised to pour out His Spirit—and He did.
He promised to never leave or forsake you—and He hasn’t.
He promised to come again—and He will.

And in the fullness of time, God didn’t just speak wisdom—He sent Wisdom in the flesh.

“Christ—the power of God and the wisdom of God.”
— 1 Corinthians 1:24

Where Adam grabbed for control, Christ surrendered.
Where Israel grumbled in the wilderness, Christ obeyed in Gethsemane.
Where we despised God’s instruction, Christ delighted in the Father’s will.
And at the cross, Jesus didn’t just show us wisdom—He secured it for us.

So now, surrender is not a sentence—it’s a song.
It’s not a loss—it’s life.
It’s not defeat—it’s worship.

Christian, the wisest thing you will do today is not figure everything out.
It’s to fall on your knees and say:
“Lead me, Lord. I can’t lead myself.”

Let go of the illusion of control.
Lay down the pressure to perform.
Stop trying to carry what only God is strong enough to hold.

And worship.

Worship the God who carved out mountains and calmed the sea.
Worship the Christ who was crushed so you could be whole.
Worship the Spirit who whispers, even now, “This is the way—walk in it.”

Today, choose awe over anxiety.
Choose surrender over self-sufficiency.
Choose wisdom—and let it lead you to worship.

There are things in this world we call good.

A ribeye cooked just right—charred on the outside, pink in the center.
A slow Saturday morning and a cup of coffee.
A baby’s first laugh.
A walk-off home run.
A summer evening on a porch with old friends.

These things are good.
They’re gifts. Tiny foretastes of a better world. They make us exhale. They remind us life isn’t all emails and deadlines and gas prices.

But none of them can hold a candle to this Friday.

Because Good Friday is good in a different way.
It’s good in the way thunderstorms are good—violent, cleansing, unforgettable.
It’s good in the way surgery is good—bloody, painful, but life-saving.
It’s not the kind of good that makes you simply smile.
It’s the kind that makes you weep. Then kneel. Then worship.

This should have been the worst day in history. And for a moment, it was.

The sun refused to shine.
The sky dressed itself in mourning.
The temple veil tore down the middle like the earth itself was coming undone.
The Son of God hung limp on a cross, bloodied and betrayed, heaven’s champion left alone in the dark.

To anyone watching, it looked like loss.
Like maybe hope was a scam.
Like maybe the Pharisees were right all along.
Like maybe death wins.

But that’s the thing with God.
He doesn’t write according to our plotlines, but his.

He writes resurrection in the rubble.

And that’s why this Friday is so good.

Because it’s not the end.

We know what they didn’t.
We’ve read the last chapter.
Spoiler alert: the tomb is empty.

So, yes.
That meal with friends is good.
That job promotion is good.
That vacation to the mountains is good.
But this—this is the kind of good that flips the universe upside down.
The kind of good that calls dead men out of tombs.
The kind of good that stares down sin and doesn’t blink.

Good Friday is good because…

Jesus didn’t tap out.
He drank the cup of wrath to the bottom, until judgment was dry and mercy was pouring.

He didn’t flinch.
He marched to Golgotha like a warrior headed to battle. Crowned in thorns, robed in mockery, carrying a cross that would become a throne.

He didn’t just die.
He conquered—in the most unexpected way.

And He didn’t stay dead.

He got up.
Breathing.
Walking.
Wounded, but undefeated.

He appeared to disciples with tear-stained faces and shattered dreams, and He gave them peace.

He met Thomas in the wreckage of his doubt and let him touch the truth.

He restored Peter’s shame with a charcoal fire and a few words that tasted like forgiveness.

He stood on a mountain and sent His people into the world—not with swords, but with news. Good News.

He sent the Spirit like wildfire.
He turned cowards into preachers, enemies into brothers, pagans into pastors.
He knocked Saul off his horse and planted churches in places where no one knew His name.

He didn’t stop then, and He hasn’t stopped now.

And that’s why Good Friday is good.

Because sin doesn’t get the final word.
Shame doesn’t get the microphone.
Death doesn’t get to define you.
Jesus does.

It’s good because, for those who are tired of pretending, the cross is real hope.
It’s good because, for those haunted by failure, the cross doesn’t whisper try harder—it thunders “It is finished.”
It’s good because it means love wins—not the soft, sentimental kind, but the kind that bleeds.

It’s good because it’s proof—undeniable, unforgettable, unshakable proof—that God is madly in love with you.
Not the future version of you.
Not the cleaned-up, always-on-time, never-doubting version.
You.
Right here. Right now.
Loved enough to die for.
Valued enough to rescue.
Wanted enough to come back for.

So yes, there are good things in life.
Tacos after church on Sunday. A Buckeyes victory. The laughter of your kids from the other room.

But this Friday?
This blood-stained, curtain-tearing, grave-robbing Friday?

It’s the best kind of good.
Because it reaches deeper than your pain,
It runs stronger than your shame,
And it ends in resurrection.

Because Sunday is coming.

The tomb is still empty.

Jesus is King.

24.8 miles.

That's the distance between my home in Pataskala and the James Cancer Hospital in Columbus. It's also the exact distance my wife Jen drove me in December 2022 to have a life-saving operation. I remember the tension, the urgency, and the quiet resolve in her voice as she made the drive.

Here's what I can promise you: Jen would have driven me even further than that to save my life.

So when the question comes up, "why are you planting a church in Newark?" the answer is the same.

There are lives at risk.

A Growing City With a Great Need
Newark isn't a small town. With a population of around 50,000 people, it's the 16th largest city in Ohio — bigger than places like Lancaster, Dublin, Reynoldsburg, and other pockets of Columbus. But what strikes me most isn't just its size — it's the need.

Though Newark has a proud heritage and a growing downtown, it also holds a heavy spiritual burden. According to the Association of Religion Data Archives, nearly 62% of Newark residents are not connected to any religious congregation. Of those who do attend church, many are part of churches that are shrinking, aging, or closing. The religious landscape of Newark reflects a trend we're seeing across the country: fewer and fewer people encountering the real Jesus in the context of a vibrant, gospel-preaching local church.

We're not planting a church because Newark is cool.

We're planting a church because Newark is lost.

The Biblical Call
When Jesus gave the Great Commission, he didn't give it only to individuals — he gave it to the Church. His words in Acts 1:8 still echo today:

"You will be my witnesses in Jerusalem and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the end of the earth."

Church planting is not a trendy strategy — it's God's ancient plan. From Antioch to Asia Minor to the heart of the Roman Empire, the early Church grew by planting new churches that reached new people in new places.

We at Pataskala Grace are benefactors of that command. Even if we can't trace it on paper, the reason we gather on Headleys Mill Road today is because generations ago, someone obeyed Jesus' call to go. Long before Frank Gardner and others planted Pataskala Grace a little over 50 years ago, the gospel reached Pataskala through the obedience of ordinary people who believed Jesus' words and planted churches around the world.
We want Pataskala Grace to be a church that is willing to do the same.

The Vision Ahead
Over the next year, you'll hear more about how God is shaping the vision for this new work in Newark. Just this week, Pastor Tim, Jen, and I attended a conference with over 6,000 church planters from around the world — men and women burdened with he same calling. We worshiped together. We prayed together. We learned how to shepherd new churches with courage and clarity in a world desperate for truth.

And as we looked around the room, our hearts burned for home. For Pataskala. For Newark. For the people we've yet to meet. For the stories we've yet to hear. For the lives we pray God will save.

How You Can Be Involved
Here's what I need you to understand. This isn't a side project. This is a ministry and movement of Pataskala Grace. And from the beginning, we want you involved. He's how you can step in:

Pray for me. Church planting is spiritual warfare. Pray for courage, wisdom, health, and endurance — for me, Jen, and our future team.

Pray about joining. Maybe God is calling you to be part of our launch team. Maybe he's asking you to take the 20-mile step for the sake of the gospel. Don't ignore that nudge.

Remember: Multiplication is not division. This can be hard for a church like ours who has endured difficult seasons, but sending people out isn't subtracting from our church. It's multiplying the mission. It's kingdom math. It's addition by subtraction, and it always yields eternal dividends.

Give financially. Launching a church takes sacrificial generosity. We've created a church plant fund, and every dollar given will go directly to the work of building a new gospel community in Newark.

We believe the gospel changes everything — and we believe Newark is worth everything we can give.

So the real question isn't why plant a church in Newark.

The real question is — how could we not?

Pause for a moment. Let the weight of these words settle in your soul:

He holds all things together.
Not some things.
Not most things.
Not just the things you can’t figure out on your own.
All things.

The same Christ who spoke galaxies into existence holds every detail of the universe in perfect harmony. He is before all things—the eternal King who reigns supreme—and He is in all things, intimately involved in sustaining every corner of His creation.

He Holds Your World Together
This means that your world, even when it feels like it’s unraveling, is not out of His control. It means that the church, even when it feels fragile, is still in His hands. He is the head, the anchor, the glue. Jesus is not panicked. He is not scrambling to hold things together. He is reigning.

In Colossians, Paul paints a picture of Jesus that takes our breath away. He isn’t just a good teacher or a distant Savior. He is the very center of everything. All creation exists for Him, revolves around Him, and is sustained by Him.

What a comfort this is! The One who governs the galaxies also governs your life. The One who holds the church together is the One who holds you together. He doesn’t just hold the big things. He holds the small things. The unseen things. The things that weigh heavy on your heart.

And He does this with power and precision. Not one moment of your life is outside His care. Not one detail of His church is beyond His reach.

He Holds us Together, Even When We Fall Apart
Jesus is not just holding you. He’s holding us. Together. The church isn’t built on programs, preferences, or the fragile hands of men—it is built on Christ, the eternal Rock, the cornerstone who will never crumble. He is the head of the body, the One who gives it life, direction, and purpose.

And here is the stunning, awe-inspiring truth: He’s holding us together, even when we fall apart.

• He’s holding us together when sin and pride grip our hearts.
• He’s holding us together when we let our ideals become idols.
• He’s holding us together when we wish the sermons had fewer references to the Cleveland Browns and The Lord of the Rings.
• He’s holding us together when we are barely holding on.

And let’s not miss this: our church hasn’t survived for nearly 52 years because of human effort or perfect planning. It has survived because Jesus has been faithfully holding us together. Every step of the way, through every challenge and every victory, He has been the One sustaining us.

His Grace is Greater
Do you see the magnitude of His grace? He doesn’t abandon us in our frailty or frustration. He doesn’t walk away when we demand more or complain about less. He holds us, not because of who we are, but because of who He is.

And here’s the freedom in all of this: knowing that Jesus is holding all things together means we can channel our inner Disney princess and let it go! The cold never bothered us anyway, and neither should our unmet expectations.

Why? Because the One who created the heavens and the earth is in control. The church is not ours to perfect—it’s His to lead.

A Church Shaped for His Glory
When we fix our eyes on Christ, we see a Savior who is infinitely patient, unshakably faithful, and relentlessly loving. The church is not a reflection of our preferences—it is a canvas for His glory. He is shaping us, even now, into something beautiful. Not for our comfort, but for His fame. Not for our preferences, but for His purposes.

This is His church, and it does not depend on our strength, our plans, or our perfection. It depends on Him.

Rest in His Grip
Let this truth wrap around your soul like a warm coat on a cold night: Jesus holds all things together—including His church, including you. And because He holds it all, we can rest, we can trust, and we can worship with awe and wonder.

Oh, how great is His faithfulness. How unsearchable are His ways. And how firm is His grip, holding us together for His glory and our everlasting good.

The Joy of Christmas
Today is Christmas Day! Let the heavens rejoice, let the earth be glad, and let every heart lift its voice in praise. This is the day when all waiting gives way to fulfillment, when promises long foretold burst into reality. This is the day of heaven’s triumphant declaration: “Behold, your King has come!”

But let us not treat this day as though it were merely a sentimental tradition or a fleeting holiday. The birth of Christ is the hinge upon which the door of redemption swings. It is the glorious dawn of salvation, the breaking of heaven’s light into earth’s darkest hour. This day marks the arrival of God’s own Son, born to bring peace to a world in rebellion and joy to hearts lost in despair.

In the fullness of time—at the precise moment when all of history had been prepared by the sovereign hand of God—Jesus came. Galatians 4:4 reminds us that God does nothing hastily or haphazardly. The timing of Christ’s birth was not random but the culmination of a plan that began before the foundation of the world. Every event, every promise, every prophecy was leading to this glorious moment.

From the Garden to the Manger
The story of Christmas is not confined to a stable in Bethlehem; its roots reach back to the garden of Eden. There, in the shadow of humanity’s first sin, God spoke a word of hope. He declared that the offspring of the woman would crush the serpent’s head (Genesis 3:15). From that moment, the light of redemption began to shine, faint at first but growing brighter with every covenant, every promise, and every prophecy.

God told Abraham, “In your offspring shall all the nations of the earth be blessed” (Genesis 22:18). He assured David that one of his descendants would sit on an eternal throne (2 Samuel 7:16). Through the prophets, He revealed that a child would be born, a son would be given, and His name would be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace (Isaiah 9:6).

But after Malachi, the voice of prophecy fell silent. For 400 years, God’s people waited, clinging to His promises in the face of Roman oppression and spiritual longing. Then, when the fullness of time had come, the silence was broken—not with the trumpet of armies but with the cry of a newborn King. In Bethlehem, the Son of God entered the world He had made.

Born of a woman, born under the law, He came to redeem those under the law. The King of glory clothed Himself in human frailty, the Creator became a creature, and the infinite took on the finite—all to save us.

From the Manger to the Empty Tomb
Yet the wonder of Christmas does not end at the manger. The baby born in Bethlehem came to fulfill a mission that would lead Him to the cross and then to the empty tomb.

Jesus came to redeem us—to buy us back from the slavery of sin and death. Born under the law, He lived in perfect obedience to the law’s demands, fulfilling every requirement we had broken. And at the appointed time, He willingly laid down His life, bearing the curse of sin and satisfying the justice of God.

The same hands that clutched Mary’s finger in the stable were pierced by nails on the cross. The one who lay in a manger would later be laid in a tomb. But death could not hold Him. On the third day, He rose again, defeating sin, death, and the devil forever.

This is the joy of Christmas: the child in the manger is the Savior who died for us and the King who rose victorious. From the manger to the empty tomb, every step of His life was for our salvation.

The Joy of Christmas
So let us celebrate today with hearts overflowing with joy. The waiting is over. The promises are fulfilled. The light of Christ has come into the world.

Christmas is not just a day to remember the past; it is a day to rejoice in the ongoing work of Christ. The child born in Bethlehem is still at work, redeeming sinners, transforming lives, and preparing a place for His people. He is the King who reigns and the Savior who will return in glory.

Sing with the angels: “Glory to God in the highest!” Kneel with the shepherds before the King. Rejoice with the wise men who brought gifts to the one who is worthy of all honor and praise. For unto us a child is born, unto us a Son is given, and His name is Jesus—our Redeemer, our King, our joy.

"I will put enmity between you and the woman, and between your offspring and her offspring; he shall bruise your head, and you shall bruise his heel." (Genesis 3:15)

The Promise in the Garden
“Rise, the woman’s conquering Seed, bruise in us the serpent’s head.” These words from Hark! The Herald Angels Sing echo the first gospel proclamation, spoken by God in Genesis 3:15. In the wake of humanity’s greatest failure, when sin had entered the world and death began its reign, God’s mercy shone through in a promise.

The serpent, though triumphant in tempting Adam and Eve, would not have the final victory. God declared that the offspring of the woman would bruise the serpent’s head, delivering a fatal blow. Yes, the serpent would strike His heel, but this momentary wound would pale in comparison to the eternal triumph of the conquering Seed.

This promise, made in the garden, was the first note of the gospel—a melody that would echo throughout Scripture, crescendoing in the birth, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

The Promise Through the Ages
God’s promise in the garden did not fade into obscurity. It grew louder and clearer as He unfolded His plan of redemption through His covenants and promises to His people.

To Abraham, God said, “In your offspring shall all the nations of the earth be blessed” (Genesis 22:18). The conquering Seed would come through Abraham’s line, bringing salvation to the whole world.

To Judah, Jacob prophesied, “The scepter shall not depart from Judah... and to him shall be the obedience of the peoples” (Genesis 49:10). The Seed would be a King, ruling with authority over all nations.

To David, God promised, “Your throne shall be established forever” (2 Samuel 7:16). The Seed would also be the Son of David, reigning eternally as the King of kings.

Through these promises, God revealed His unchanging purpose: to send a Redeemer who would crush the serpent, break the power of sin, and establish an everlasting kingdom.

The Genealogy of Jesus
Matthew’s genealogy proclaims that Jesus is the fulfillment of every promise. It is His family tree—not merely a list of names, but a testimony to God’s faithfulness across generations.

This family tree is full of kings—some who ruled with faithfulness and others who plunged the nation into idolatry. There are patriarchs like Abraham and Isaac, who walked in covenant with God, and figures like Manasseh, a king so wicked that he led Judah into abominable practices. There are ordinary people like Boaz and Ruth, whose quiet faithfulness played a vital role in God’s plan.

And there are surprising names—Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, and Bathsheba—Gentiles and women, reminders that God’s plan was always to include the outsider, the overlooked, and the sinner in His story of redemption.

This is the goodness of the promise God made in the garden: despite humanity’s sin and rebellion, despite the failures of the kings and the flaws of the people, God’s plan never faltered. Every name in Jesus’ genealogy testifies to His faithfulness. The conquering Seed came not through perfect people but through God’s perfect plan.

Crushing Satan's Head
Jesus fulfilled the promise of Genesis 3:15 at the cross. The serpent struck His heel—inflicting suffering, shame, and death. But in His death, Jesus crushed the serpent’s head. The cross was the serpent’s apparent victory, but it became his eternal defeat.

Through His resurrection, Jesus triumphed over sin, death, and the devil. As Paul writes, “He disarmed the rulers and authorities and put them to open shame, by triumphing over them in him” (Colossians 2:15). The conquering Seed did not only defeat the serpent; He began the work of making all things new.

The hymn prays, “Bruise in us the serpent’s head,” reminding us that Christ’s victory is not just something we look back on; it is something we experience now. He is at work in us, breaking the power of sin, transforming our hearts, and bringing His triumph to bear in our daily lives.

Living in Light of the Promise
How do we live in light of the promise fulfilled in Christ?
Rest in God’s faithfulness. Jesus’ family tree is a testament to God’s ability to accomplish His purposes despite human weakness and failure. Are you trusting His faithfulness in your life?

Rejoice in Christ’s victory. The serpent has been defeated, and sin no longer has ultimate power over you. Are you living in the joy and freedom of that victory?

Hope in His return. The conquering Seed will return to complete His work, to destroy the serpent fully, and to reign forever. Does this hope shape how you live today?

The Triumph of Advent
Advent is a season of waiting, but it is not idle waiting. It is a season of joyful expectation, a time to remember the promises fulfilled in Christ’s first coming and to look forward to the promises yet to come.

As we sing, “Rise, the woman’s conquering Seed, bruise in us the serpent’s head,” let us marvel at the faithfulness of God, rejoice in the victory of Christ, and live in hope of His glorious return. The serpent is crushed, the promise is fulfilled, and the King is coming.

Throughout this Advent season, Pastor Josh is writing devotionals as a companion piece to Pastor Tim's sermons. This devotional was inspired by Sunday's sermon, "Conquering Seed." You can find all sermons in this series by clicking here.

"But for you who fear my name, the sun of righteousness shall rise with healing in its wings. You shall go out leaping like calves from the stall." (Malachi 4:2)

The One Who Will Return as King
“Born to raise the sons of earth, born to give them second birth.”
These words from Hark! The Herald Angels Sing are not mere poetry—they are rich with theological truth and filled with hope. Christmas is not just a celebration of the past; it’s an anticipation of the future. The baby born in Bethlehem is also the King who will come again to reign.

Malachi 4 paints a vivid picture of this future. In verse 1, we are confronted with a day of reckoning: “For behold, the day is coming, burning like an oven, when all the arrogant and all evildoers will be stubble.” This is a sobering reminder that God’s justice will not be delayed forever. But then, in verse 2, we are given a glorious promise: “But for you who fear my name, the sun of righteousness shall rise with healing in its wings.”

These verses are both a warning and a comfort. They remind us of the seriousness of sin and the certainty of God’s judgment, but they also fill us with hope. For those who trust in Christ, the coming of the King will not be a day of dread but a day of joy.

The Humility of His First Coming
Think about how this King first came. The Sun of Righteousness—the eternal Son of God—entered the world not in power but in humility. He was born in a stable, laid in a manger, and raised in obscurity. The One who holds all things together (Colossians 1:17) took on the fragility of human flesh.

Why? Because His mission was not to conquer nations but to save sinners. His first coming was marked by humility because He came to lay down His life for us. He came not to bring judgment but to bear it, to take the punishment we deserved so that we might receive the healing described in Malachi 4:2.

This healing is not simply physical; it is spiritual, deep, and eternal. It is the healing of broken souls, the restoration of shattered relationships, and the redemption of lives that were once lost. The child in the manger came to bring light to our darkness, hope to our despair, and life to our death.

The Promise of His Return
But Christmas is not only about looking back; it is about looking forward. The Sun of Righteousness has risen, but the fullness of His light is still to come. Malachi 4:2 continues, “You shall go out leaping like calves from the stall.” What a vivid image! It’s a picture of uncontainable joy, of freedom, of life as it was meant to be.

Jesus’ first coming was like the dawn—the first light breaking into the darkness. His second coming will be like the full sunrise, driving away every shadow and flooding the world with His glory. On that day, the healing He began will be complete. Sin will be no more. Death will be swallowed up in victory. Every tear will be wiped away (Revelation 21:4).

For those who fear His name, His return will be the culmination of all our hopes. But for those who reject Him, it will be a day of judgment. Malachi 4:1 warns that the arrogant and evildoers will face God’s justice, and they will not stand.

This dual reality of judgment and joy should sober us and comfort us. It reminds us that sin is serious, but it also assures us that for those who are in Christ, there is no condemnation (Romans 8:1).

Living in Light of His Coming
How, then, should we live between these two advents—between the humility of His first coming and the glory of His second?

We live in gratitude. The Sun of Righteousness has already risen, and His light has reached us. Jesus has brought us forgiveness, healing, and hope. Do our lives reflect the gratitude of hearts transformed by His grace?

We live in anticipation. The world is still broken, but it will not always be this way. Jesus is coming back, and He will set all things right. Are we living with that hope, or are we consumed by the temporary concerns of this world?

We live in preparation. Advent is a season of waiting, but it is not idle waiting. It is active, joyful preparation. We prepare for His coming by living holy lives, proclaiming the gospel, and worshiping the King who will come again.

A Question for Reflection
Malachi 4:2 describes a joy so profound that we will leap like calves freed from the stall. Is that the kind of joy you know? Is your heart filled with the hope of Christ’s return, or are you weighed down by the worries of this life?

The invitation of Advent is to lift our eyes, to remember that the King has come and that He will come again. The Sun of Righteousness will rise, and His light will shine forever. Let this truth fill you with gratitude, hope, and joy.

Throughout this Advent season, Pastor Josh is writing devotionals as a companion piece to Pastor Tim's sermons. This devotional was inspired by last Sunday's sermon, "Sun of Righteousness." You can find all sermons in this series at this link.