CHRIST FORMED WITHIN

God’s purpose for us is not only that we be forgiven, but that Christ be formed within. Salvation is the beginning of a far greater journey—the shaping of the soul into the likeness of the Savior. The Father’s desire is not just to make us better, but to make us His. Paul wrote with holy yearning, “My little children, for whom I labor in birth again until Christ is formed in you” (Galatians 4:19). This is the mystery of the Christian life—not us trying to be like Him, but Him living in us, expressing His life through clay vessels.

This forming comes through the Cross. The Cross is not only the place where Christ died for us; it is where we die with Him. It is where pride is broken, where self-will is surrendered, and where our hearts are emptied so His Spirit can fill them. Each time we yield our way for His way, His image grows clearer in us. “I have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me” (Galatians 2:20). The Cross is not the end of life—it is the beginning of His life in us.

Christ in us is the secret to all fruitfulness. Without Him, we can do nothing (John 15:5). But when we abide in Him, His love flows through us like living water. Our words become softer, our service becomes purer, and our hearts begin to reflect His patience and peace. We do not strain to bear fruit; we simply stay near the Vine, and His life produces what our effort never could. The more we rest in His presence, the more His beauty begins to shine through.

This is the true work of grace—not achievement, but transformation. God’s goal is not to make us famous, but faithful. Not powerful in the eyes of men, but pure in the sight of Heaven. Day by day, the Holy Spirit shapes us, often quietly, through trials, tears, and tender mercies, until the life of Christ is seen. And when that happens, heaven touches earth. The fragrance of His life fills our days, and the world sees not us, but Him who lives within.

Lord Jesus,

Let Your life be formed within me. Shape my heart to mirror Yours. Teach me to yield where I once resisted, to love where I once judged, to trust where I once feared. May the Cross do its holy work in me until pride is broken and Your peace reigns. Let my life be a reflection of Your gentleness and strength. Abide in me as the Vine in the branch. Let Your words find a home in my heart, and let Your Spirit breathe through my days. When I am weak, be my strength. When I am silent, speak through me. When I am still, fill me. And when I stand before You at last, may the world have seen not me, but You living in me.

Amen.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

THE SPIRIT WHO GIVES LIFE

The Spirit of God has always been moving—hovering over the waters in the beginning, breathing life into creation, whispering truth through prophets, and filling hearts with holy fire. From Genesis to Revelation, His presence marks the heartbeat of God’s work among men. Wherever the Spirit moves, death yields to life, despair gives way to hope, and dry ground blossoms again.

In the Old Testament, we see the Spirit at work in promise and power. The prophets spoke of His coming as rain upon the wilderness. Isaiah said, “The Spirit of the Lord shall rest upon Him—the Spirit of wisdom and understanding” (Isaiah 11:2). Ezekiel heard God say, “I will put My Spirit within you and cause you to walk in My statutes” (Ezekiel 36:27). Joel declared, “I will pour out My Spirit on all flesh” (Joel 2:28). The same breath that hovered over the deep in creation now enters the hearts of the redeemed in new creation.

Few scenes portray this better than Ezekiel’s vision in the valley of dry bones (Ezekiel 37:1–14). The prophet stands amid lifeless remains—symbols of a people without hope. Yet when God commands him to speak, the bones begin to rattle, the sinews stretch, the flesh returns, and finally the breath of God fills them. What was once dead stands alive, an army raised by the Spirit’s breath. So it is with every believer who receives the Spirit of Christ. We who were dead in sin are made alive unto God, not by effort, but by the indwelling breath of Heaven.

In the New Testament, the promise becomes personal. Jesus calls the Spirit a Helper, Teacher, and Comforter (John 14:26). He guided first century men into all truth (John 16:13). Today, He fills us with divine love (Romans 5:5), and empowers us to live and share Christ boldly, in principle the way He did the apostles of Christ (Acts 1:8). Paul reminds us that we are temples of the Spirit (1 Corinthians 3:16), that the Spirit intercedes when words fail (Romans 8:26), and that His fruit is love, joy, peace, and all that reflects the life of Christ (Galatians 5:22–23). The same power that raised Jesus from the dead now works in us to produce holiness and strength.

Discipleship without the Spirit becomes labor without life. But when the Spirit fills us, the Christian walk ceases to be duty and becomes delight. The Spirit does not make us perfect overnight, but He makes us alive. And in that life, Christ is formed within. Let us yield daily to His quiet leading, letting His wind blow through every thought and desire, until our hearts echo the faith of Ezekiel’s valley: “Thus says the Lord God…I will put My Spirit in you, and you shall live.”

Holy Spirit of Christ, breathe upon me again. Move within the dry valleys of my heart and make them green with Your life. Teach me to walk in Your ways, to love as Christ loved, and to live in constant fellowship with You. May every word I speak and every step I take bear the fruit of Your presence. Fill me, renew me, and make me a vessel through whom the breath of Heaven flows. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

ANTONY FLEW: THE THINKER WHO FOLLOWED THE EVIDENCE WHERE IT LED

Antony Flew was not a careless atheist. He was a philosopher of formidable intellect, a man who demanded evidence for everything and refused to rest his mind on anything less than reason. For more than fifty years he argued that belief in God was an illusion of the human heart — a comforting story told to quiet our fear of death. He became, in the eyes of many, the high priest of unbelief. Yet as time passed and science revealed more of the intricacy of the world, the fortress of his skepticism began to tremble.

In his later years, Flew startled the intellectual world by confessing that he now believed there must be a God. The announcement sent ripples through universities and lecture halls. The man who had long championed atheism declared that he had been compelled by evidence — that he had simply “followed the argument where it led.” It led him, not to a personal Savior, but to an Intelligent Mind behind all existence. The precision of natural law, the order of the cosmos, and most of all the mystery of life itself drew him to concede that mind must precede matter.

He pointed especially to DNA. Its astonishing complexity, its code of information written in every living cell, convinced him that life could not have arisen from non-life by accident. He admitted that naturalistic explanations had failed to account for this wonder. “The only reason I have for beginning to think of believing in a First Cause God,” he said, “is the impossibility of providing a naturalistic account of the origin of the first reproducing species.” Thus, at the threshold of eternity, the old skeptic acknowledged a Creator.

And yet, one cannot help but feel both joy and sorrow at his discovery — joy that truth finally pierced his heart, sorrow that it took the marvel of DNA to convince him when the universe itself had been preaching to him all along. For every sunrise declares a Designer, every tree in springtime a renewal beyond chance. The very air he breathed, the beauty of a child’s laughter, the order of mathematics, the moral longing in every human soul — these were sermons enough to humble the wise. But pride blinds even brilliant men. The Scriptures speak truly: “The fool has said in his heart, ‘There is no God’” (Psalm 14:1). Not the fool of low intelligence, but the fool of high pride, who cannot see because he refuses to bow.

Yet we must speak kindly of Flew, for there is grace even in his late awakening. He did not discover all the way to Calvary, but he walked further than he had ever thought he would. He came to believe in a Creator — an eternal Mind who designed and sustains all things. He admitted that life’s very existence was a miracle, not a mistake. He died still pondering who that Mind might be, and perhaps, in the mercy of God, he now knows.

His story reminds us that reason, when honest, leads not to emptiness but to awe. Every path of inquiry, if followed with humility, will end at the feet of Christ, for He is the Truth toward which all truths point. Antony Flew, the lifelong skeptic, teaches us that even the mind which denies God may yet become a witness to His glory. And though it took the alphabet of DNA to open his eyes, it is the same Word — eternal and living — that upholds both the cell and the soul.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

WHY WE BELIEVE ANYTHING: THE NATURE OF FAITH AND REASON

Every human being, whether believer or skeptic, lives by faith. We may call it confidence, trust, or probability, but the essence is the same. We act every day on what we cannot prove exhaustively. We trust the pilot who flies our plane, the surgeon who wields the scalpel, the historian who records the past. We live by belief before we ever speak of religion. The mind itself cannot function without faith, for even reason must begin with certain assumptions—assumptions about truth, logic, and reality that cannot be proven by reason itself. Faith, therefore, is not a denial of reason but its foundation.

Yet the word “faith” has been so misused that many imagine it means believing something without evidence. In truth, real faith is the most rational thing in the world. It is the mind’s acknowledgment of what reason discovers but cannot fully comprehend. The universe around us proclaims order. The conscience within us proclaims moral law. The longing of the heart proclaims purpose. All these voices sing together in harmony, pointing to a single Composer. Reason hears the melody and recognizes its beauty. Faith rises to its feet and joins the song.

True faith is not blind; it is enlightened trust. It is the soul’s response to the evidence that surrounds it on every side. Reason examines the structure of the cosmos and sees the trace of design. Faith bows before the Designer. Reason studies the human heart and finds a hunger that nothing temporal can fill. Faith turns toward eternity and says, “You are what I have been seeking.” The two are not enemies but companions—reason is the lamp that shows the path, and faith is the step that takes it.

But faith, to be real, must have an object worthy of it. The strength of faith lies not in how tightly we hold it, but in the reliability of what we hold. A frail hand grasping a strong rope is safer than a strong hand grasping air. To believe in mere chance or chaos is to trust in nothing. To believe in God—the eternal Mind behind all minds—is to anchor our reason in the very ground of reality. The God who made the brain does not despise its logic. The God who gave us the power to think calls us to use it in seeking Him.

When faith and reason walk together, they lead the soul home. Reason builds the bridge from the earth upward; faith walks across it to the heart of God. To believe, then, is not to close one’s eyes to truth but to open them to its fullness. It is to see that behind every cause stands the First Cause, behind every thought the Thinker, behind every law the Lawgiver. Faith is the light that dawns when reason runs out of words—and in that light, the universe makes sense.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

HOLY DESIRE AND HOLY LOVE

“So God created man in His own image; in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them” (Genesis 1:27).

When the heart truly desires God, it also desires to walk in His design. In every generation, the people of God must learn again that love is not defined by the shifting winds of culture, but by the unchanging Word of the Lord. Marriage is a holy covenant, born in the garden before sin entered the world, between one man and one woman (Genesis 2:24; Matthew 19:4-6). It is God’s appointed place for the beauty of physical intimacy, a reflection of Christ and His Church (Ephesians 5:31-32).

Yet our fallen hearts often long for things outside of that sacred boundary. Some wrestle with desires for those of the same sex; others are tempted toward adultery or impurity of many kinds. All are called to the same cross. The call of Christ is to deny ourselves, take up our cross daily, and follow Him (Luke 9:23). We are not condemned for temptation, but we are called to resist its pull and submit every desire to the Lordship of Christ.

It is not a sin to love another person. Love, in its purest form, is the very essence of God (1 John 4:8). But sin enters when love is distorted into lust or when affection moves outside the bounds God has ordained. The world says we find freedom in self-expression; Christ says we find freedom in obedience (John 8:31-32).

Many who follow Jesus experience deep, lifelong struggles in this area. They are not less loved, nor are they beyond grace. The church must learn to embrace with compassion those who walk this narrow road. We dare not single out one sin for condemnation while excusing others such as greed, pride, or materialism (Romans 2:1). The same grace that forgives the liar and the self-righteous also forgives the sexually broken. The gospel levels us all at the foot of the cross.

To desire God above all else means surrendering even the most personal parts of our identity to His will. It means believing that His ways are not only right but good (Psalm 18:30). His commands are not chains—they are the pathway to joy. The Holy Spirit enables what the flesh cannot do. He gives strength to the weary heart and purity to the willing soul (Galatians 5:16).

The church must speak truth, but always with tears in its eyes. Christ came full of grace and truth (John 1:14), never one without the other. To follow Him means holding both firmly—standing with Scripture and kneeling beside the sinner.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

THE OLD MAN IS DEAD (And for the Record, I Don’t Like Him Either)

Jesus said we must deny ourselves and take up our cross daily (Matthew 16:24). But what does that truly mean? Peter, in a moment of fear, denied the Lord, saying, “I do not know Him; I have nothing to do with that man” (Matthew 26:74). In a way, that is exactly the picture of what we are called to do with the old self—not deny Christ, but deny the old man, the person we were before Jesus came took over our life.

To deny self is to look at the life you lived before Christ was actually given control and say, “That man is dead. I do not know him. He has nothing to do with me. I will not discuss him. I will not revisit the past. That person was awful. I do not blame anyone for thinking what they think about him, but he is gone.” The old man has been crucified with Christ, and He has replaced him. Christ has stepped in to drive the life, to guide the decisions, and to set the course of every day. Give Christ the glory. Let Him shine in every corner that was once shadowed by sin or failure.

This change is not hidden. My life has a sharp contrast, visible to anyone willing to look. There is a difference between the man I was and the man Christ has made me. Some who have lived a good moral life may not show such a stark contrast, and that is understandable. But with me, it is obvious. You can see the difference when Bryan is driving and when Jesus is driving. The old self is dead. It is over. It cannot steer this life any longer.

This is what Paul meant when he wrote in 2 Corinthians 5:17: “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new.” The old self, with all its failures, fears, and folly, is gone. What remains is Christ living in me, guiding my steps, shaping my heart, and empowering my life. It is not about perfection; it is about transformation.

Denying self does not mean ignoring the past or pretending it never existed. It means recognizing that the past has no power over the new creation. It means refusing to revisit the failures, the shame, and the guilt of yesterday. It means stepping forward in the freedom Christ purchased on the cross, walking in the light of His grace, and allowing His Spirit to produce fruit in every part of life.

This is the beauty and the mystery of a life surrendered to Christ. When He drives, the decisions, the words, the actions, and even the thoughts reflect His kingdom. The old man has nothing to say; his voice is silenced. All that remains is Christ living fully, abundantly, and freely in the believer.

Let us then deny the old self with confidence. Let us refuse to revisit it. Let us allow Christ to take full control, knowing that every moment in His hands is covered with grace, provision, and direction. The contrast between what we were and what we are in Christ is proof of His transforming power. Give Him the glory. Let Him shine. The old man is dead. It is over. Christ lives, and in Him, all things are made new.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

THE GOD WHO CANNOT NOT EXIST

Try to imagine absolute nothing. No space, no matter, no energy, no time, no laws of nature — not even emptiness. Just nothing at all. But the more you try to imagine it, the harder it becomes. The mind almost refuses to think about it. Because if there was ever a time when nothing existed, then nothing could exist now. From nothing, nothing can come. That is not religion; it is simple logic. Every effect has a cause, every movement needs something to start it, every created thing must have a maker. To deny that is to deny reason itself.

Yet many people today begin their thinking with the idea that everything came from nothing. They say the universe somehow made itself, without purpose or plan. Some use scientific language like “quantum energy” or “spontaneous creation,” but in the end, it is the same idea — that nothing made everything. But nothing cannot act, cannot move, and cannot create. Nothing cannot do anything at all. To say the world came from nothing is like saying a book wrote itself while no one was looking.

So, the existence of God is not just one idea among others. It is the only idea that makes sense of everything else. Saying “there is no God” is like saying “there is no truth” — you use truth to say it. In the same way, you use logic and reason, which only make sense if there is a God who created order. Denying God is like cutting off the tree branch you are sitting on, and still expecting to float in the air. The simple truth is this: because something exists, something must have always existed. And whatever has always existed must be eternal, uncaused, and independent of everything else. That eternal reality is what we mean by God.

The old Christian thinker Thomas Aquinas explained this clearly. He began, not with faith, but with observation. He looked at motion, cause and effect, and how everything in the world depends on something else to exist. Then he asked, “Why does anything exist at all?” He said: everything that moves must be moved by something else, but this cannot go back forever. If there were no First Mover, nothing would move now. There must be a First Mover who started it all — one who was never moved by anything else. Then he looked at causes. Every effect has a cause, but an endless chain of causes explains nothing. Somewhere there must be a First Cause that itself was not caused — a Being whose very nature is to exist.

Aquinas also saw that everything in the world depends on something else to keep existing. Nothing we see has to exist; everything is temporary and dependent. So if everything were like that — dependent and temporary — then at one time, nothing would have existed. And if that were true, nothing could exist now. So there must be one Being that must exist, one whose existence is necessary and cannot be taken away. That Being gives life and existence to everything else. Aquinas called God “Being itself.” God does not just exist — He is existence. He cannot not exist. Every star that shines, every heartbeat, every thought, is proof that He is real.

The universe cannot explain itself. It is like a painting that points to its painter, a song that points to its composer. The world is full of evidence that it was made on purpose. The sky, the mountains, the stars — all preach a silent message every day: God is real. Every sunrise and every raindrop repeats that sermon. All of creation points beyond itself. The only way to deny this message is to close your eyes and stop your ears to it.

To deny God takes more faith than to believe in Him. The unbeliever must believe that order came from chaos, that intelligence came from mindless matter, that love and morality somehow appeared from dead atoms. They must believe that beauty, justice, and truth are only accidents. That is not reason — that is faith in nothing. And even when a person argues against God, they are using the mind and logic that only exist because of Him. They use the gift to deny the Giver.

Look honestly at nature and you will feel something beyond it. The stars speak of purpose. The laws of the universe are too perfect to be random. The human heart knows right from wrong in a way no animal or machine can explain. Even the one who does not believe in God still loves, forgives, and hopes — things that dust and atoms cannot do. Something deep inside every person knows there is Someone greater. When the heart grows quiet, when the noise of the world fades, we sense it. The truth of God is not far away; it is near, waiting to be recognized.

To live in this world and say there is no God is like standing in a museum and denying there was ever an artist. It is like feeling the warmth of the sun and insisting the sun does not exist. A person can stop their ears to faith, but not to reality. Every heartbeat, every breath, every moment of life is evidence that we are not self-made. Even the air we breathe is a gift from the One we often forget.

So the existence of God is not far away or hard to see. It is the most certain thing there is. He is nearer than thought, more sure than math, more lasting than time itself. To argue against Him is to use the very logic that He designed. The material world rests on invisible laws and order — things that point to an invisible Lawgiver. Whether people admit it or not, the whole universe glows with the light of God’s presence.

Faith does not begin where reason ends. It begins where reason has done its work and bows before something greater. When reason reaches its highest point, it finds worship waiting there. For when the mind runs out of answers, the heart still whispers, “There must be more.” And that “more” is not an idea, but a Person — the One whose existence makes everything else possible.

God does not depend on belief to be real. He simply is. He is the source of all being, the ground of all truth, and the reason anything exists at all. The universe is His signature, and life is His testimony. To look at creation and not see Him is not wisdom; it is blindness. The heavens tell His glory every day — not only through ancient words, but through every law of nature, every star, every breath.

And if everything depends on Him, then every breath is a gift. Every thought, every heartbeat, every moment of life comes from His hand. The one who denies Him still lives by His mercy. Nothing comes from nothing — but everything, even doubt itself, comes from God.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

THE UNIVERSAL NEED FOR SALVATION

There is no truth more solemn, and yet none more filled with hope, than this: everyone in this world stands in need of salvation. From the palace to the prison, from the scholar to the shepherd, from the young man’s first rebellion to the aged man’s last sigh—each one stands in need of Christ. “All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:23). Sin has entered every heart, polluted every thought, and cast a long shadow upon every path. It is the great leveler of mankind. No crown, no creed, no culture can erase its stain.

And yet, into this darkness shines the light of a greater truth: the love of God that seeks, saves, and restores. The story of the gospel begins not with our worthiness, but with His mercy. “For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life” (John 3:16). The cross of Christ stands as heaven’s answer to the universal need of man’s soul.

The Fall and the Fracture

When Adam stood in the garden, clothed in innocence and fellowship with God, he was the picture of what man was meant to be. But when he disobeyed, something far deeper than physical death began to work in him. The soul that had walked with God turned inward, and darkness settled upon the heart. Sin broke the bond between the creature and the Creator. What had been light became shadow, what had been peace became fear.

When the Lord called out, “Adam, where are you?” (Genesis 3:9), it was not the question of One who did not know—it was the cry of divine grief. God was searching not for information but for reconciliation.

Sin is not merely the breaking of a rule; it is the breaking of a relationship. It is rebellion against the holiness of God. It blinds the mind, hardens the heart, and weakens the will. It separates us from the very Source of life. Sin has made self the center of the universe. This is the sickness that infects all humanity: we have chosen self over God, pride over humility, pleasure over purity.

The consequence is clear—death reigns. “The wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Romans 6:23). Man’s condition is not one of minor injury but of spiritual death. Without Christ, we are lifeless toward God, powerless to change ourselves, and unable to produce righteousness.

The Cry of the Conscience

Even those who deny God cannot silence the whisper of conscience. Deep within, there is a knowing that things are not as they should be. The conscience, though marred by sin, still bears the echo of God’s moral image. “When Gentiles, who do not have the law, by nature do the things in the law…they show the work of the law written in their hearts, their conscience also bearing witness” (Romans 2:14–15).

This inner voice calls to every man and woman: You are accountable. Humanity may clothe itself with philosophy, morality, or religion, yet the heart still trembles when it hears that still, small voice of conviction. When David sinned, he said, “My sin is always before me. Against You, You only, have I sinned, and done this evil in Your sight” (Psalm 51:3–4). The conscience awakens to this truth—our greatest wrong is not against man but against God.

And if our sin is against God, then only God can forgive. The soul that feels the weight of guilt begins to look upward. It cries for mercy, and that cry is the first movement toward salvation. A sense of sin is the doorstep to the house of mercy. Until the sinner feels lost, he will not seek to be found. Until the heart is broken, it cannot be healed.

The Hopelessness of Human Effort

Since the fall, man has been trying to climb back to God by the ladder of his own goodness. Religion without redemption has filled the world with false hope. Men have built temples, offered sacrifices, and multiplied prayers—all in an effort to bridge the gulf between holiness and sin. But no human hand can build a bridge to heaven. The height is too great, and the foundation too weak.

God’s Word exposes the futility of self-righteousness. “By the deeds of the law no flesh will be justified in His sight” (Romans 3:20). “All our righteousnesses are like filthy rags” (Isaiah 64:6). Even the best of men stand guilty before the throne. If salvation could be earned, Christ died in vain. The gospel does not call us to try harder but to surrender fully.

Man’s part is to yield and trust; God’s part is to cleanse and fill. The sinner’s great mistake is believing that he can fix himself. The cross reveals otherwise. Only the blood of Jesus can wash away sin. Only the grace of God can create a new heart. As long as a man trusts in himself, he remains outside of salvation.

The man who believes himself righteous is the man most in danger. The man who feels himself a sinner is the one nearest to grace. The first step to life is admitting death. The first step to peace is surrendering pride. Salvation begins where self ends.

The Justice and the Love of God

The holiness of God demands justice; His love provides mercy. Both meet perfectly in Jesus Christ. At the cross, justice and mercy kiss. The same God who cannot overlook sin has chosen to bear it Himself. He is both Judge and Justifier of the one who believes in Jesus (Romans 3:26).

Sin cannot simply be excused. Every act of rebellion must be judged, for the universe stands upon the moral law of a righteous God. Yet that judgment fell upon the sinless One. “He made Him who knew no sin to be sin for us, that we might become the righteousness of God in Him” (2 Corinthians 5:21).

This is the wonder of divine love: God took upon Himself the penalty we deserved. On that cross, Christ bore the weight of every lie, every betrayal, every act of pride and cruelty. He entered the darkness that we might walk in the light. “Christ also suffered once for sins, the just for the unjust, that He might bring us to God” (1 Peter 3:18).

Holiness does not destroy the sinner—it transforms him through the fire of grace. The cross reveals that salvation is not man reaching up, but God stooping down. It is the outstretched arms of Jesus saying, “Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28).

The Universality of the Call

Because the need is universal, so is the call. “Whoever calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved” (Romans 10:13). No nation, no class, no past sin can disqualify one from the invitation of grace. The gospel is for the whole world. The blood of Christ speaks a language that every heart can understand—the language of mercy.

Consider the thief on the cross. In his dying moments, he turned to Jesus and said, “Lord, remember me when You come into Your kingdom.” And Jesus answered, “Assuredly, I say to you, today you will be with Me in Paradise” (Luke 23:42–43). There was no time for works, no ceremony, no pretense—only faith in the Savior beside him.

Or think of Saul of Tarsus, once a persecutor of the church, yet transformed by the very One he sought to destroy. The same Jesus who met him on the Damascus road now calls to every sinner, “Why do you resist Me?” (Acts 9:4). None are beyond His reach. The arms that were stretched out in suffering are still stretched out in invitation.

Christ died for the ungodly (Romans 5:6). He came “to seek and to save that which was lost” (Luke 19:10). The universality of sin is matched only by the universality of grace. Wherever sin abounds, grace abounds much more (Romans 5:20).

The Gift and the Response

Salvation, though freely offered, must be personally received. God will not force His love upon a soul that will not yield. “As many as received Him, to them He gave the right to become children of God” (John 1:12).

Faith is the open hand that takes what grace provides. Repentance is the turning of the heart from self to God. Baptism is the act of obedience by which we call upon His name (Acts 22:16). Each element belongs to the one great response of faith.

When the crowd at Pentecost cried, “What shall we do?” Peter answered, “Repent, and let every one of you be baptized in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins, and you shall receive the gift of the Holy Spirit” (Acts 2:37–38). The gospel is not vague; it is clear. The sinner’s path to salvation is illuminated by divine instruction.

Faith is dependence upon God in the moment of need. Repentance is the heart’s farewell to sin and its warm embrace of Christ. To be saved is not merely to escape punishment—it is to be united with the Savior, to live in His fellowship, to walk in His light.

The Urgency of the Hour

There is a tender solemnity in the voice of the gospel. It calls now. “Behold, now is the accepted time; behold, now is the day of salvation” (2 Corinthians 6:2). Tomorrow is not promised. Every hour brings eternity closer. To delay is to risk the soul.

The tragedy of our age is not ignorance of religion but indifference to it. Men speak of grace as though it were a luxury, not a necessity. But eternity is real. Death is certain. Judgment is sure. “It is appointed for men to die once, but after this the judgment” (Hebrews 9:27). The only safe refuge is Christ.

Spurgeon once cried from his pulpit, “You are hanging over the flames by a thread, and that thread is breaking.” Yet he would also lift his hands and say, “But there is life in a look at the Crucified One.” The same Jesus who warned of hell also wept over Jerusalem. He desires that all be saved.

Do not wait for a more convenient time. The Spirit of God calls today. The same voice that said, “Lazarus, come forth,” still speaks to dead hearts and brings them to life. The power that raised Christ from the grave can raise you from sin.

The Joy of the Redeemed

When a soul comes to Christ, the universe itself seems to rejoice. “There is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents” (Luke 15:10). The burden of guilt is lifted, the chains of fear are broken, and the heart that once fled from God now runs toward Him.

Salvation is not the end of the story—it is the beginning of a new life. The believer becomes a new creation. “Old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new” (2 Corinthians 5:17). The Spirit of God dwells within, bearing witness that we are His children. The Word of God becomes our food, the will of God our delight, the glory of God our aim.

Conclusion

The need for salvation is universal because sin is universal. But the provision of salvation is equally universal because the Savior is sufficient for all. There is no pit so deep that His love cannot reach, no stain so dark that His blood cannot cleanse, no heart so hard that His grace cannot soften.

If you have never come to Him, come now. Confess your need. Call upon His name. Lay your sins at His feet and rise to walk in newness of life. The same Jesus who died for the world waits for you. He has promised, “The one who comes to Me I will by no means cast out” (John 6:37).

Let your heart echo the words of the psalmist: “I will take up the cup of salvation, and call upon the name of the Lord” (Psalm 116:13). For in that call lies the answer to every need, the peace for every heart, the salvation of every soul.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

GOD CLOTHES THE GRASS OF THE FIELD, AND HE WILL TAKE CARE OF YOU (or “Why Would Anyone Throw Grass Into An Oven?”)

In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus called our hearts away from the cares of this passing life. He said in Matthew 6:28–31: “And why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Therefore, if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is, and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will He not much more clothe you, O you of little faith?”

The meaning is simple enough for anyone to understand, yet if we have grown up in the West, the picture Jesus paints may seem strange. Who has ever seen grass thrown into an oven? But those who lived in the Near East understood right away. Ovens were simple, heated chambers of mud brick or stone, fired with dry fuel—twigs, stalks, or heavy grass that had baked under the fierce sun. The same stalks that yesterday held a bloom might become tomorrow’s fire for baking bread. Jesus’ hearers could picture it immediately: life is fleeting, the glory of creation passes, yet God cares for it all.

He pointed to the lilies, blooming on sturdy stalks with broad leaves. They neither toil nor spin, yet their beauty surpasses even the wealth of King Solomon. He said to notice the grass of the field—here today, thrown into the oven tomorrow. If God tends the grass, how much more will He care for His own children? The lilies and the grass speak of a God who watches every detail, a Father who clothes His creation with splendor and gives it purpose, even in its brief life.

When I consider my own life, I see how fleeting it is compared to eternity. Our days are brief, our achievements small, our wealth temporary. Why, then, should we spend so much time anxious over clothing, over food, over the passing things of this world? Why should worry and toil dominate the short journey from cradle to grave? Instead, our hearts should long for the kingdom of God and His righteousness. Every need of ours is known to Him. He who adorns the lilies and clothes the grass will not forget us.

All flesh is like the grass. Even those gifted with beauty, strength, or wisdom are fleeting. Their glory is temporary. The lilies do not toil, yet they bloom in a splendor that Solomon himself could not rival. How much more should we seek the beauty that comes from knowledge, wisdom, and grace—the adornments of a soul shaped by Christ—rather than the fleeting decorations of fine clothing or earthly approval. The lesson is simple: do not be anxious for tomorrow, do not chase pride in your attire, do not place your heart on what will fade. Trust God to meet your needs and guide your days.

And so Jesus’ parable carries us deeper: if God gives life, beauty, and provision to the flowers and the grass, shall we not trust Him to clothe us in His grace, to supply our daily needs, and to guide our steps? The fleeting things of this world will pass away, but God’s kingdom is eternal.

As 1 John 2:15–17 reminds us: “Do not love the world or the things in the world. If anyone loves the world, the love of the Father is not in him. For all that is in the world—the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life—is not of the Father but is of the world. And the world is passing away, and the lust of it; but he who does the will of God abides forever.”

Let the lilies teach us, let the grass remind us, and let our hearts rest in the faithful hand of Christ. Let us not chase after what is fleeting, but seek His kingdom, His righteousness, and the eternal joy of walking in His presence each day.

Father, open my eyes to see Your hand in everything around me. Let me notice the lilies in the field, the grass that blooms and fades, the sun that rises and sets, and the stars that shine in the night. Teach me to read Your care and wisdom in all creation, so that I may trust You more each day. Help me to remember that if You tend the flowers and clothe the grass, You will surely provide for me, Your child. May my heart rest in Your faithful hand, and may every breath I take be filled with gratitude for Your goodness and provision. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

CHRIST UPHOLDS ALL THINGS

“He is the radiance of His glory and the exact representation of His nature, and upholds all things by the word of His power” (Hebrews 1:3).

All creation hangs upon a single Word—the Word made flesh, Jesus Christ. Every star that burns in the vast heavens, every wave that breaks upon the shore, every breath that fills a human lung—each continues because Christ wills it to be so. He is not a distant Creator who set the universe in motion and withdrew. He is the ever-present Sustainer, holding all things together by the power of His spoken will (Colossians 1:17).

What a humbling thought—that the same Word that healed the leper and calmed the storm is the Word that even now sustains the atoms of our existence. If Christ were to withdraw His power for a single moment, all would collapse into nothingness. The universe endures, not by the laws of nature alone, but by the authority of the One who authored them. His Word is law, His will is life.

This truth is not merely cosmic—it is personal. The Christ who upholds galaxies also upholds souls. He holds together our fragile faith when doubts arise, our trembling hearts when fears surround, and our broken lives when sin has shattered our peace. When we feel as though all strength is gone, He whispers again the creative word, “Peace, be still” (Mark 4:39). And life is renewed.

Many imagine the world as spiraling toward chaos, yet Scripture reveals a deeper reality: the Son of God reigns over every molecule of matter, every movement of history, every heartbeat of creation (Ephesians 1:20–22). Nothing is outside His sustaining power. Even the darkness that confuses us is not outside His control. What we see as disorder, He orders according to the counsel of His will (Romans 8:28).

To believe that Christ upholds all things is to find rest in the midst of uncertainty. The Christian does not need to understand every mystery of life, for he trusts the One who governs all. We can cast every care upon Him, knowing that the hand that shaped the stars also carries our burdens (1 Peter 5:7). He upholds us when we stumble, strengthens us when we fall, and keeps us until the day we see Him face to face (Jude 24).

One day, the same Word that now sustains will speak again, and all creation will be made new. The heavens and the earth will melt away, not in destruction but in transformation, as the glory of Christ fills all things (Revelation 21:5). Until that day, we live in the comfort of this truth: He who upholds all things will also uphold us. His Word will never fail.

Lord Jesus, You hold the stars in Your hand and the breath in my lungs. Uphold me by the word of Your power. When my faith wavers, strengthen it. When my heart grows weary, renew it. Help me to rest in the assurance that nothing in heaven or on earth is beyond Your care. Keep me near to You until the day all things are made new in Your light. Amen.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

TRUE SPIRITUALITY

The Christian life is the divine experiment of grace made visible in human form. We are vessels, not merely of belief, but of purpose — instruments through which the eternal intentions of God flow into time. The Creator, who governs galaxies and atoms with the same quiet command, has redeemed us from the futility of living for self. We have not been rescued to rest, but to walk — not to sit in the still pew of comfort, but to move in the living current of good works prepared before the dawn of creation. “For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand that we should walk in them.” The true Christian does not merely do good things; he becomes a conduit of divine goodness itself.

The order of divine life is precise: the presence of God must precede the purpose of God. From communion springs commission. To seek His will without seeking His face is like attempting to draw power from a machine without first connecting it to its source. God reveals His purpose only to those who live near enough to hear His whisper. This is the first law of true spirituality — to love the Lord with all one’s heart, soul, and mind. Until that love becomes supreme, every other ambition is disordered, every work premature. The soul that does not walk intimately with Jesus cannot rightly work for Him.

Much that is called “Christian work” today is simply human effort baptized in religious language. It can be efficient, even admirable, but it may not be spiritual. The world applauds moral activity, but heaven measures only the movement of grace through yielded hearts. True divine work is never self-originated. It is the breath of Christ exhaled through human vessels of clay. God has chosen to hide His power in earthen forms so that the glory might remain His. The hands move, the lips speak, the feet go — yet it is God who works within both to will and to do His good pleasure.

Here is the heart of all spirituality: abiding. Not striving, but staying. Not rushing into activity, but remaining in dependence. Our Lord’s parable of the vine and branches describes not the tension of labor but the tranquility of connection. The branch does not force fruit into existence; it simply abides, and the life of the vine does the rest. This is a divine equation as fixed as the laws of physics. Just as the stars keep their appointed courses by the gravity that holds them, so the Christian bears fruit only by the unseen gravity of grace.

When Jesus said, “Without Me you can do nothing,” He was not speaking metaphorically. Apart from Him, nothing truly spiritual can be achieved. There may be outcomes, but not fruit; achievements, but not abiding value. Just as no instrument can produce music once severed from the musician, so no believer can manifest God’s work apart from union with Christ. The law of spiritual productivity is constant: connection determines creation. Therefore our greatest work is not to work, but to remain connected.

Yet how rarely this is understood! Religion multiplies activity while neglecting intimacy. We substitute the machinery of programs for the mystery of presence. True spirituality, however, is not common among those who claim the name of Christ. It requires a surrender of self-sufficiency, a deliberate yielding of will to the quiet authority of Jesus. To abide is to live every moment in conscious dependence upon Him — to breathe, think, act, and rest in His presence. It is the rarest and highest art of Christian life.

And so the measure of true spirituality is not the amount of work we do, but the degree to which Christ lives through us. To abide in Him is to participate in the logic of divine life — as natural as light from the sun, as inevitable as fruit from the branch. When the soul remains in union with its Savior, all of heaven’s resources flow through it, and the world beholds not the worker, but the work of God. This is the mind of faith, the science of grace, the true spirituality that weds devotion to understanding — a life where Christ is both the power and the purpose, the reason and the result.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

THE PARTY SPIRIT

The unity of believers in Jesus Christ is a sacred and living reality, not a mere ideal or aspiration. It is “by one Spirit” that “we were all baptized into one body” (1 Corinthians 12:13). This unity is not achieved by human diplomacy nor preserved by ecclesiastical systems. It is a divine creation—born at Calvary, sealed at Pentecost, and sustained by the indwelling Spirit of God.

When Paul wrote to the Ephesians, he declared that Christ “has made both one” and “has broken down the middle wall of separation” (Ephesians 2:14). Jew and Gentile, far and near, sinner and saint—all reconciled in one body through the cross. Unity, therefore, is not something to be manufactured; it is something to be recognized. It is already accomplished. Our task is not to create it, but to “keep the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace” (Ephesians 4:3).

The unity of believers is heaven’s music on earth—a harmony composed by the Spirit, not performed by the flesh. Yet, how often the sweet song is drowned out by the harsh noise of division. The “party spirit” is the discordant note in the symphony of grace. Scripture calls it by its proper name: a work of the flesh (Galatians 5:20). Factions, divisions, and sects arise not from the heart of Christ but from the pride of man. Those who walk by the Spirit will not be carried away by such earthly winds, for the Spirit binds, while the flesh separates.

What, then, is this “party spirit”? It is the sin of the self-exalting heart. It is the spirit that would rather champion a cause than cherish a brother. It is the arrogance that builds little kingdoms within the kingdom of God. It is the failure to see that all who are one with Christ are already one with each other. When believers rally around human names and sectarian banners—when they elevate their teachers above their Savior—they are no longer following the Shepherd’s voice but the echo of their own opinions. “Is Christ divided?” cried Paul. “Was Paul crucified for you?” (1 Corinthians 1:13).

O that we would remember the blood that unites us! The same crimson tide that washed Peter clean also cleansed Paul. The same grace that saved you saved me. The same Spirit who indwells the saint in one assembly lives in the saint across the sea. We do not meet each other at the level of preference, but at the foot of the cross.

Let us then guard this holy unity—not with swords of argument but with hearts of humility. Let us be slow to speak and swift to love. Let us renounce every divisive impulse, and cherish the family God has made. For the Spirit who knit us together in one body will not bless the hand that tears the body apart.

“Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity!” (Psalm 133:1). It is the fragrance of heaven on earth, the dew of Hermon upon the soul. May we keep it pure, until the day when all divisions cease, and the whole redeemed company sings as one voice before the throne: “Worthy is the Lamb that was slain!” (Revelation 5:12).

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

THE LIFE OF THE CROSS

The Christian life is not a stroll through the world’s gardens, but a pilgrimage toward the City of God.  We walk as strangers among shadows, knowing that this present world is passing away.  Yet the heart that clings to Christ walks with quiet confidence, for the cross we carry today will become the crown we cast before His throne.

The apostle said, “I determined not to know anything among you except Jesus Christ and Him crucified.”  To know Christ in this way is to see everything else fade into its proper place. The Christian’s whole outlook must be governed by the cross. Our thoughts, our ambitions, and our very identity are to be crucified with Him.  Only then do we see how hollow the applause of the world really is, and how solid the hope of glory.

When a believer learns to rest in the finished work of Jesus, he no longer hungers for the praise of men.  His joy is drawn from a deeper well — from the endless grace that flows from Calvary.  The mind that once chased after the wisdom of this age now finds satisfaction in knowing Christ.  The heart that once trembled at death now rejoices in the promise of resurrection life.

This is not theory; it is transformation.  The gospel is not a call to improve but a call to die — and to rise again in Him.  The Spirit forms within us a new affection, a longing for the things above.  We begin to see our sufferings not as obstacles but as instruments shaping us into the likeness of our Lord.  Here is true freedom: to be bound only to Jesus, and to walk through the world as those who already belong elsewhere.

So let us fix our eyes upon Him.  Let every thought, every plan, every heartbeat revolve around the cross.  For in knowing Christ crucified, we find everything our souls were made to seek — wisdom, righteousness, redemption, and peace.  Nothing but Christ, and in Him, everything.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

CALLING ON THE NAME OF THE LORD

“Whoever calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved.” (Romans 10:13)

From the very dawn of human history, salvation has been tied to this simple yet sacred act — calling upon the name of the Lord. It is not a ritual for the lips alone, nor a mere whisper of desperation; it is the cry of the heart that knows its need and reaches toward the mercy of God. When Paul wrote, “Whoever calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved,” he was not introducing a new doctrine but fulfilling an ancient promise that began long before the cross and culminated upon it.

The first mention of this phrase appears in Genesis 4:26: “Then men began to call on the name of the Lord.” This followed the birth of Enosh, the grandson of Adam. In a world already stained by sin, there arose a remnant that sought the living God. They turned their faces heavenward and began to “call.” The Hebrew word used there, qārā’ (קָרָא), means “to cry out,” “to proclaim,” “to summon,” or “to invoke.” It is not passive. It is the urgent plea of a soul that knows God is its only refuge. From the beginning, those who belonged to the Lord were those who called upon Him — not in theory, but in truth.

Abraham built altars and “called on the name of the Lord” (Genesis 12:8). So did Isaac (Genesis 26:25) and David (Psalm 116:13). Each time the phrase appears, it carries the same pulse of life — worship, dependence, and surrender. To call upon His name is to confess that He alone is God, that His mercy alone can save, that His will alone is good. It is not a casual murmur but the turning of the soul toward its Maker.

The prophets continued this theme. Joel declared, “Whoever calls on the name of the Lord shall be delivered” (Joel 2:32). That promise is the very verse the Apostle Peter quoted on the Day of Pentecost when he preached the first gospel sermon (Acts 2:21). There, the prophecy found its full meaning. Peter’s hearers, convicted of their sin, cried out, “What shall we do?” And Peter answered, “Repent and be baptized every one of you in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins.” They called on His name in faith, repentance, and obedience — not by empty words but by surrendering their lives to Him.

The Greek word for “call” in Romans 10:13 is ἐπικαλέω (epikaleō). It means “to invoke,” “to appeal to,” or “to call upon for aid.” It is an earnest prayer. It means to invoke God from the heart. It is the same word used when Paul recounted his own conversion. Ananias said to him, “Arise and be baptized, and wash away your sins, calling on the name of the Lord” (Acts 22:16). The word itself reveals that to call on Christ is to invoke Him as Savior, to come to Him personally, to place one’s trust wholly in His name, and to respond in the way He commands.

Calling on the Lord, then, is not a mere cry in the night; it is a movement of the heart and life toward God. It includes faith — believing that He is who He says He is. It includes repentance — turning away from self and sin. It includes obedience — expressing that faith and repentance through baptism, just as Paul did. And it continues throughout the believer’s life in prayer, worship, and devotion. Those who call upon His name do not stop calling. Their lives become a continual echo of that first cry for mercy.

True prayer is the surrender of the human will to God’s will. Salvation is not by the merit of the mouth, but by the faith of the heart that breathes out its cry to God. It leads us quietly to the foot of the cross, where every sinner can whisper, “Jesus, my Savior and my Lord, I call upon Your name.”

This is what it means to call upon the name of the Lord — to turn to Him in full trust, to invoke His mercy, to depend upon His power, and to submit to His will. The sinner calls, and the Savior answers. The one who cries, “Lord, save me!” finds that the hand of Jesus is already reaching down (Matthew 14:30-31).

And so the promise stands: “Whoever calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved.” Whoever — not the perfect, not the strong, not the wise — but whoever. That means you. That means now.

Lord Jesus, I call upon Your name. You are my only hope, my Redeemer, my Friend. Cleanse me, forgive me, fill me with Your Spirit. Let my life be a continual calling upon You — not in word only, but in faith, love, and obedience. In Your precious name I pray, Amen.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

FAITH THAT LIVES

Faith is not a word we wear—it is a life we live. It is not a certificate of belief, but a continual surrender to the will of Christ. True faith moves the heart to obedience and the hands to service. It is more than something we say; it is something we show. As James wrote, “Faith without works is dead” (James 2:26). Real faith breathes, walks, and loves. It is seen in the quiet acts of those who trust God when the night is long and the way is hidden.

Jesus never called anyone to half-hearted belief. He called us to follow—to take up our cross and walk in His steps (Luke 9:23). Faith that only speaks will fade, but faith that serves will shine. It is one thing to say, “I believe,” and another to live as though Christ is truly Lord. The world listens more to the sermon we live than to the one we preach. A single act of kindness born of faith often says more than a thousand words of theology.

The early disciples turned their world upside down because they first turned their hearts right side up. They believed deeply and loved boldly. Their faith was not hidden behind closed doors; it walked the streets, fed the hungry, and comforted the broken. That same living faith can still change hearts today—one prayer, one act of mercy, one word of truth at a time. Faith that loves cannot stay silent.

Our faith is tested not in comfort but in trial. It holds steady when the winds blow and hope seems dim. It trusts when understanding fails. When our strength gives out, faith leans harder on the everlasting arms. The fire of adversity does not destroy real faith—it refines it. In the furnace of hardship, we learn that our foundation is not in ourselves, but in Christ alone.

So let us keep our faith alive—faith that prays, faith that works, faith that endures. Let it be known not merely by what we say, but by how we serve. Let our hearts reflect His love, and our lives display His light. For when faith is alive, it points beyond us—to the One who said, “Be faithful until death, and I will give you the crown of life” (Revelation 2:10).

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

JESUS KNOWS

Nobody knows how it feels to be you. Nobody carries your thoughts or has lived your life in the same order and manner as you have. No one has felt every rise and fall of your heart the way you have. Sometimes even we can’t make sense of our own story — how the pieces fit, how the chapters blend, how the tears and laughter somehow belong to the same book. But it all makes perfect sense to God.

We often wish others could walk a mile in our shoes, just to understand. Elvis sang it once, though the saying goes back to an old proverb about walking a mile in another man’s moccasins. Yet the truth remains — no one has walked your road but you. And still, there is One who understands it better than you do yourself. Christ has walked the loneliest road. He has felt the weight of every burden and the ache of every heart. Our High Priest knows how it feels down here (Hebrews 4:15).

Sometimes I’ve thought how interesting it would be if I could hand my mind to someone else and let them live with it for a while — just to see if they could do any better with it than I have. Believe me, they wouldn’t want to find out. There are memories that weigh heavy, temptations and mental struggles and failures that are uniquely mine, thoughts that run deep, and battles that few ever see. Yet I’m sure you’ve felt the same about your own mind. We each carry a world inside our heads that no one else can fully enter. And that’s why I’m so thankful that Christ understands even the corners of my mind that confuse me. He knows what it feels like to be me — and He knows what it feels like to be you. “You understand my thoughts from afar” (Psalm 139:2).

So, when no one understands, He does. When even your own heart feels like a mystery, He knows. “You direct my path and my lying down, and You are acquainted with all my ways” (Psalm 139:3). You are you — wonderfully and fearfully made (Psalm 139:14) — and God does not make mistakes. Your life may not make sense to anyone else, but it is a masterpiece in progress under the hand of the Master Artist.

“The Lord knows them that are His. He never mistakes His own, and He never forgets them.” So live for an audience of One. Keep your thoughts fixed on Jesus, for He knows you fully, loves you completely, and walks every unseen mile beside you.

Lord Jesus, thank You for knowing me when I don’t even understand myself. When my thoughts are tangled and my path feels unclear, remind me that You see every step and understand every sigh. Help me to rest in the comfort of Your knowledge and not in the opinions of others. Teach me to live for You alone — to walk humbly, to trust deeply, and to love faithfully. You are my peace in confusion, my friend in solitude, and my Savior in every season. Amen.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway 

HE HEARS THE WHISPER OF YOUR HEART

There is a time to bow the head and fold the hands in prayer. There is a time to rise from that place and go on with the day. Yet prayer does not end when we rise. The truest prayer continues in the quiet places of the heart, where words give way to awareness. “Pray without ceasing” (1 Thessalonians 5:17). This does not mean that our lips must never close, but that our spirit must never wander far from God. We walk with Him as one who speaks and listens at once.

The Holy Spirit helps us in this constant communion. “For we do not know what we should pray for as we ought, but the Spirit Himself makes intercession for us” (Romans 8:26). There are moments when we cannot find words, yet heaven understands our sighs. You only have to think something in your heart, and the Spirit carries that thought to the Father. The whisper of your soul becomes a prayer. God hears before you speak because His ear is always turned toward His children.

Prayer does not have to be long or heavy. It can be as simple as a glance toward heaven, a thank you whispered under your breath, or a cry for help that never reaches your lips. When someone asks for prayer, do not wait for a perfect time or place. Pray right then in your spirit. Lift that name quietly to the Lord and trust that He receives it. There are times to lead another in prayer, but there are also moments when the heart prays silently and just as powerfully.

In every moment we may keep the heart open to God. Think the thoughts you would speak to Him. Let your mind become a sanctuary where faith breathes and hope grows. Jesus walked this way, always in fellowship with the Father. Even when crowds pressed around Him, He was never out of communion. That same Spirit lives in us. To abide in Christ is to remain in that constant conversation of love.

Lord, keep me near enough that I never stop hearing Your voice. Teach me to pray without ceasing. Let my thoughts rise to You as gentle offerings, and let Your peace guard my heart. When I cannot find the words, hear the whisper of my soul. Help me to walk through this day aware of Your presence, speaking to You and listening for You in every moment. Amen.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

THE LION THAT STOOD STILL

1 Kings 13:1–32

The story of the man of God from Judah is one of the most haunting in all the Old Testament. It is not well known, yet it whispers a truth every disciple must hear. It tells of obedience and deception, of faith and folly, of a lion that became a preacher of holiness on a dusty road between Bethel and Judah.

The man of God had been sent by the Lord with a message of fire. His words shook the altar and struck fear into the heart of a rebellious king. The arm that reached out to seize him withered instantly, and at the prophet’s prayer it was restored again. Heaven had backed the man’s mission with miracles, and his courage burned bright. Yet the command was clear: “Eat no bread, drink no water, and return not by the way you came.”

This was no small instruction. It was a test of spiritual precision, a command to keep himself separate from the place of sin. The Lord was saying, “Do not linger among those who have defiled My altar.” The man of God obeyed, at least at first. He turned away from royal reward and walked into the wilderness of obedience. His heart was still beating with the thunder of God’s voice.

But the story takes a sorrowful turn. There lived in Bethel an old prophet who had once heard from God but now dwelt among idols. Hearing what had happened, he saddled his donkey and rode to find the man of God. He found him sitting beneath an oak tree, weary from the day’s journey. Perhaps the younger prophet’s heart was heavy with loneliness, and his stomach ached with hunger. That is often when temptation comes—not as an attack but as an invitation.

The old prophet spoke softly, claiming an angel had told him to bring the man of God home for a meal. The younger man hesitated, but the words sounded holy. Surely an older prophet, seasoned and sincere, could be trusted. So he rose and went with him.

That was the turning point. He sat at the table that God told him to avoid. And as the bread was broken, the real word of the Lord came to the old prophet—this time a word of judgment. “Because you have disobeyed the command of the Lord,” said the trembling voice, “your body shall not come to the tomb of your fathers.”

He left the table. The donkey carried him down the road, and then came the lion—silent, swift, and certain. One strike, and the journey was over. The lion did not tear the donkey, nor devour the man. It simply stood still beside the body. Travelers passed and marveled. It was a miracle that preached without words. The lion was not hungry. It was holy. It stood as a sentinel of divine justice, a symbol that God’s Word stands unbroken.

The old prophet came, weeping. He buried the man of God in his own tomb, saying, “Alas, my brother!” Sorrow filled the air. It is one thing to die by the hand of an enemy; it is another to fall by the error of misplaced trust.

We are reminded that partial obedience is not obedience at all. God’s commands are not to be edited by the opinions of men, not even by those who once spoke His word. Truth may come through men, but it never bows to them. The command of the Lord must always have the last word.

How solemn, how tender, and how true is this warning! Many begin well. They burn with conviction, speak with courage, and walk in the way of the Lord. But somewhere along the journey, they grow weary beneath the oak tree. They start to listen to other voices. The enemy does not always roar like a lion; sometimes he whispers like an old prophet.

The disobedient man of God reminds us that sincerity does not sanctify error. The lie was told with pious lips, but it was still a lie. To disobey God, even with good intentions, is to step outside His protection. Yet even in judgment, there was mercy. The lion did not devour him—it preserved the testimony. The same God who sent the lion also restrained it, proving that His justice is not cruel but precise.

And what of us? We live in a world of many voices, each claiming authority. There are teachers who speak of angels, dreams, and visions. There are traditions that sound ancient and respectable. But the question remains: What has the Lord said? The disciple must test every word by the Word. If it does not align with the command of Christ, it must be refused, however gentle the voice that speaks it.

The lion that stood still still preaches today. It tells us that God’s Word does not change to suit convenience. It reminds us that obedience is sacred, and that fellowship with the disobedient is dangerous. It tells us that the way of holiness is narrow, and that it is better to walk alone with God than to sit at a full table in disobedience.

Let the weary disciple take courage. The same God who disciplines also defends. He who sent the lion to guard His Word has also sent the Lamb to guard our souls. In Jesus Christ we see both the severity and the mercy of God. The Lion of Judah has conquered sin, and the Lamb of God has borne it away. In Him, justice and mercy meet.

So let us walk humbly. Let us be careful listeners and obedient servants. Let us test every spirit, every doctrine, and every invitation by the clear Word of the Lord. When His command is plain, let no voice—however kind—turn us aside.

The lion still stands on that ancient road as a living lesson that obedience matters. The tree where the prophet rested, the house where he ate, and the road where he fell—all bear witness that the Word of the Lord endures forever.

And yet, there is grace even here. The old prophet buried the younger with honor, confessing his own guilt. Perhaps that burial was an act of repentance. Perhaps God used even the old prophet’s sorrow to remind Israel that disobedience is deadly, but humility can still find mercy.

The Lord Jesus calls us to a higher obedience, not born of fear but of love. His commands are not burdensome because they come from the heart of One who died for us. When we follow Him, we walk in light. When we obey Him, our steps are steady, and our hearts are safe.

Lord Jesus, teach me to love Your Word more than my own understanding. When other voices call me to compromise, help me to hear only Yours. Keep me faithful when the path is lonely and firm when the way is unclear. Let my obedience bring You joy and my life bear witness that Your Word is truth.

Amen.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

NOTHING BUT CHRIST (1 Corinthians 2:2)

Paul’s words to the Corinthians echo through every generation of believers who long to see Jesus clearly: “For I determined not to know anything among you except Jesus Christ and Him crucified.” In those few words, we hear the heartbeat of a life wholly surrendered to Christ. He was done chasing after the wisdom of this world. He was finished seeking approval from men. Paul had found the one treasure that outshines every other—Christ Himself.

He prayed for others to see what he saw—that the eyes of their understanding would be opened to the riches they already possessed in Christ. He was not seeking more knowledge about life; he was seeking more of the Life Himself. To know Christ was enough. To walk with Christ was everything. To lose all else but gain Him was to be truly rich. Paul’s thoughts, his prayers, his actions, his very breath—all centered in the Son of God. His life was a circle drawn around a single point: Jesus Christ.

How easily our own hearts are distracted from that simplicity. We live in a noisy age that pulls our attention in a thousand directions. Yet Christ still whispers to every soul, “Follow Me.” He will not share the throne of our hearts with another. He will not be one of many loves—He must be all. To have Christ is to have all we truly need. To follow Him is to leave behind every lesser pursuit. He will have first place, or no place at all.

We often speak of giving God our “best,” but He asks for more. He calls for our all. He will not rest until every part of us is His—our thoughts, our time, our desires, our words. For when He reigns there, the soul begins to sing again. To be wholly given to Christ is not loss, but life. It is freedom from self and fullness in Him.

Many of us, like the Corinthians, have leaned on human wisdom. We measure spirituality by appearance or knowledge, forgetting that true wisdom is not found in clever speech or lofty thought, but in the humility of the Cross. The world looks for novelty; the disciple looks for Jesus. The world chases feelings; the believer clings to faith. Christ alone is the power and the wisdom of God, and everything apart from Him fades like a shadow at sunrise.

This devotion to Christ does not happen by accident. It begins with a choice—an inner determination like Paul’s: “I determined…” The Christian life is not driven by impulse but by holy resolve. Each morning we must choose to look again toward Calvary and say, “This is where I belong.” The nearer we stay to the Cross, the nearer we remain to God. Every step away from it leads us back toward the emptiness of self.

Knowing “Christ and Him crucified” is not a dry doctrine—it is a daily connection with the living Lord. His death was not only for us but with us. When we believe, we are united with Him in His death and in His resurrection. His life flows through ours like sap through the vine. We are not imitators of Christ; we are indwelt by Christ. His holiness becomes our strength. His Spirit becomes our song.

All true Christian living grows out of this union. We do not live for Him by trying harder but by abiding deeper. We do not gain power by striving but by surrendering. And when Christ fills the heart, conversation changes, priorities shift, and the fruit of love, peace, and joy begins to appear naturally.

So let us, with Paul, glory in the Cross. Let it be our theme, our confidence, our song. Let the world chase its wisdom, while we cling to the old rugged tree. For through it, we have been crucified to the world and the world to us. Every boast fades, but Jesus remains.

If He is absent from your conversation, seek Him again until your lips overflow with His name. For the heart full of Jesus cannot stay silent. The mouth will speak what the heart treasures.

Heavenly Father, teach me to see everything through the light of Your cross. Empty me of pride and fill me with the wisdom that flows only from knowing You. Let my heart rest in the power of Your sacrifice and my life be a reflection of Your love. May every thought, every word, and every step be centered in You alone. Draw me nearer each day until nothing remains in me but Christ and Him crucified. Amen.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

NEW HEAVENS AND A NEW EARTH (The Fall, The Earth, and The New Creation)

In the dawn of time, two brothers stood before the Lord—each with an offering in hand, each claiming to worship. Yet heaven looked with favor upon one and turned away from the other. “By faith Abel offered to God a more excellent sacrifice than Cain, through which he obtained witness that he was righteous” (Hebrews 11:4). Faith, then, was the dividing line. Faith that obeys the voice of God, for “faith comes by hearing, and hearing by the word of God” (Romans 10:17). Abel listened; Cain reasoned. One brought what God required; the other brought what man desired.

The tragedy of Eden was not locked within its gates—it spread like a poisoned stream into the next generation. Sin, having entered by one man, wasted no time in bearing fruit. The heart of Cain became the soil in which rebellion grew full bloom. When his offering was rejected, pride rose like a storm. Instead of repentance came resentment; instead of tears, blood. “And it came to pass, when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abel his brother and killed him” (Genesis 4:8).

Sin, once conceived, brings forth death (James 1:15). Genesis chapter five reads like a funeral march: “and he died… and he died… and he died.” The toll of sin rings through every generation. The curse spoken in Eden echoes still: “For dust you are, and to dust you shall return” (Genesis 3:19). Death came not by divine whim but by divine justice. Sin is a thief—it robs man of life, the earth of beauty, and creation of harmony.

The earth, too, bears the scars of man’s rebellion. Thorns and thistles rose from the ground that once bloomed beneath the steps of innocence. The world itself groans—a wounded creation laboring under the curse. Paul wrote that “the creation was subjected to futility, not willingly, but because of Him who subjected it in hope” (Romans 8:20). The earth, like man, waits for redemption. Its sighs rise upward with ours: “For we know that the whole creation groans and labors with birth pangs until now” (Romans 8:22).

Even the heavens bear witness to this bondage. The stars that once sang together at creation now look upon a groaning world. Peter speaks of their destined renewal: “The heavens and the earth which are now preserved by the same word are reserved for fire until the day of judgment and perdition of ungodly men” (2 Peter 3:7). The fire that will dissolve the elements is not the rage of destruction, but the fire of divine cleansing. As the refiner’s flame purifies gold, so the fire of God shall purge creation of all corruption. “Nevertheless we, according to His promise, look for new heavens and a new earth in which righteousness dwells” (2 Peter 3:13).

Do not stumble at this mystery. For what is death to the saint but the birth of eternity? From the dust we rise immortal. What is the burning of the world but the dawning of the new? When the old dissolves, the new emerges. Heaven will not merely be a replacement but a redemption—earth renewed, creation restored, all things made new.

Isaiah foresaw it: “For as the new heavens and the new earth which I will make shall remain before Me, says the Lord, so shall your seed and your name remain” (Isaiah 66:22). John beheld its glory fulfilled: “Now I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away” (Revelation 21:1). The New Jerusalem descends, radiant as a bride, adorned for her husband. This is the consummation of all divine purpose—the union of heaven and earth under the headship of Christ.

“In the beginning was the Word… and all things were made through Him” (John 1:1–3). By His voice the worlds were framed; by His cross they were redeemed. He who created the first heaven and earth now prepares the new (John 14:1–3). The earth that once was our home will give way to heaven which shall be our everlasting habitation. The Creator who made all things in the beginning will make all things new in the end.

Here is the mystery unveiled: the earth has a physical end but a spiritual future; man has a mortal death but an immortal hope. As our bodies will be changed into incorruption (1 Corinthians 15:42–54), so creation itself will share in the liberty of the children of God. Nothing born of God’s hand shall remain forever under the curse of sin. The Redeemer who triumphed over the grave will restore all that was lost.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway