ROOTED IN CHRIST: FINDING STRENGTH IN HIS PRESENCE

Life takes us through many seasons—some gentle and bright, others heavy with storm and shadow (Ecclesiastes 3:1–2; Psalm 23:4). Yet through them all, the strength of a believer never comes from the calmness of the weather, but from the depth of our roots in Jesus Christ (John 15:4–5; Colossians 2:6–7). Those who trust in the Lord are like trees planted by the waters, steadfast when others wither, fruitful when others faint (Psalm 1:3; Jeremiah 17:7–8).

A tree bends but does not break when its roots are deep. Faith is much the same. The winds of trial will come, but every storm drives us deeper into His grace (2 Corinthians 4:8–9; James 1:2–4). When we lean into Christ, His strength becomes our own. His presence steadies what fear would shake (Psalm 46:1–2; Isaiah 40:31).

Our lives are not random. God is shaping us with love in every detail (Romans 8:28; Philippians 1:6). The rough edges are being smoothed by mercy. The broken places are being healed by His hand. He is not trying to undo us—He is forming Christ within us (Romans 8:29; 2 Corinthians 3:18). Even when we cannot understand His ways, we can trust His heart (Proverbs 3:5–6).

To walk in righteousness is to walk in step with Jesus, the Light of the world (John 8:12). The closer we walk with Him, the less the darkness can hold us. His Word becomes our lamp, His Spirit our guide, and His peace our path.

Christ, the Sun of Righteousness, rises upon His people with healing in His wings (Malachi 4:2). In His presence there is peace that cannot be shaken and joy that cannot be stolen. Apart from Him, we can do nothing—but in Him, even weakness becomes strength (John 15:5; 2 Corinthians 12:9–10).

To walk with Jesus is to live with purpose (Ephesians 2:10). Like clay in the Potter’s hand, we are being shaped by His will. Each day He gives grace for what is before us, strength for the next step, and love that will not let go.

So rest beneath His branches. Let His life fill yours. Let His Word quiet your worries. The more we abide in Him, the more heaven’s rhythm fills our hearts. May our lives bear fruit that points to Jesus, for He alone deserves the glory—now and forever.

Lord Jesus, let my roots sink deep into You. When the winds of life blow, keep me steady in Your grace. Teach me to draw strength from Your presence and to rest beneath the shadow of Your wings.

Help me to trust Your hand when I cannot trace Your plan. Shape my heart until it reflects Yours. Let my words bear fruit, my thoughts bring You glory, and my life become a quiet testimony of Your love.

Be my peace in every storm, my strength in every weakness, and my song in every season. I rest in You, Lord—my Rock, my Redeemer, and my unfailing hope. Amen.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

THE HEART OF TRUE WORSHIP

In the quiet places of the soul, there is a longing that nothing on earth can quiet. It is the call of eternity echoing within us, the voice of God drawing us to Himself. Worship begins there—not in a building, not in a song, but in the heart that answers His call. “O come, let us worship and bow down: let us kneel before the Lord our Maker” (Psalm 95:6).

To worship is to come thirsty and to drink deeply from Christ, the fountain of living water (John 7:37). It is not ceremony that satisfies us, but communion. It is not noise or movement, but His nearness. When the heart truly meets Jesus, joy flows where dryness once was. “In Your presence is fullness of joy” (Psalm 16:11).

Worship is not measured by what can be seen, but by what has been surrendered. God looks upon the heart, not the outward show (1 Samuel 16:7). A song without surrender is sound without spirit. But a yielded heart—even in silence—becomes a song that reaches heaven. “Draw near to God, and He will draw near to you” (James 4:8).

True worship lifts our eyes away from ourselves and fixes them upon the Savior. It is not about our feelings or our worthiness. It is about Jesus alone. “He must increase, but I must decrease” (John 3:30). In His presence, the proud heart bows low, and the restless heart finds peace. “Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10).

Worship is not just a moment. It is a way of living. Jesus said, “Abide in Me, and I in you” (John 15:4). To worship is to abide—to make Him the dwelling place of every thought, every step, every breath. “He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty” (Psalm 91:1). When love for Christ fills the soul, life itself becomes worship.

Let every act of service, every prayer, every breath rise like incense before His throne. Let all we do be done with love and gladness, not for reward, but for His glory. True worship is both upward and outward—upward in adoration, outward in kindness.

May our hearts be places where Jesus finds welcome, where His love transforms, where His presence is the sweetest treasure.

Lord Jesus, teach my heart the beauty of true worship. Let me seek You not for what You give, but for who You are. Quiet every lesser sound within me until only Your voice remains. Draw me near to drink deeply of Your presence, and fill every empty place with Your peace.

Dwell within me, Lord, and let my worship never end. May all I am bring honor to Your name, for You alone are worthy. Amen.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

CHRIST BEHIND THE VEIL

When the High Priest of Israel stepped behind the veil, all of heaven seemed to hold its breath. Once a year, on the Day of Atonement, he entered that most sacred place, carrying the blood of a spotless sacrifice. It was a fearful and holy act. He came trembling, not in pride but in obedience, for within that veil dwelt the glory of God. The people waited in silence, knowing their hope rested on that priest’s acceptance before the Lord.

All of it was a shadow of something greater. Every drop of blood that stained the mercy seat in the tabernacle pointed to a day when the true High Priest would come. Hebrews 9:11 says that Christ came as High Priest of the good things to come. He did not enter an earthly tabernacle built with hands, but a heavenly one. The veil in Jerusalem was only a picture of the real veil, that barrier between a holy God and sinful man.

When Jesus died, that veil was torn from top to bottom (Matthew 27:51). The hands of man could not have done it. God Himself was declaring that the way into His presence was now open. Yet though the veil was torn on earth, the great work continued in heaven. The cross was the altar, but heaven was the sanctuary. Christ had to enter in, not with the blood of goats or calves, but with His own blood, having obtained eternal redemption (Hebrews 9:12).

The moment came when the risen Christ ascended to the Father. It was not a public scene. No earthly eye witnessed that holy meeting. Mary saw Him in the garden and would have clung to Him, but He said, “Do not hold Me, for I have not yet ascended to My Father” (John 20:17). There was still something He must do. The sacrifice was finished, but the presentation was yet to be made.

In that sacred moment, beyond the sight of men or angels, the Son stood before the Father. The marks of the nails were upon His hands. The thorns had pierced His brow. The wounds spoke more than words could ever say. He stood there as the Lamb once slain, alive forevermore. The glory that filled the temple of old now shone in fullness around Him. The Father beheld the face of His beloved Son and saw the beauty of holiness fulfilled.

Hebrews 9:24 tells us that Christ did not enter a holy place made with hands, but into heaven itself, to appear in the presence of God for us. Those two words, “for us,” hold the weight of eternity. He stood there not for Himself, but for His people. Every sinner who would ever believe in His name was represented in that presentation. The justice of God, satisfied at Calvary, was now displayed before the throne. The mercy of God, opened to all, was sealed forever in the presence of His Son.

In that holy meeting, the remission of sins was declared complete. The blood that was shed on the cross now spoke in heaven’s court. Hebrews 12:24 says that the blood of Jesus speaks better things than that of Abel. Abel’s blood cried for vengeance, but the blood of Christ cries for mercy. It does not accuse. It pleads. It satisfies. It cleanses. The Father beheld that blood and was pleased. Sin’s debt was paid in full.

No High Priest of Israel ever stayed behind the veil. He went in quickly, made atonement, and came out again. But Jesus sat down at the right hand of the Majesty on high (Hebrews 1:3). He sat because the work was finished. The priests of old never sat down. Their work was never done. But Christ’s offering was once for all. There is nothing more to add, nothing more to bring.

When we read of the veil and the High Priest, we must see the gospel hidden in those shadows. The incense that rose like a cloud was a picture of Christ’s intercession. The mercy seat sprinkled with blood was a picture of the throne of grace. The priest’s garments, white and pure, were a picture of the righteousness of Christ. And when that priest emerged from the Most Holy Place, the people rejoiced, for it meant that God had accepted the sacrifice.

So it was when Jesus rose from the dead. It was the Father’s declaration to all creation that the offering was accepted. Romans 4:25 says that He was delivered up because of our offenses and raised because of our justification. The resurrection was heaven’s answer to the cross. It was the echo of the Father’s approval, the sound of mercy triumphant.

Now the veil is gone. The way into the holiest place stands open. Every believer, washed in His blood, may draw near. We come not with trembling, but with thanksgiving. We come not with the blood of another, but by the blood of the Lamb. Hebrews 10:19 says that we have boldness to enter the Holiest by the blood of Jesus. What once belonged only to the High Priest belongs now to every child of God.

Think of what that means. The glory that once consumed the temple now dwells within the hearts of believers. The presence that the priest approached with fear now abides with comfort. We are no longer shut out. We are brought in. The veil of separation has become the door of communion.

And yet, even now, Jesus continues His priestly work. He ever lives to make intercession for us (Hebrews 7:25). The same hands that offered His blood still uphold His people. The same voice that spoke peace on earth now speaks our names in heaven. He is not only the Priest who offered the sacrifice, He is the sacrifice itself. He is both the Offerer and the Offering, both the Mercy Seat and the Mediator.

The Old Testament priest went in with blood that was not his own. But Jesus entered with His own life poured out. He did not bring a lamb. He was the Lamb. He did not sprinkle blood upon a golden ark. He presented His own wounds before the throne of God. There, in that eternal temple, He met the Father face to face and offered the finished work of redemption.

That moment was the turning point of all creation. Sin was forever removed from the record of the redeemed. The law’s demand was met, the curse broken, the wrath satisfied, the door opened. Heaven rejoiced. The angels who had guarded Eden’s gate now watched that gate swing wide for all who believe.

And now, every time a sinner comes to Christ in faith, the blood still speaks. The mercy shown that day still flows. The grace that opened heaven’s door still calls out, “Come.”

Behind the veil the Savior stood, and when He did, He changed eternity. The shadow met the substance. The copy gave way to the true. The High Priest of old went in trembling, but our Great High Priest went in triumphant. And because He entered in, we may now enter too.

The way is open. The price is paid. The blood still speaks. And the Father still receives all who come through the Son.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

THE GOSPEL IN EL SEGUNDO

El Segundo. Even the name sounds like sunshine and palm trees. It’s a small city tucked right beside Los Angeles. It is the home of the headquarters and practice facility of the NBA’s Lakers, my favorite team in the world. I catch a lot of “heat” for that, especially living around Hawks fans. But I’ve been a Laker fan too long to change now. There’s something about that purple and gold that runs deep. When I have watched them play through the years—from the days of Magic and Kareem until the late, great Kobe Bryant—I think about excellence, teamwork, and legacy. The very qualities the Lord builds into those who walk with Him. The Christian life is not a solo act. It is a body moving in unity toward a shared victory (1 Corinthians 12:12).

The first time I ever heard the name El Segundo wasn’t from a map, but from Sanford and Son. Fred Sanford would throw that name around like it was just some made-up place out west. For years I thought it was only part of his act, one of those funny California names he’d toss in for flavor. I was well into my twenties before I realized it was a real city sitting right there in Los Angeles County. That taught me something: sometimes the things we laugh at, the things we assume are fiction, turn out to be real after all. In the same way, the gospel once sounded like a nice story to many—too good to be true. But then one day they realized it was true. The Lord Jesus had really come. He had really died for sinners. He had really risen again (1 Corinthians 15:3–4).

El Segundo doesn’t get the attention Los Angeles gets. Nobody’s writing songs about it. (Although in one episode, Fred did write a song called “I Left My Heart in El Segundo.” He was obsessed with the place). People aren’t generally flying in from across the world to see it. Yet it sits right there in the shadow of a giant city—steady, quiet, and full of life.

That’s how Bethany was in the days of Jesus. Jerusalem got all the attention. The temple stood tall and the crowds filled the streets. But Bethany—that small town just two miles away—was where the Lord found rest. It was there He was anointed for burial (Mark 14:3–9). It was there He raised Lazarus from the grave (John 11:43–44). It was there He spent His last nights before the cross (Matthew 21:17). The world looked at Jerusalem, but Jesus looked toward Bethany.

It’s amazing how often God hides His greatest treasures in small places. The Savior of the world was born in Bethlehem, not Rome, not Athens, not Jerusalem (Micah 5:2). He chose fishermen instead of scholars, shepherds instead of priests, a manger instead of a palace. The world keeps looking for greatness in noise and numbers, but the Lord works quietly in hearts that are humble and willing. “God resists the proud but gives grace to the humble” (James 4:6).

Maybe you “feel like El Segundo.” Overshadowed by something larger, living in the shadow of someone else’s success. Maybe you’ve wondered if your little life matters. Remember Bethany. Remember the widow’s two mites (Mark 12:41–44). Remember that the Lord still measures worth not by size but by surrender. A cup of cold water given in His name carries eternal weight (Matthew 10:42).

While the world chases headlines, Jesus still walks the side streets. He still stops in quiet towns. He still visits ordinary people with extraordinary love. And when He comes, He leaves behind more than attention. He leaves transformation. So live faithfully where you are. Shine right there in your “El Segundo.” The Lord knows your address. He knows your name. He lives in your heart. And in His eyes, no place is too small for glory to bloom.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

REALIZED ESCHATOLOGY? NO, NOT COMPLETELY

From the first breath of Genesis to the last word of Revelation, Scripture sings of a story both fulfilled and unfolding—the triumph of Christ already begun, yet not yet complete. The cross was not the conclusion of God’s plan, but its turning point. The kingdom has come, but it has not yet reached its full harvest. The promises are planted. The fruit is still ripening. Redemption’s work has entered history, yet history itself still waits for the final restoration. The fire of judgment has already fallen upon Jerusalem, just as Jesus foretold, but the story of His glory is not confined to the first century. “Of the increase of His government and of peace there will be no end” (Isaiah 9:7). The gospel invites us to live in the tension of the “already” and the “not yet.” To rejoice in what God has finished and to yearn for what He has promised still to do.

The Lord did come in judgment upon that generation. Every word He spoke concerning the temple and the city came to pass. “This generation will not pass away until all these things are fulfilled” (Matthew 24:34). The smoke of Jerusalem’s fall bore witness that His words were true. The old covenant age was brought to its close, and the new creation dawned in the risen Christ. But though that day fulfilled prophecy, it did not exhaust hope. It proved that His word cannot fail, and therefore it assures us of the greater return still to come. The same Jesus who came in judgment upon Israel will come again in glory for His church. “This same Jesus, who was taken up from you into heaven, will come in the same way you saw Him go” (Acts 1:11).

The resurrection of Christ was the down payment of what is yet to be revealed. “Christ has been raised from the dead, the firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep” (1 Corinthians 15:20). His rising was not the end of the story, but the beginning of the harvest. Our own resurrection still lies ahead. The new life we taste now in the Spirit is the first breeze of an everlasting spring. “He will transform our lowly body to be like His glorious body” (Philippians 3:21). Death has been defeated, but it has not yet been destroyed. The grave has lost its claim, but not yet its presence. “The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death” (1 Corinthians 15:26). The believer stands between two resurrections—one already accomplished in the heart and one yet to come in the body (John 5:25, 28).

The judgment of A.D. 70 was a shadow of the greater judgment yet to come. The fall of Jerusalem was a trumpet of warning to the nations. But the Bible still points beyond it to the final day when “we must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ” (2 Corinthians 5:10). Jesus said, “The Son of Man will come in His glory, and all the nations will be gathered before Him” (Matthew 25:31–32). The Judge stands at the door even now (James 5:9). He delays in mercy, calling the nations to repentance before that great and terrible day. What fell upon one city will one day confront the whole earth, and the only safe refuge will be found in Him who bore our judgment on the cross.

The early church lived with this balanced hope. They saw prophecy fulfilled in their own generation, yet their hearts burned for what was still to come. They knew the kingdom had arrived in power, yet they prayed, “Thy kingdom come.” They rejoiced in the Spirit’s presence, yet they cried, “Come, Lord Jesus.” Their hope was not nostalgia for a past visitation but longing for the final revelation. “The creation itself waits with eager expectation for the revealing of the sons of God” (Romans 8:19). The already fulfilled promises are not the end of expectation but the foundation of it.

If we forget that, we lose the sweetness of hope. “We look for the blessed hope and the glorious appearing of our great God and Savior Jesus Christ” (Titus 2:13). Hope is the anchor that keeps us steady between fulfillment and fulfillment (Hebrews 6:19). The kingdom has come, yet it is still coming. The reign of Christ is real, yet the world still groans. The new creation has begun, yet the old one has not yet vanished away. The Christian life lives in this holy tension, where gratitude and anticipation meet.

So let us hold both truths with faith and love. Christ has come, and Christ will come again. The covenant promises have been fulfilled, and they are still unfolding. The same hands that once bore our sins will one day wipe away our tears (Revelation 21:4). The same voice that said, “It is finished,” will yet declare, “Behold, I make all things new” (Revelation 21:5). Until that hour, we stand between two dawns—grateful for the light that has already risen, and longing for the day when the Sun of Righteousness shall rise with healing in His wings (Malachi 4:2).

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

REST IN CHRIST

To rest in Christ is one of the most comforting truths in all of Scripture. It is not discussed often, yet it should be. It is the heart of the gospel. To know that Christ has already done all that must be done to set us right with God, and that we may now rest, is almost too wonderful for words. It silences human pride and brings peace to the weary soul. The gospel tells us that the work is finished. What remains is to trust and rest.

The Bible teaches that rest is the inheritance of those who belong to Jesus. It is not something to be argued or analyzed. It is to be received and enjoyed. Begin at once. Begin resting in Jesus. When ancient Israel entered Canaan, that land was their inheritance, their rest (Deuteronomy 3:18–20; 12:9–11). The writer of Hebrews uses that picture to describe the believer’s rest in Christ. “If Joshua had given them rest, God would not have spoken later of another day. So there remains a rest for the people of God. For anyone who enters God’s rest also rests from their works, just as God did from His” (Hebrews 4:8–10). This is not merely about the future. It is something believers can know now.

The theme of inheritance runs throughout the book of Hebrews (Hebrews 1:14; 6:12; 9:15). The land of promise in the Old Testament is a shadow of the spiritual rest found in Christ. It was never meant to picture heaven directly, but the believer’s present fellowship with Jesus. Heaven will indeed be a place of rest, but the writer of Hebrews is pointing us to something we can already enjoy—rest in our Redeemer. This rest is not only a destination but a condition of the heart that trusts in the finished work of the Savior.

Rest follows work. After God completed creation, He rested (Genesis 2:1–3; Hebrews 4:3–4). Under the Law of Moses, the Sabbath was a command to rest after labor, a pattern of something deeper that would one day be fulfilled in Christ. Just as God’s work was finished, so Christ’s redemptive work has been finished. When He died upon the cross, He cried, “It is finished” (John 19:30). Then He sat down at the right hand of God (Hebrews 10:12). The sitting down speaks of a work completed, a victory secured, a rest obtained. Because Christ has finished the work, those who are in Him now rest.

To rest in Christ is to believe that His accomplishments are enough. “To the one who does not work but believes in Him who justifies the ungodly, his faith is accounted for righteousness” (Romans 4:5). Faith lays down its labor and rests in the merit of another. It no longer strives to earn what has already been freely given. Rest begins where self-effort ends. It begins at the cross.

If you are in Christ, rest. Those who believe in Him are to see themselves as having finished their work. They rest in His fullness. “You are complete in Him” (Colossians 2:10). The rest that Joshua and Caleb entered was a picture of what believers now experience in Christ. The Israelites who refused to believe perished in the wilderness. The same truth holds today. Those who trust in Christ enter rest. Those who rely on themselves remain restless and burdened. “Come to Me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28).

Your inheritance from God is rest in Christ. When the writer of Hebrews says that a rest remains for the people of God (Hebrews 4:9), he means that in Christ we have been fully accepted. Jesus is our righteousness, sanctification, and redemption (1 Corinthians 1:30). Salvation begins and ends with faith (Romans 1:17). He is the author and finisher of our faith (Hebrews 12:2). Because His work is finished, we can rest.

When you realize that Christ has accomplished everything for you, then peace fills the heart. “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places in Christ” (Ephesians 1:3). Times of refreshing from the presence of the Lord bring rest to the soul (Acts 3:19). The old life of striving fades away. The new life in Christ begins. “If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation” (2 Corinthians 5:17).

After this life is over, we will enter a rest that never ends. The heavenly rest is the final portion of those who have rested in Christ now. He gives us a taste of it even here on earth. We are seated with Him in heavenly places (Ephesians 2:6). Our inheritance is already secured. Christ is the captain of our salvation (Hebrews 2:10) and our forerunner into heaven (Hebrews 6:20). We are as certain of heaven as if we were already there. That is why we rest.

To rest is to trust. After God finished His work of creation, He rested. After Jesus finished His work of redemption, He rested. When we rest in Him, we share in His peace. We rest from working for salvation. We rest from the opinions of others. We rest from the burden of guilt and fear. We live in continual dependence on the One who loves us.

Yet resting in Christ never means idleness. It means that while we no longer labor for salvation, we now labor from it. The one who rests in Christ’s finished work becomes the most willing worker for His cause. Paul said, “By the grace of God I am what I am, and His grace toward me was not in vain. I labored more abundantly than they all, yet not I, but the grace of God which was with me” (1 Corinthians 15:10). The believer’s service flows from gratitude, not guilt. We serve because the work of salvation is done. We love because we are loved. We labor because we have found rest in the One who said, “My yoke is easy and My burden is light” (Matthew 11:30).

Those who disbelieved in the wilderness died without entering their rest. The same is true for those who reject Christ. They remain in the wilderness of unbelief. Do not fall short. Do not delay. Enter into the life of grace and rest that Jesus offers. Give your heart to Him. Trust fully in what He has done for you. Rest in Christ.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

CHRIST OUR REDEEMER AND “ORIGINAL SIN”

The story of mankind begins not in guilt, but in glory. In the beginning, God created man upright and good, made in His own image, capable of fellowship and obedience (Genesis 1:27, Ecclesiastes 7:29). Yet man chose the path of disobedience, reaching for the forbidden and losing the innocence that clothed his soul. Through that first act, sin entered the world, and death followed as its shadow (Romans 5:12). But does this mean that every child born thereafter carries the guilt of Adam’s sin? Some say yes. The doctrine of “Original Sin” permeates the landscape of evangelicalism and much of the even broader community of “Christendom.”

But the prophets spoke otherwise. Ezekiel, the watchman of Israel, declared by the Spirit, “The soul who sins shall die. The son shall not bear the guilt of the father, nor the father the guilt of the son” (Ezekiel 18:20). Each soul stands before God in personal accountability. Jeremiah echoed this truth when he foretold a new covenant where “everyone shall die for his own iniquity” (Jeremiah 31:30). The Lord is just. He does not condemn the innocent for the sins of their ancestors.

Children are born with hearts yet unformed in moral understanding. Moses said of them, “Your little ones…have no knowledge of good or evil” (Deuteronomy 1:39). Sin is not the air we breathe by birth, but the choice we make when the will turns against God. “All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:23)—not because of Adam’s hand, but because of our own. The fault is personal, and so is the grace.

For if guilt were inherited without choice, then obedience would be impossible. But the Lord, in His mercy, calls us to repentance (Joel 2:12). His commands presume our freedom to obey. He still stands at the door and knocks (Revelation 3:20), inviting every heart to turn and live. “Why will you die, O house of Israel?” He pleads through the prophet. “For I have no pleasure in the death of one who dies…therefore turn and live” (Ezekiel 18:31–32).

Yet even in our freedom, we all have fallen. Each heart has chosen its own way, each soul has wandered from its Shepherd (Isaiah 53:6). And in that wilderness of sin, mercy found us. From the Garden where man fell to the Cross where Christ bled, God’s answer has always been redemption. “As in Adam all die, even so in Christ all shall be made alive” (1 Corinthians 15:22).

Christ did not come to condemn humanity for Adam’s disobedience, but to redeem humanity from its own. He is the second Adam, the beginning of a new creation (2 Corinthians 5:17). In Him, the curse is broken, and the way back to the Father stands open. Through His blood, the heart once darkened is washed clean, and the sinner becomes a son or daughter of light (Colossians 1:13–14).

Every person stands before God with the same invitation and the same hope. “Whoever calls upon the name of the Lord shall be saved” (Romans 10:13). No inherited stain can withstand the cleansing power of that name. No ancestral shadow can remain where the light of Christ shines. The grace that flows from Calvary reaches deeper than any doctrine of inherited sin, for it touches the will, renews the heart, and transforms the very nature of man.

In Christ, we are not bound by Adam’s fall. We are freed by the Savior’s rise. His resurrection is the dawn of new creation (Revelation 1:18). He opens the prison of guilt and clothes the redeemed in garments of righteousness (Isaiah 61:10). Where sin abounded, grace abounds much more (Romans 5:20).

The message of the Gospel is not that man is hopelessly born to sin, but that he is wonderfully called to holiness. The Spirit convicts, not to condemn, but to cleanse. The voice that thundered at Sinai now whispers through grace: “Be holy, for I am holy” (1 Peter 1:16). Redemption does not merely erase guilt—it restores godliness. Christ does not only forgive—He transforms. He takes the rebel and makes him a disciple, the sinner and makes her a saint.

When a soul turns to Christ, a wonderful transformation begins. The old heart of stone becomes a heart of flesh (Ezekiel 36:26). The Spirit breathes where death once ruled, and new life begins to grow. Grace does not overlook sin—it overcomes it. The cross is not a license to remain fallen, but the power to rise again. “Sin shall not have dominion over you, for you are not under law but under grace” (Romans 6:14).

Let the proud heart bow before this mercy. Let the weary sinner cease from striving to fix what only Christ can redeem. There is no inherited guilt so heavy that His grace cannot lift it, no personal sin so deep that His blood cannot cleanse it. The Lamb who takes away the sin of the world (John 1:29) still calls to every soul: “Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28).

Therefore, let every heart come to Christ not as one condemned by Adam, but as one invited by grace. Let us stand, forgiven and free, in the righteousness of the One who died and rose again. The first Adam brought death to many, but the second Adam brings life eternal to all who believe. “By one Man’s obedience many will be made righteous” (Romans 5:19). The story ends not with the fall, but with redemption. Not with guilt, but with glory. Not with Adam’s failure, but with Christ’s victory.

“Theologically” speaking, we may never fully understand how sin has infected humanity. Its roots run deep, but they do not run through the veins. Sin is not a disease transferred by blood or DNA. It is not something we inherit from our earthly parents, but something born from our own choices and desires. “Each one is tempted when he is drawn away by his own lust and enticed. And when desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin” (James 1:14–15). The corruption of the human soul cannot be explained by biology. It is the result of rebellion in the heart.

I may not be able to answer every question about sin’s mystery, but I know what Scripture does not teach—that babies are born evil. Children are not evil. They are innocent in the eyes of God. When Jesus said, “Let the little children come to Me, and do not forbid them, for of such is the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 19:14), He revealed something profound about the heart of God and the purity of childhood.

The Lord did not see children as sinners to be condemned but as examples of the trust and humility needed to enter His kingdom. Their hearts are tender, their faith simple, their spirits untainted by the pride and rebellion that mark mature sin. “Unless you are converted and become as little children,” Jesus said, “you will by no means enter the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 18:3).

This shows that innocence is not sinfulness. It is the picture of the heart God desires in all His children. A child does not yet know the weight of moral guilt, nor does the Bible teach that infants are born under wrath. In their unguarded purity, children reflect the beauty of God’s original design—untainted, trusting, and precious in His sight.

Sin entered the world through Adam, but it enters the heart when we walk in Adam’s steps. The good news is that we are not bound to that path. “As in Adam all die, even so in Christ all shall be made alive” (1 Corinthians 15:22). The problem that no human hand can cure finds its healing in the pierced hands of the Savior. Christ is not merely our example—He is our redemption. In Him, the story of sin meets its end, and the story of grace begins.

Lord Jesus, You are my Redeemer and my righteousness. I was lost by my own choice, but You found me by Your mercy. Wash me clean from every sin I have chosen, and teach me to walk in Your light. Keep me from blaming others for what belongs to my own heart. Give me the courage to repent, the strength to obey, and the faith to believe that Your cross is enough. May Your grace restore what sin has broken, and may Your Spirit make me new each day. In Your precious name, Amen.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

RECONCILED TO GOD

There is no word sweeter to the soul than reconciled. It speaks of a broken friendship mended, of a guilty sinner brought home, of a heart once at war now at peace. When Paul writes of our salvation, he does not begin with what man must do, but with what Christ has done. “Therefore being justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ” (Romans 5:1).

Man could never climb to God. Two barriers stand in the way. The first is that sin has made us powerless. We are dead in trespasses and sins (Ephesians 2:1). The second is that there is no need for man to “climb” at all—for Christ has already descended to us. He has done what we could never do. He has reconciled us to God by His own death. “While we were enemies, we were reconciled to God through the death of His Son. Much more, having been reconciled, we shall be saved by His life” (Romans 5:10).

This work was not done within us, but outside of us, upon a hill, beneath a darkened sky, when the Son of God died upon a cross. There the distance was closed, the wrath was satisfied, and peace was made. Before you ever heard the name of Jesus, before you ever lifted a prayer, before faith ever stirred in your heart, He had already finished the work. That is why Paul could say, “You trusted in Christ after you heard the word of truth, the good news of your salvation. Having believed, you were sealed with the Holy Spirit of promise” (Ephesians 1:13). You were included in Him when you believed. Included in what? In His victory. In His death and resurrection. In what He already accomplished.

The gospel is not good advice about how to be saved. It is good news that salvation has been accomplished. “We declare to you glad tidings,” Paul said, “that the promise which was made to our fathers, God has fulfilled” (Acts 13:32). The gospel does not merely offer possibility. It proclaims reality. It does not whisper, “try harder.” It shouts, “it is finished.” At the cross, Christ reconciled us to God. At the empty tomb, He brought life and immortality to light. The gospel is not just a call to make peace with God. It is the announcement that peace has already been made through the blood of His cross (Colossians 1:20) and that is what we must decide to believe.

Have you ever heard it that way? Has it struck you that salvation is not a process you begin, but a work Christ has already completed? Whoever believes in Him is made right in the sight of God—something the law of Moses could never do (Acts 13:38–39). The good news does not tell you to save yourself. It tells you to believe that you have been saved by another. You were not standing beside Christ on the cross. You offered no strength, no wisdom, no worth. He bore the nails alone. He entered the judgment alone. He made peace alone. Yet all that He did there, He did for you.

And now, what remains is faith. “The gospel is the power of God unto salvation to everyone who believes” (Romans 1:16). Faith does not create the truth, it receives it. It does not earn reconciliation, it embraces it. Faith looks at the cross and says, “That is for me.” It looks at the empty tomb and says, “He lives, and because He lives, I shall live also.” Faith stretches its hand toward the finished work of Christ and finds that grace has already reached out first.

This is the heart of it all: “We were reconciled to God through the death of His Son.” That is not poetry. That is fact. The war is over for those who believe. The wall that sin built has been torn down. The heart that once trembled under wrath now rests in peace. This is not the achievement of the saint, it is the gift of the Savior.

You can have that peace. You can know that reconciliation. It is but one step of faith away. Turn to Him who already turned toward you. Lay down your striving, your guilt, your delay. Christ has already done what you could never do. Hear His voice saying, “It is finished.” Come home, for you have been reconciled to God.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

MARRIAGE, DIVORCE AND REMARRIAGE (4): What is a Marriage?

The great confusion about divorce and remarriage often springs from this: most believers do not even understand what marriage is. How can a person speak with authority on what ends a marriage if he cannot say what begins one? Ask the leading voices of modern Christianity to show from the Bible the moment a man and woman become husband and wife, and watch how quickly they shift from Scripture to tradition. You will hear eloquent opinions, but not divine definition. They cannot tell you what a marriage is because they have quietly rejected what the Word says. It does not fit the systems they have built. It shakes their tidy theology. It undermines their authority. So they teach around it. But the Bible is clear, and it must speak louder than our ceremonies and customs.

If we are to let the Bible define marriage, we must return to its first mention in Genesis. The modern church has allowed culture to draw the lines, and once the culture defines marriage, every doctrine about divorce collapses. “The Lord God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam, and while he slept, He took one of his ribs and made it into a woman, and brought her to the man. And Adam said, ‘This one is now bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh; she shall be called woman, for she was taken out of man.’ Therefore a man shall leave his father and mother, be joined to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh” (Genesis 2:21–24). There is the Bible’s definition. Not ceremony. Not legal status. Not a social agreement. It is covenantal union—“the two shall become one flesh.”

That phrase—one flesh—is the essence of biblical marriage. It is covenant, expressed through union. It is not a temporary joining, not a casual act of passion, but the giving of two entire selves before God. When Adam received Eve, there was no priest, no paperwork, no vows written in ink—only covenant sealed in body and soul. The act of union did not create the covenant, but it sealed it. It was the visible expression of a spiritual truth. The covenant sanctifies the union. The union displays the covenant.

This is what Paul reaffirmed centuries later. “For this reason,” he wrote, “a man will leave his father and mother, and be united to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh” (Ephesians 5:31). The Spirit of God did not change the definition. Marriage has always been the covenantal union of two becoming one under God’s authority. Ceremonies can honor it, governments can recognize it, but only covenant makes it real. When the church allows culture to define what God designed, truth becomes tangled in tradition.

Marriage in the sight of heaven is a holy covenant, not a civil agreement. It is not the preacher who makes a man and woman one, nor the witnesses who confirm it—it is God Himself. “What God has joined together, let no man separate.” (Matthew 19:6). The physical union does not create the marriage apart from covenant, but within covenant it is the expression of that joining. When Isaac took Rebekah into his mother’s tent, the record says, “She became his wife, and he loved her” (Genesis 24:67). She became his wife “in the tent.“ What are we to make of that? No mention of ceremony, no public vow, just covenantal union under divine providence.

The Bible itself proves the point: covenant and becoming one flesh—not ceremony—makes marriage.

This teaching cuts deep, because it exposes the layers of man-made religion that have smothered simple truth. Many in the modern church cling to a legalistic, clergy-controlled view of marriage that owes more to Roman Catholic tradition than to the Word of God. Pastors and elders often refuse to face this truth because it topples their own false security. They think, “I have only had one ceremony, therefore I have only had one wife,” while ignoring the fact that they have joined themselves to others in their past. The word of God will not bend to protect pride. Truth exposes hypocrisy. The Pharisee spirit is still among us—it hides under robes and suits and “reverence,” but it trembles when light shines through.

Paul drives the truth home in 1 Corinthians 6. “Do you not know that your bodies are members of Christ? Shall I then take the members of Christ and join them to a prostitute? Never! Do you not know that he who is joined to a prostitute is one body with her? For it is said, ‘The two shall become one flesh’” (1 Corinthians 6:15–16). That verse alone destroys centuries of man-made tradition. The joining of bodies is not trivial—it is covenantal. God sees that act as one flesh. Even when done sinfully, the pattern of creation still applies. This is why sexual immorality is not just another sin. It takes what God made sacred and profanes it.

Paul continues, “Flee sexual immorality. Every other sin a man commits is outside the body, but the one who commits sexual sin sins against his own body” (1 Corinthians 6:18). Why? Why is sexual sin a sin against one’s own body? Because the body is meant for covenant. Sexual sin is a counterfeit marriage. It imitates the physical sign of covenant while denying the covenant itself. That is why it is unique among sins. It defiles the very image of Christ and the church—a union meant to be holy, exclusive, and eternal.

Fornication, then, is not simply lust out of control—it is covenant torn from its roots. It is saying with the body what the soul refuses to say with the heart. It joins what God never authorized to be joined. A man who gives himself to another in that way joins his body to one he does not intend to love, protect, or honor in covenant. He sins against his own flesh because that flesh was designed to belong to one woman in covenantal union. “So husbands ought to love their wives as their own bodies. He who loves his wife loves himself” (Ephesians 5:28). The husband’s body is his wife’s body, and the wife’s body is his. They are not two, but one.

This mystery runs deeper than human understanding. Marriage is not merely about companionship or pleasure. It is a divine portrait of redemption. Christ and His church are one. He has joined Himself to His Bride through the covenant of His blood. The two have become one Spirit. That is why the one-flesh union between a husband and wife is sacred. It reflects the gospel. To distort it is to blur the image of Christ’s love for His people.

The world laughs at this truth. The modern church avoids it. But the Bible stands unmoved. Marriage is covenant. Union without covenant is sin, and covenant without union is—generally speaking— incomplete. God designed both to mirror His own nature—faithful, holy, and indivisible. The one-flesh relationship is not just physical. It is the visible sign of a spiritual truth. To treat it lightly is to mock the Creator.

So what, then, is marriage? It is the covenantal joining of a man and a woman before God, expressed and sealed through the one-flesh union. No ceremony can create it, and no man can dissolve it apart from sin. It is sacred because it reflects the deepest mystery in all of Scripture: “This is a great mystery,” Paul wrote when he was talking about husbands and wives being one flesh. “But I speak concerning Christ and the church” (Ephesians 5:32).

To understand marriage is to glimpse the gospel. To misunderstand it is to twist the very image of Christ’s redeeming love. Let every believer tremble before this truth: the covenant is the marriage. The one-flesh union is its expression. To give either away without the other is to take what is holy and make it hollow.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

PAUL’S LOVE FOR CHRIST

The apostle Paul was not driven by ambition, pride, or recognition. He was driven by love for Jesus Christ. From the moment the light of the risen Lord shone on the Damascus road, Paul’s life became one long act of devotion (Acts 9:3–6). The man who once hunted believers became the one who could not stop speaking of Christ. He was not motivated by duty but by delight. The glory of Jesus changed everything about him. What once mattered now seemed worthless compared to knowing the Lord (Philippians 3:8). His conversion was not just a change of direction. It was a transformation of affection.

Paul’s heart burned with a singular passion: to know Christ and to make Him known. He did not see ministry as a career but as communion with the living Savior. He said that to live was Christ and to die was gain (Philippians 1:21). His entire existence was centered around the person of Jesus. Every city he entered, every letter he wrote, every sermon he preached was soaked with that same theme. He could endure chains, ridicule, and hardship because he was captured by a greater love. The same Christ who met him in mercy now moved in him with power (Galatians 2:20).

Paul’s letters show that love for Jesus is not measured by feelings but by faithfulness. His devotion did not fade in the face of pain. Shipwrecks, imprisonments, betrayals, and hunger could not turn him away (2 Corinthians 11:24–28). He had found something worth suffering for. Love made him strong. Grace made him steadfast. He did not complain about his chains. He rejoiced that they advanced the gospel (Philippians 1:12–14). Paul knew that to walk with Jesus was to share in His sufferings and also in His resurrection life (Romans 8:17).

The secret to Paul’s power was not intellect or training, though he had both. It was intimacy with Jesus. He prayed to know the Lord in deeper ways, not only in glory but in weakness and surrender (Philippians 3:10). His prayers were not filled with self-seeking requests. They overflowed with longing for others to see Christ more clearly and love Him more dearly. To Paul, theology was not a subject to be studied but a song to be sung. Every truth he taught found its melody in the grace of the Savior.

Paul’s love for Christ was also practical. It showed in how he loved the churches. He prayed for them constantly. He carried their burdens as though they were his own children (2 Corinthians 11:28–29). His letters were not cold instruction but warm encouragement. He urged believers to imitate him only as he imitated Christ (1 Corinthians 11:1). The apostle’s leadership flowed from love, not authority. He saw himself not as a master but as a servant. The same humility that led Jesus to wash feet had washed over Paul’s heart.

Even in correction, Paul’s words were guided by compassion. He wept over sin. He pleaded with believers to walk in the Spirit, not in the flesh (Galatians 5:16). He pointed them always back to the cross. The cross was his compass. It kept him steady when others turned aside. It reminded him that his strength was not in his flesh but in Christ alone (2 Corinthians 12:9). Love made him gentle. Truth made him firm. Together they shaped a man who reflected the Savior he adored.

As Paul neared the end of his journey, his love had only deepened. He looked back not with regret but with gratitude. He could say with quiet confidence that he had fought the good fight, finished the race, and kept the faith (2 Timothy 4:7). His heart was set on the Lord who had saved him, the crown of righteousness awaiting him, and the joy of being with Christ forever (2 Timothy 4:8). Death was not a loss to Paul. It was the fulfillment of the longing that had guided his life—to be with Jesus.

Paul’s story reminds every believer that true greatness in the kingdom is measured by love for Christ. Knowledge fades. Strength fails. Titles mean nothing. But love endures forever (1 Corinthians 13:8). To love Jesus as Paul did is to live with eternity in your eyes and grace in your heart. It is to count every gain as loss except for Him. The world may not understand such devotion, but heaven does. For love like that still burns with the same fire that began on the Damascus road—a fire that no darkness can ever put out.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

ROSES IN THE RAIN

There are certain flowers that do not open their beauty until the rain begins to fall. They wait for the clouds. They need the storm. The petals may tremble under the weight of the water, but the fragrance they release could never come from sunshine alone. Such is the life of every believer who walks with Christ through the sorrows and struggles of this world. The downpour that the world calls destruction becomes the very thing that draws out the beauty of His grace within us. Heaven’s garden grows brightest when watered by tears.

The path of the Christian was never meant to be smooth or sheltered. Jesus said plainly that “in this world you will have trouble, but take heart, I have overcome the world” (John 16:33). Those words are not a warning meant to frighten us. They are a promise meant to steady us. We are not asked to suffer alone. The One who overcame the storm walks with us through every drop of rain. He does not always calm the wind, but He always stands beside His child in the middle of it. And the sound of His voice in the storm is worth more than a thousand calm days.

Every disciple must carry a cross. Jesus said, “If anyone desires to come after Me, let him deny himself, take up his cross, and follow Me” (Matthew 16:24). The cross is not a decoration we wear. It is a daily dying to self, a willingness to suffer for the sake of His love. The thorns of this world may pierce deeply, but they cannot touch the soul that abides in Him. When we suffer because we belong to Christ, we share in His fellowship. And that fellowship turns even pain into praise.

“All who desire to live godly in Christ Jesus will suffer persecution” (2 Timothy 3:12). The rain of rejection and misunderstanding will fall upon every true follower of Christ. Yet every drop of it is caught in His hands. Not one tear is wasted. He uses it all to water the roots of faith. The early church grew strong through the storms of persecution. They sang in prisons, rejoiced in tribulation, and found that the fire which threatened to destroy them only refined them into pure gold. What was true then is true now. The same grace that strengthened them still sustains us.

Suffering is the classroom of spiritual maturity. Faith that is never tested remains shallow. It is in the furnace of affliction that trust becomes unshakable. Just as muscles are strengthened by resistance, so our faith grows through hardship. When a weightlifter trains, he does not grow weaker by lifting weight. He tears the muscle so that it might heal stronger than before. The same law of growth applies to the soul. The trials that seem to break us are often God’s tools to build us. Every tear shed in faith becomes a seed from which endurance blossoms.

The rose cannot choose the weather. It simply receives what the Gardener sends. When the rain falls, its petals bow, but its roots drink deeply. And after the storm passes, it stands taller and blooms brighter. So it is with the believer. When suffering bends us low, grace runs deeper into our hearts. We learn to draw strength not from what we see but from who He is. Pain becomes a pathway to deeper love. The fragrance of Christ is released most fully from the broken heart.

Do not measure your faith by how often you fall. Measure it by how you rise. The righteous man may fall seven times, but he rises again (Proverbs 24:16). Every stumble, every scar, every tear becomes a testimony to the faithfulness of God. When the world sees you stand again after the rain, they will know that something divine lives within you. Your endurance preaches louder than your ease. The darkest nights often produce the brightest dawns.

The rain will come. Sometimes softly, sometimes in torrents that flood the heart. But do not fear it. The same Lord who sends the rain also commands the rainbow. His love is not absent in the storm. It is most active there. He is shaping something eternal in you, something that will outlast every sorrow. For even now, “our light affliction, which is but for a moment, is working for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory” (2 Corinthians 4:17).

So let the rain fall. Let it wash away pride and self-reliance. Let it water the seed of faith until it blooms into patience, humility, and hope. You are not forgotten in the downpour. You are being refined in the rain. The fragrance of your worship, rising from a heart that still trusts, fills the courts of Heaven. The same Savior who was anointed with perfume before His suffering now anoints you with His presence in yours. And when the clouds part at last, you will find that the rose He planted in your heart has grown through every drop.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

COME ALL THE WAY TO CHRIST

There are so many who stand just outside the door of grace. They’ve heard the gospel. They believe it’s true. They even admire the Savior from a distance. But they’ve never stepped through the door. They stand close enough to feel the warmth of the light, yet they stay in the shadows. They are almost persuaded, but still lost (Acts 26:28). Christ still calls, “Come to Me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28).

It’s not enough to admire the beauty of the gate—you must go through it. You can study the cross, sing about the cross, even preach about the cross, and still be outside its shelter. Salvation doesn’t come through knowledge or emotion, but by trusting the living Christ Himself (Ephesians 2:8). When the flood came in Noah’s day, standing near the ark didn’t save anyone. You had to be inside, sealed in by grace (Genesis 7:16).

Some wait until they feel ready. They think, “I’ll come when I feel more sorry…when I’ve cleaned myself up a bit.” But that’s not how it works. The prodigal didn’t wash up before coming home—he came home to be washed (Luke 15:20–24). The Savior doesn’t ask you to fix yourself before coming. He opens His arms while the stains are still on your soul. “Whoever comes to Me, I will never cast out” (John 6:37). His invitation isn’t for the worthy. It’s for the weary.

Faith isn’t complicated. It’s leaning your full weight on Christ and saying, “Lord, I can’t, but You can.” That’s all. When Israel looked up at the bronze serpent, they were healed, not because they understood everything, but because they looked (Numbers 21:8–9; John 3:14–15). You may not feel holy. You may not feel strong. Just look. The power isn’t in your gaze—it’s in the One you’re gazing at.

Many confuse repentance with earning God’s favor. They think if they cry hard enough, or suffer long enough, they’ll be accepted. But tears don’t save. The blood of Jesus does (1 John 1:7). Repentance isn’t payment, it’s turning. It is not the price of pardon, it is the pathway to it. It’s stepping away from sin and toward the Savior (Acts 3:19). You don’t get clean and then come. You come and then He cleanses. He binds up the brokenhearted (Psalm 147:3).

Others stumble because it seems too simple. They want a religion that gives them something to boast about. But grace won’t let pride through the door. The gospel is a gift, not a paycheck (Romans 6:23). True faith says, “I have nothing to offer but my sin—yet I come because Jesus died for me.” That’s salvation.

Maybe your faith feels weak. That’s okay. A trembling hand can still reach the hem of His garment and be healed (Mark 5:27–29). It’s not the size of your faith that saves, it’s the strength of your Savior. He doesn’t crush the bruised reed or snuff out the faint flame (Matthew 12:20). His mercy is deeper than your doubt.

If you’ve stood long at the door, hear this: it’s not locked. The only thing keeping you out is hesitation. The cross has already opened the way. The blood still speaks louder than your fear (Hebrews 12:24). Don’t wait for a softer heart or a better time. The Spirit says, “Today if you hear His voice, don’t harden your heart” (Hebrews 3:15). The water is stirred. Step in.

When you come, don’t bring your merit. Bring your need. Christ saves completely those who come to God through Him (Hebrews 7:25). The gate is narrow, but it’s wide enough for any sinner who’s willing to bow low. The proud can’t enter, but the humble find it open. “I am the way, the truth, and the life,” Jesus said. “No one comes to the Father except through Me” (John 14:6).

Don’t linger at the light and die in the dark. Don’t stand at the door and never enter. Step inside the mercy of Christ. Trust Him. His blood still speaks peace. His love still welcomes. His arms are still open. The gate stands open not because of your worth, but because of His wounds.

And when you enter, you’ll find not a Judge waiting, but a Father. Not condemnation, but compassion. Not wrath, but welcome. The same God who calls you will keep you. “He who began a good work in you will finish it until the day of Christ” (Philippians 1:6). Salvation isn’t a moment to remember. It’s a life to live, walking daily with the One who loved you and gave Himself for you (Galatians 2:20).

Don’t be almost saved. Don’t be near the kingdom—be in it (Mark 12:34). The Lamb of God still takes away the sin of the world (John 1:29). The time is short, eternity is long, and the door of grace is open wide. Come in. Come now.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

THE TABLE OF REMEMBRANCE

Mark 14:22–25

In an upstairs room, the Passover meal took on new meaning. What for centuries had looked back to Egypt now pointed forward to the cross. The Lamb sat among His disciples, and as He broke the bread, He was breaking the pattern of the old covenant. “This is My body,” He said. The bread was simple, yet sacred—a symbol of Himself freely given. He gave thanks before He broke it, showing us that gratitude must always precede surrender. Around that table, the old story found its fulfillment: the Deliverer had come again, not to set Israel free from Pharaoh, but humanity from sin.

Bread Broken, Cup Poured

The cup passed from hand to hand, and with it came a promise sealed in blood. “This is My blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many.” The wine spoke of what would soon flow from His side. The One who turned water into wine would now turn wine into witness—the sign of a new and everlasting covenant. In that moment, the shadow of Calvary lay across the table, but love sat at the head of it. He gave thanks for the very thing that would crush Him, because He saw what it would purchase—our redemption.

The Meal That Preaches

Each time we come to the Lord’s table, we preach the gospel without words. The bread reminds us that He was broken so we could be made whole. The cup tells us that His blood still speaks mercy. Paul wrote, “As often as you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death till He comes” (1 Corinthians 11:26). This is no mere ritual—it is remembrance wrapped in relationship. It’s the place where we trade our self-sufficiency for His sufficiency, our sin for His righteousness, and our emptiness for His fullness.

Until He Drinks It New

Jesus ended the meal with a promise: “I will not drink again of the fruit of the vine until that day when I drink it new in the kingdom of God.” What began as a supper in sorrow will end as a feast in glory. Every communion table whispers of another table yet to come—the marriage supper of the Lamb (Revelation 19:9). He communes with us now in the kingdom of God when we partake of the supper, and that is a taste of the eternal fellowship we will have with Him in heaven. Until then, we eat and drink as those abiding in Him and waiting for Him. The bread reminds us that He came. The cup reminds us that He’s coming again. And when He does, we’ll sit at His table, face to face with the One who once gave thanks for broken bread and now gives joy forevermore.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

JESUS ANOINTED AT BETHANY (Mark’s Account)

Love Poured Out Before the Cross

Jesus was in Bethany, sitting at the table in the home of Simon, who had once been a leper. As they reclined together, a woman came in carrying a small alabaster jar filled with very costly oil made of pure nard. She broke the jar open and poured the fragrant oil upon His head. Some who were present grew upset and whispered among themselves, “Why was this perfume wasted? It could have been sold for more than three hundred denarii, and the money given to the poor.” Their hearts turned against her, and they scolded her sharply. But Jesus spoke up. “Leave her alone,” He said. “Why are you troubling her? She has done something beautiful for Me. The poor you will always have with you, and you can help them anytime you wish. But you will not always have Me. She has done what she could. She has anointed My body in advance for burial.” And then He added, “Truly I tell you, wherever the good news is proclaimed throughout the whole world, what this woman has done will also be told in memory of her” (Mark 14:3–9).

It happened quietly in Bethany, in the home of a man once marked by leprosy. While others talked, Mary knelt. In her hands was an alabaster jar—fragile, beautiful, and costly. With one decisive act, she broke it open and poured out everything she had upon the head of her Lord. It was love expressed without restraint, devotion unmeasured by logic or approval. What others called waste, Jesus called beautiful. She saw what others missed: the shadow of the cross was already falling, and love demanded no half-measure.

A Costly Act of Worship

True worship always costs something. For Mary, it was her treasure. For Jesus, it would soon be His life. As the fragrance filled the room, a silent sermon was preached—one of surrender, sacrifice, and extravagant love. The disciples saw expense. Jesus saw expression. The world counts value by what is kept, but heaven measures worth by what is given. To love Him rightly is to break the jar and pour out the heart, holding nothing back. Our faith grows fragrant when it ceases to calculate.

The Fragrance That Fills the World

The scent of that anointing didn’t stay in that room. It followed Jesus to Gethsemane, to the judgment hall, and to the cross. Every step He took carried the aroma of her worship. In the same way, Paul would later write that our lives are to be “a fragrance of Christ” (2 Corinthians 2:15). When we live for Him, serve Him, and suffer with Him, the world catches the perfume of grace. Mary’s moment became a message: what is poured out for Jesus is never wasted—it fills the air of eternity.

Poured Out for Many

Mary’s act was a picture of what Jesus Himself was about to do. She broke her jar. He would be broken for the sins of the world. She poured out her perfume. He would pour out His blood. Her offering was temporary. His was eternal. The fragrance of her love filled a house, but the fragrance of His sacrifice would fill heaven and earth. He calls us now to live as living sacrifices (Romans 12:1)—not stored away in safe containers, but broken and poured out, that others might breathe the sweetness of His love.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

’TIS AUTUMN

There is something sacred about the fall. The air grows still, the trees begin to whisper goodbye, and the world seems to rest before the hush of winter. Every leaf that drifts to the ground carries a quiet message from heaven, that beauty is not meant to last forever, and that letting go can be holy. The gold must fall before the green returns. So it is with the believer. We do not cling to what is fading. We release it in faith, trusting that through surrender comes life. “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it remains alone. But if it dies, it produces much grain” (John 12:24).

When I listen to Nat King Cole sing ’Tis Autumn, I hear more than a melody. I hear a parable of change—that seasons shift, and the heart must learn to shift with them. The Christian life is a journey through many seasons, each with its own beauty and its own burden. God paints our days with both sunlight and shadow to teach us that faith must deepen when daylight fades. “To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven” (Ecclesiastes 3:1), and even the chill of change can carry the warmth of His presence (Psalm 23:4).

The trees do not resist the fall. They yield. Their surrender is quiet, their trust complete. The believer must learn this same grace—to bow before God’s wind and release what cannot remain. “Whoever loses his life for My sake will find it” (Matthew 16:25). The leaves fall, but the roots remain. So too must our souls stay rooted in Christ when outer things fade away. What looks like loss is often the making of something new.

As autumn settles over the fields, the land rests and the harvest is gathered. The air grows still with the peace of completion. So the soul finds rest in the finished work of Jesus. The striving ends. The heart grows quiet beneath His love. “Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). Every season of labor has its harvest, every trial has its end in grace (Galatians 6:9).

Yet autumn teaches more than rest. It whispers of what endures. “The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God stands forever” (Isaiah 40:8). Each falling leaf reminds us that life here is passing. The beauty of this world is only a shadow of what is to come. “Set your mind on things above, not on things on the earth” (Colossians 3:2). We are pilgrims, not settlers. Our true home is not among the dying leaves but in the everlasting spring of God’s kingdom.

And yet, autumn is not only a season of dying. It is a promise. The bare branches preach of resurrection. What seems to fall into death will rise again in glory. “Though our outward man is perishing, yet the inward man is being renewed day by day” (2 Corinthians 4:16). The believer learns to sing through every change, because in Christ, nothing beautiful is ever lost. It is only transformed.

So when the cool winds blow and the song ’Tis Autumn plays softly through the room, let your heart listen deeper. Hear in it the faithfulness of God through every season. He does not change. “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever” (Hebrews 13:8). The leaves may fall, but His promises remain. And when winter seems long, remember this: spring is already written in the heart of heaven.

Lord, teach my heart the peace of autumn. Help me to let go of what is fading and to rest in what is eternal. When change comes, let me trust Your hand more than my understanding.

Root me deep in Your love, that I may not be moved when the seasons shift. Let my life fall like a leaf into Your will, and may beauty rise from my surrender.

When the days grow short and the air grows still, be the warmth within my soul. Remind me that death never has the final word—resurrection does.

Thank You that You are the same in every season. The leaves may fall, but Your Word endures forever. Keep me faithful until the spring of glory comes, and I see Your face.

Amen

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

TAKE TIME TO SURRENDER

Each day calls for a fresh surrender of our hearts to Christ. The heart must learn again and again to turn from the noise and meet with the Lord. The world rushes, but the Spirit whispers. We cannot walk in peace until we pause long enough to listen. Even Jesus withdrew from the crowds to pray. He chose the lonely places where His heart could breathe in the Father’s will (Luke 5:16). He did not draw strength from applause but from communion. His power came from His prayer life. When the night was darkest or the demand was greatest, He retreated to the mountains or the garden to be alone with His Father (Mark 1:35; Matthew 14:23). Let us not miss the lesson there.

There, in the quiet, the soul is fed with heavenly bread. For man does not live by earthly provision alone but by every word that comes from the mouth of God (Deuteronomy 8:3; Matthew 4:4). The world will feed the flesh, but only the Word feeds the spirit. When we open the Scriptures with a heart that is yielded and still, the Spirit breathes life into the words. They stop being ink and paper and become food and fire within us (Jeremiah 15:16).

Holiness is not born in crowds. It is born in hidden places. The sanctified life begins when we kneel before God and whisper again, “Not my will, but Yours be done” (Luke 22:42). Every day we are faced with a thousand little choices—the choice to serve self or to yield to Him. Taking time to be holy is not about perfection but direction. It means setting apart time for Him, laying down our hurry so His peace can settle over our hearts like morning dew (Isaiah 26:3).

In a world that celebrates busyness, surrender looks like weakness. Yet in the kingdom of God, surrender is strength. The branch that bends in the storm is not broken. It is the one that stands stiff that snaps. So it is with the soul that refuses to yield. When we bow before the Lord in humility, He lifts us up in His strength (James 4:10). The surrendered heart is not empty. It is filled with His presence.

We often say we have no time to pray, but the truth is we have no peace because we do not pray. The day that begins in God’s presence ends in His strength. When the heart is quiet before Him, anxiety loses its grip. Prayer does not always change our situation, but it always changes us. Moses went up the mountain burdened, but he came down radiant (Exodus 34:29). The presence of God left a mark that no man could erase.

To take time to surrender is to live deliberately. It means we step away from the world long enough to see it from heaven’s view. Elijah found God not in the wind or fire but in the still, small voice (1 Kings 19:11–12). That same voice still speaks, but we must silence the noise to hear it.

We have Christ, yet we also pursue Christ. The treasure is already ours, but our hearts still long to know Him more (Philippians 3:8–10). Love never says, “Enough.” The moment we stop pursuing, our love grows stale. The Christian life is not a single decision but a daily devotion. Every sunrise is a new call to follow Him again.

Jesus is the pearl of great price, worth selling all to gain (Matthew 13:45–46). The world offers a thousand imitations, but none can satisfy. The one who has truly seen His beauty counts everything else as loss. In Him we live and move and have our being, for He is our life and our reason for living (Acts 17:28; Colossians 3:4).

David understood this when he prayed, “Whom have I in heaven but You, and on earth I desire none beside You” (Psalm 73:25). The more we walk with Him, the more this world loses its glitter. The pleasures that once drew us fade in the light of His glory. Like a candle before the sunrise, they disappear. The more we behold His face, the more our hearts are captured by His beauty (2 Corinthians 4:6).

To surrender is not to lose life but to find it. Jesus said that whoever loses his life for His sake will find it (Matthew 16:25). The world calls that foolishness, but heaven calls it wisdom. The surrendered life is the only truly free life, for it is anchored not in circumstance but in Christ.

We cannot live in His fullness without first kneeling in His presence. The altar of surrender is not a one-time event but a daily invitation. Every morning we rise, we must choose again whom we will serve (Joshua 24:15). Every night we rest, we can lay our hearts down in peace, knowing we are held by the One who never sleeps (Psalm 4:8).

When the heart is yielded, even the smallest act becomes worship. Washing dishes, driving to work, caring for others—all can become holy when done in His name. The surrendered life does not belong to the preacher alone but to every believer who desires to walk in step with Jesus.

The secret to peace is not found in control but in trust. When we stop fighting for our own way and start resting in His, the soul finds quiet waters (Psalm 23:2). The shepherd still leads, the sheep still follow. The way of surrender is the way home.

So today, take time to surrender. Step away from the noise. Lay down the weight. Open the Word. Let His voice be the first you hear and His will be the path you walk. His presence will renew your strength, and His peace will steady your heart. And as you yield yourself afresh to Him, you will find that surrender is not the end of your journey. It is the beginning of life abundant (John 10:10).

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

CHRIST THE MERCY SEAT

In the heart of the tabernacle stood the Ark of the Covenant. Upon it rested a golden lid called the mercy seat. Between the wings of the cherubim the glory of God would appear, and from that sacred place, the voice of the Lord would speak to His people. There the high priest came once each year, not without blood, to make atonement for the sins of Israel. Yet all of this was a shadow of something greater, a picture pointing to the true and living mercy seat, the Lord Jesus Christ.

When God gave Moses the pattern for the tabernacle, He said, “You shall put the mercy seat on top of the ark, and in the ark you shall put the testimony that I will give you. And there I will meet with you, and I will speak with you from above the mercy seat” (Exodus 25:21–22). That was the place of meeting. There, between righteousness and ruin, God and man were brought together through blood. But no priest could remain there. He entered trembling, and he quickly withdrew. His work was never finished. Every year the same sacrifice had to be offered again, for the blood of bulls and goats could never take away sin (Hebrews 10:1–4).

Then came Jesus, our great High Priest, who entered not into a tabernacle made with hands but into Heaven itself, now to appear in the presence of God for us (Hebrews 9:24). He did not bring the blood of another, but His own precious blood. He came as both priest and sacrifice. The mercy seat of old was overlaid with gold. The mercy seat of grace is clothed with glory. It is not a piece of furniture, but a Person. It is Christ Himself, in whom mercy and truth meet together, and righteousness and peace kiss each other (Psalm 85:10).

When the women came to the tomb early on the morning of the resurrection, they saw two angels, one at the head and the other at the feet, where the body of Jesus had lain (John 20:12). What a picture this is—the true mercy seat revealed. Between the two angels lay the blood of the covenant, once shed, now forever speaking better things than that of Abel (Hebrews 12:24). There in that empty tomb, heaven bore witness that atonement was complete. The wrath of God was satisfied. The judgment seat had become the mercy seat.

Paul wrote that God set forth Christ as a propitiation through faith in His blood (Romans 3:25). That word propitiation means mercy seat. It is the same word used in the Greek Old Testament for that golden covering of the Ark. God Himself placed His Son before the world as the meeting place of mercy. The law inside the Ark condemned us. Every commandment stood as a witness against us, for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God (Romans 3:23). But the blood upon the mercy seat covers the broken law. Between the holiness of God above and the law of God beneath flows the blood of the Lamb who takes away the sin of the world (John 1:29).

The veil of the temple that separated man from the presence of God was torn from top to bottom when Jesus died (Matthew 27:51). That veil was the barrier between guilt and grace, between sinner and Savior. But now, through His flesh, that veil is removed, and we have boldness to enter the holiest by the blood of Jesus (Hebrews 10:19–20). The mercy seat is open. The way is clear. The presence of God is no longer a place of fear, but of fellowship.

The priest of old came bearing blood once a year. Our Lord came once for all. “By one offering He has perfected forever those who are being sanctified” (Hebrews 10:14). The mercy seat is no longer hidden behind curtains, it is lifted up in glory. Christ sits enthroned in Heaven, not as a symbol but as the substance. He is both the sacrifice and the satisfaction, both the Lamb slain and the Priest who intercedes. His blood does not cry out for vengeance, but for pardon. It speaks peace to the heart and cleansing to the conscience. “If anyone sins, we have an Advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous. And He Himself is the atoning sacrifice for our sins” (1 John 2:1–2).

The mercy seat was made of pure gold, without blemish or alloy, reminding us of His divine perfection. Yet it was sprinkled with blood, showing His humanity and His suffering. Heaven and earth meet in Him. The justice of God is upheld, and the mercy of God is revealed. “Surely He has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows. He was wounded for our transgressions, and bruised for our iniquities. The chastisement for our peace was upon Him, and by His stripes we are healed” (Isaiah 53:4–5). The blood-stained mercy seat declares that sin has been judged, and yet the sinner has been spared.

To come to Christ is to come to the mercy seat. It is to draw near with a true heart, in full assurance of faith, trusting that His blood is enough. No angel guards the way now with a flaming sword. The gates of mercy stand open. The sinner may approach and find welcome, cleansing, and rest. As the writer of Hebrews says, “Let us come boldly to the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need” (Hebrews 4:16).

Here is the meeting place between man and God, where heaven bends low to embrace the earth. Here the guilty are forgiven, the broken are healed, and the weary find rest. The mercy seat is not a relic of ancient worship but a living reality in Jesus Christ our Lord. It is the place where God’s justice was satisfied and His love was magnified. It is the cross and the empty tomb. It is the risen Savior in the midst of His people.

And one day, when we stand before the throne in glory, we shall see that mercy seat shining brighter than gold. There will be no veil, no priest, no blood but His, and we shall worship the Lamb who sits upon the throne. Then faith will give way to sight, and mercy will have done her perfect work. For now, we bow before Him in awe and adoration, knowing that we stand forgiven because Christ Himself is our mercy seat.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

JESUS THE ROSE OF SHARON

When I opened my Bible this morning, the room was still quiet, and for a moment I just sat there looking at the pages. The thought came to me—“this Book blooms.” In the quiet fields of Scripture grows a single flower whose fragrance fills the whole world. He is called the Rose of Sharon and the Lily of the Valleys (Song of Solomon 2:1). In the dry soil of a broken world, Jesus blooms with beauty that never fades. His love grows in places where nothing else can live. Like a rose pushing through thorns, He stands untouched by the rot of sin. The sweet scent of His grace reaches even the ones who’ve lost their way, calling them to breathe in life again (Isaiah 35:1–2).

That name—the Rose of Sharon—comes from the old coastal plain of Israel, a stretch of land known for its wildflowers. The “rose” there probably wasn’t what we picture. It might have been a wild crocus or tulip, something simple, humble, blooming in open fields. Nothing rare, nothing fancy. Just quietly beautiful. That’s what I love about it — because that’s Jesus. He didn’t come dressed in royal robes or surrounded by luxury. He came lowly, gentle, approachable. The holiness of His life grew right out in the open, right where hurting people could find Him and be made new (Isaiah 35:1–2).

And He’s no fragile flower. He’s gentle with the weary, but strong enough to carry the sin of the world (Isaiah 53:4–5). Those thorns that tore His brow weren’t random. They were a message. He took our curse and turned it into blessing. Every petal of His mercy tells the story of love that would rather bleed than let us be lost. And when He stepped out of that grave, it was as if spring broke through the long winter forever (Matthew 28:6).

To the one far from God, He’s beauty undeserved. To the believer who knows His name, He’s joy that never runs dry. His grace turns the wilderness of our hearts into gardens again (Isaiah 51:3). Even when we walk through valleys where shadows hang heavy, His light makes flowers grow where fear used to live (Psalm 23:4). The Spirit of God waters those dry places, softening what time and sorrow had made hard (Ezekiel 36:26).

When we look at Jesus, we’re not just seeing a figure from long ago. We’re seeing heaven’s colors shining through human flesh. His compassion runs red like the rose that bled to make us whole. His purity glows white like lilies untouched by sin. His truth shines golden like morning light after a storm (John 14:9). Everything good, everything pure, everything lasting finds its meaning in Him (Colossians 1:17).

So today, let His name fill your home like the fragrance of flowers after rain. Let His presence light up your heart even when the world feels dark. The Rose of Sharon still blooms in every soul that seeks Him. His fragrance lingers in every act of love and every prayer whispered in faith. One day we’ll see Him face to face and breathe the full sweetness of His glory (2 Corinthians 2:14–15). Until then, may every breath we take carry His beauty, and every word we speak spread the scent of His saving grace.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

CHRIST’S “FINAL” TEMPTATION

The last and deepest trial of Jesus came not in the wilderness, but on the hill of Calvary. Judas had betrayed Him with a kiss, and the hidden glory of the Messiah was at last uncovered. The Son of Man was handed over to those who hated Him, and they judged Him guilty for claiming to be what He truly was—the Christ, the King of Israel (Matthew 26:63–66, Mark 15:1–12, Luke 22:70–71, John 19:7). Yet their understanding of Messiah was shallow and earthly. They imagined a conqueror in shining armor, not a Redeemer with blood on His brow. From the very beginning, Jesus faced the constant pressure to be the kind of Savior men wanted rather than the One God had promised (John 6:15).

Throughout His ministry, He was urged to display His power in ways that would win applause instead of obedience. In the wilderness, Satan’s whisper had been clear: “If You are the Son of God, prove it” (Matthew 4:3). But the Lord refused to trade the Father’s will for the crowd’s admiration. His kingdom was not of this world, and His throne would not be built on popularity or pride (John 18:36). Yet that same old temptation followed Him to the Cross. As He hung there, bloodied and mocked, the voices below repeated the same challenge: “If You are the Christ, come down that we may see and believe” (Mark 15:32).

They could not see that His refusal to come down was not weakness but victory. The nails that held Him were not stronger than His power but steadied by His purpose. The very thing they mocked was the thing that saved them. The suffering servant was fulfilling the will of God through His wounds, not despite them (Isaiah 53:4–6). The false Messiah they longed for would have crushed nations. The true Messiah chose to be crushed for sinners.

Even as He hung in agony, the great struggle between human expectation and divine truth reached its climax. The people wanted spectacle. Heaven offered sacrifice. They wanted signs. God gave them salvation. The Messiah they taunted was the very Lamb who took away their sin. He was veiled in weakness, yet crowned in obedience. While they waited for Him to come down, He was lifting the world up to the mercy of God (John 12:32).

That last temptation did not tempt Him to fail but revealed why He came—to obey unto death, even death on a cross (Philippians 2:8). In that moment of deepest humiliation, He was never more majestic. The King of Glory wore no crown but thorns, and His throne was a cross. What men saw as defeat, heaven recorded as triumph. What seemed hidden was, in truth, the fullest revelation of divine love.

So the story ends as it began—with the world asking for a Messiah of their own making, and God giving them the Savior they truly need. The cross stands forever as the answer to both temptation and pride. It reminds us that Christ’s power is perfected in weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9), and that glory often hides itself beneath suffering. The One who refused to come down is the very One who now reigns above all.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

“CASABLANCA” AND THE LOVE OF GOD

People who know me know that I love the movie Casablanca. Humphrey Bogart (along with Denzel Washington and Charlie Chaplin) is my favorite actor. I don’t watch films like I used to, but I find myself coming back to Casablanca time and again. It’s one of those rare stories that never gets old. I can quote the lines before they’re said, and yet somehow, they still move me. Some folks roll their eyes when I bring it up because they don’t care for old black-and-white movies. But to me, Casablanca is the greatest film ever made. Beneath the smoke-filled air, the piano music, and the fog of that final goodbye, it’s a story about love, loss, and redemption. And, if you look closely, it tells us something about the love of God shown in Christ.

(If you haven’t seen it, I’d advise watching it before you read this)

The movie is set in the chaos of World War II, in the Moroccan city of Casablanca, a crossroads of fear and escape. Refugees crowd the streets, all hoping to reach freedom. The tension in the air is thick. And in the center of it all stands Rick Blaine—played by Bogart—a man who has been wounded by love and hardened by life. Rick runs a nightclub where everyone comes to hide or hustle, to forget or remember. He pretends not to care about anyone or anything. His motto is, “I stick my neck out for nobody.” But the story that unfolds is about what happens when love, real love, forces a man to care again.

Love is dangerous in Casablanca. It asks something from you. It costs you something. That’s what makes it such a powerful picture of divine love. Jesus said, “No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends” (John 15:13). That is the heart of the gospel. Love that is comfortable is not love at all. Real love risks. Real love bleeds. Real love gives. It’s not about getting what we want but giving what someone else needs—even if it costs us everything.

There’s a moment near the end of the film that never fails to get me. Rick has the chance to be with Ilsa, the woman he loves. After all their heartbreak and misunderstanding, she’s right there, ready to stay with him. But instead, Rick sends her away. He gives up the one thing he wants most so she and her husband can escape to freedom. He looks her in the eyes and says, “We’ll always have Paris.” Then, in one of the most famous scenes in cinema, he walks away into the fog. The music swells, and you realize something: Rick’s sacrifice, painful as it is, is what redeems him. Love costs him everything, but in the giving, he finds his soul again.

That is the love of God. He so loved the world that He gave His only Son (John 3:16). At Calvary, Jesus did not choose the easy way. He could have called down angels. He could have turned away from the cup of suffering. But love held Him there (Luke 22:42). He bore the weight of our sin because He would rather die for us than live without us (Romans 5:8). Like Rick in the fog, but infinitely greater, Christ turned His back on comfort and chose the cross—for love.

What strikes me most about Rick’s act is that no one really understands it in the moment. The world around him just sees a man letting go. Ilsa weeps. The soldiers move on. The story ends not with applause but with quiet understanding. Love often looks like loss to those who don’t see the whole picture. In the same way, when Jesus hung on the cross, the world saw defeat. They mocked Him and said, “He saved others; He cannot save Himself” (Matthew 27:42). But what they didn’t know was that in losing His life, He was saving ours.

Casablanca teaches us that love and sacrifice are woven together. That the purest love is not about romance or comfort but redemption. It’s about doing what is right, even when it hurts. Jesus said, “If anyone wants to follow Me, he must deny himself, take up his cross daily, and follow Me” (Luke 9:23). The call to discipleship is a call to love like He loved, to lay down our pride, our rights, and sometimes even our dreams for the sake of others.

Rick’s transformation in the story reminds me of what happens when grace touches the human heart. At the beginning of the film, he’s cold and cynical. He keeps everyone at a distance. But by the end, love has softened him. He still wears the same suit and smokes the same cigarette, but something in him has changed. Love has made him human again. Isn’t that what grace does to us? The heart that once said, “I stick my neck out for nobody,” becomes the heart that says, “Here am I, Lord, send me” (Isaiah 6:8).

When the Holy Spirit begins to work in a believer’s life, He does not just forgive sin. He transforms the will. The man who once looked out for himself learns to look up to God and out toward others. Paul said, “The love of Christ compels us” (2 Corinthians 5:14). That means love drives us, shapes us, directs us. It becomes the motivation behind everything we do. We no longer live for ourselves but for the One who died and rose again for us (2 Corinthians 5:15).

The story of Casablanca ends with Rick walking away into the mist beside a man who, just a few scenes earlier, had been his enemy. That’s grace, too. Love not only reconciles us to God. It teaches us to reconcile with others. Christ not only forgave us—He broke down every dividing wall between us (Ephesians 2:14–16). The love of God makes enemies into friends, strangers into brothers, sinners into saints. It’s the kind of love that changes everything it touches.

I think that’s why I keep coming back to Casablanca. It’s not just the music, or the setting, or even the acting. It’s because, in a way, the story echoes the gospel. It’s about a man who learns that love is not about what you get but what you give. And that truth, seen through the smoke of an old black-and-white film, still preaches as powerfully as it did the first time I watched it.

Love costs something. Always. But it’s worth everything. Jesus did not love us because we were easy to love. He loved us because it was His nature to love—because God is love (1 John 4:8). And that love—that fierce, redeeming, self-giving love—still calls us to follow.

So maybe the next time you watch an old movie, and someone walks away into the fog, think of another hill long ago, where the Son of God walked into the shadows for you. He did not do it for applause or recognition. He did it for love. And just like Rick’s final words to Ilsa, His words to us are full of both sorrow and hope: “I’m giving you freedom, because love demands it.”

Only His love could turn loss into redemption, pain into purpose, and sinners into sons. And that love, once seen, changes everything.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway