STARS AND SOULS The Infinite Value of Humanity

In the grand tapestry of creation, the stars shine with a beauty that captivates the human heart. Yet, as we look upon the night sky, we are reminded of a profound truth: while the stars may dazzle and awe, it is the souls of humanity that hold a special place in the heart of God.

In Genesis, we read that God created the stars, and in a brief yet profound statement, “He made the stars also” (Genesis 1:16). The simplicity of this declaration contrasts sharply with the intricate, intimate manner in which God formed humanity. He molded man from the dust, breathed life into his nostrils, and created him in His own image.

The stars, magnificent in their brilliance, serve as a backdrop to the story of creation. They are, in their vastness, a testament to the power and creativity of our God. Yet, in the grand narrative of the cosmos, it is we, His children, that He cherishes above all.

Consider the love of a Creator who, despite the immeasurable distance of the stars, chooses to dwell with us, to walk with us, and to sacrifice for us. His love for us is not just a cosmic afterthought but the very reason for creation itself. In our moments of doubt, when we feel as small as a speck in the universe, let us remember that we are infinitely valuable to God.

God’s thoughts of us are as countless as the stars, and each thought is steeped in infinite grace. We are not merely creations; we are cherished children, beloved and redeemed.

So, as we look to the heavens and see the stars, let us be reminded of our worth in the eyes of the Creator. For while He made the stars also, He made us in His very image, and in His heart, we are the crowning glory of His creation. Because He’s just wonderful like that.

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BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY’S: A Quiet Word for Restless Hearts

Breakfast at Tiffany’s is a 1961 American romantic comedy film directed by Blake Edwards. It stars Audrey Hepburn as Holly Golightly, alongside George Peppard, with supporting roles by Patricia Neal, Buddy Ebsen, Martin Balsam, and Mickey Rooney. The screenplay was written by George Axelrod, adapted from the 1958 novella by Truman Capote. The film premiered on October 5, 1961, and has since become a classic, celebrated for Hepburn’s iconic performance, Henry Mancini’s music (including “Moon River”), and its enduring influence on fashion and culture.

In the heart of a bustling city, where lights shimmer like promises and hurried footsteps echo the ache of a thousand unmet longings, there lived a soul both fragile and bright—Holly Golightly, wandering between dreams and disappointments, reaching for a love she could not name. And though her tale is woven from cinema’s cloth, it mirrors the quiet ache in us all—for beneath our polished exteriors and borrowed confidence lies that same yearning for something deeper, truer, eternal (Ecclesiastes 3:11).

Like Holly, we drift toward glitter and noise, hoping the world’s bright ornaments will still our restlessness; yet every earthly sparkle soon dims, reminding us that nothing temporal can satisfy the eternal thirst within us (Jeremiah 2:13). The true treasure is not found in jeweled displays or fleeting applause; it rests in the unwavering love of God—a love that moves steadily toward us, even when we wander, a love that fills the hollow spaces with grace strong enough to heal and patient enough to wait (Romans 5:8).

When the city within our hearts grows too loud—when fear, ambition, and disappointment drown the gentle voice of the Shepherd—we are invited into His quiet; invited to the One who calls us by name, who lifts our weary spirits, who teaches us who we truly are (John 10:3-4).

And just as Holly’s wandering steps led her toward a clearer vision of herself, so Christ invites us into a truer, deeper story—one in which our identity is not shaped by applause or appearance, but by the cross-shaped love that has redeemed us and the purpose woven for us before the world began (Ephesians 2:10).

Let us then rest in Him; let us lean into the everlasting arms; let us discover again that our joy is not held in the world’s fragile hands but in the faithful heart of Christ, who transforms our wandering into worship and our longing into light (Psalm 16:11).

Note: Breakfast at Tiffany’s contains outdated and racially insensitive elements reflective of its era. Viewers should use personal discernment. The devotional above draws only on its themes of longing and identity, not its problematic portrayals.

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THE MORAL ARGUMENT MADE SIMPLE

C. S. Lewis noticed something striking about human beings: no matter where you go in the world, people argue. Not just argue—but accuse. “You ought not to have done that.” “That’s not fair.” “You promised.” Even little children, who can barely tie their shoes, somehow know when something is wrong.

And this is Lewis’s starting point: People everywhere believe there is such a thing as right and wrong, and we assume others should know it too. We might disagree on the details—cultures differ, communities differ—but the moment someone cuts in line, steals a wallet, breaks a vow, or hurts an innocent person, we all instinctively feel that a law has been broken. Not just our law. Not just my opinion. But something higher, something we didn’t invent.

Lewis asks a simple question: Where did this deep, inner sense of “ought” come from? If the universe is just atoms, accidents, and chemical reactions, why would we care about justice? Why would we feel guilty? Why would we get angry at cruelty? Matter doesn’t produce morality. Molecules don’t blush. Chemical reactions don’t feel shame. Yet we do.

And so Lewis reaches his famous conclusion: The best explanation for this universal moral law is a universal Lawgiver. A God who made us, stamped His character upon us, and wrote a quiet code inside every heart—a code we recognize even when we break it.

The moral argument isn’t complicated. It’s simply this: We all know there is a real right and a real wrong. Real moral laws need a real moral Lawgiver. That Lawgiver is God.

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THE LAYING ON OF HANDS AND THE GIFT OF CHRIST

We often hear it said — sometimes loudly, sometimes carelessly — that “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever” (Hebrews 13:8). And indeed He is; His character does not change, His compassion does not waver, His sovereignty does not flicker like a candle in the wind.

But the unchanging Christ does not always repeat the same works. He does not walk again upon Galilee’s waves, nor does He call forth another Lazarus from Bethany’s tomb; these miracles served the purpose of their hour, and that hour has passed into sacred history. His sameness of nature does not demand sameness of action; His eternal strength does not require repeated signs.

In the New Testament era, the Spirit distributed miraculous gifts “for the confirmation of the word” (Hebrews 2:3-4); they were signs pointing to the truth before the Scriptures stood complete. And the ordinary way these gifts were bestowed was through the laying on of the apostles’ hands.

Philip could preach with power, but only Peter and John could impart the Spirit’s extraordinary manifestations (Acts 8:14-18). Paul longed to visit the Romans—not simply for fellowship, but “that I may impart to you some spiritual gift” (Romans 1:11). Apostolic hands were conduits of temporary gifts; apostolic teaching became the foundation of our permanent faith.

And now the apostles have finished their course; their hands rest in the dust, but their words live. No one today walks with their authority, for no one today stands as an eyewitness of the risen Christ. Consequently, the signs and wonders tied to their ministry have fulfilled their purpose.

The Spirit has not ceased to work—but He works now in the fashion promised for the ages: not in tongues, visions, and healings, but in conviction, regeneration, sanctification; shaping us, sealing us, filling us with holy hope.

The gift of the Spirit is Christ Himself dwelling within—Christ in us, the hope of glory (Colossians 1:27). The Father lays His hand upon us by laying His Son within us; the indwelling Christ is God’s touch upon the human heart, His presence breathed into our weakness, His grace written upon our days.

And so, though we do not expect the signs of the apostolic age, we expect something better: the steady, transforming, soul-deep work of the Spirit; the quiet miracles of repentance and new creation; the peace that settles when Christ makes His home in us; the life that rises when the gospel softens what sin had hardened. The gifts fade; the Giver remains. And the Giver gives Himself.

Lord Jesus, unchanging Savior, lay Your hand upon my heart through Your Word and through Your indwelling presence. Deliver me from chasing signs when You have given me Yourself. Teach me to rest in the finished Scriptures, to trust the steady work of the Spirit, and to rejoice that Christ is the gift, Christ is the promise, Christ is the power within me. Shape me, fill me, and keep me faithful, until I see You face to face. Amen.

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Christmas 2025: UNTO US A CHILD IS BORN, UNTO US A SON IS GIVEN

“For unto us a Child is born; unto us a Son is given…” (Isaiah 9:6)—in these few words the prophet opens a window into the gracious heart of God. He does not say a Child is born to Mary and Joseph, though that is true; nor does he say a Son is given to Israel alone, though that is also true. Instead, he speaks with a tenderness that stretches across the ages—unto us. The promise is personal; the gift is universal; the grace is meant to be received with trembling wonder. The Child comes not simply into the world but into the lives of all who will welcome Him.

“Unto us a Child is born”—and here the marvel begins. The eternal Word takes on flesh, stepping quietly into our dust and weakness. He does not descend as a mighty emperor, but as an infant wrapped in humble cloth—helpless to human sight, yet holding all things together by the power of His word. In that manger we see God’s love choosing vulnerability; we see the Almighty choosing to be touchable, approachable, and knowable. The incarnation is not merely a doctrine to confess; it is a miracle to adore.

“Unto us a Son is given”—and here the wonder deepens. This Son is not given as a temporary visitor but as God’s everlasting gift to humanity, the long-promised Redeemer whose coming was whispered through the centuries. He is the Son given for our salvation (John 3:16), the Son born in Bethlehem as promised (Micah 5:2), the Son announced by angels as Savior and Lord (Luke 2:11). He is given to bear our sins, to conquer our death, to bring us back to the Father. The Child is born, but the Son—eternal, divine, uncreated—is given with purpose and mission.

And notice the gentle insistence of the text: unto us. Not merely to the great and learned; not to the righteous who think they need no physician; not to the strong who feel no weakness. He is given to us—to the weary, the guilty, the broken, the longing, the ordinary. This is the gospel wrapped in swaddling clothes: God gives His Son to those who have nothing to offer in return. Grace comes small enough to hold, yet mighty enough to save.

So when Isaiah says, “Unto us a Child is born, unto us a Son is given,” he invites us to take our place alongside shepherds and sages, sinners and seekers. He calls us to receive the Christ who comes near—near enough to enter our world, near enough to shoulder our sorrows, near enough to redeem our souls. And as we whisper those ancient words, our hearts bow in gratitude: the Child born is our hope, and the Son given is our salvation.

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JUSTIFIED BY CHRIST ALONE

We speak often of justification by faith alone; yet somewhere along the way, a living truth has grown stiff, like a well-worn phrase that once burned in the heart but now sits cold upon the tongue. Once, it was a miracle—the miracle—that a sinner could stand righteous before God, not through merit, not through effort, but by resting in Christ alone. Now, if we are not careful, it becomes a slogan rather than a song. The gospel was never entrusted to us as a museum piece or a Latin phrase to guard; it was given to draw us to a Person—Jesus Christ, our righteousness, our wisdom, our peace (1 Corinthians 1:30).

Paul never wrote as a professor building a system; he wrote as a shepherd with tears in his ink, longing for Christ to be formed in weary hearts (Galatians 4:19). The Scriptures were never breathed out merely to arm us with correct terminology; they were meant to awaken us to the living Christ Himself (John 5:39-40). Yet in our day, some measure soundness by how neatly one repeats inherited formulas. We call it orthodoxy—but too often it is only echo. The truth needs no man-made fortress; it stands firm in the power of God (Romans 1:16).

Look at the thief on the cross. He knew nothing of imputed righteousness; he had never heard the phrase sola fide. He simply turned his dying face toward Jesus and whispered, “Lord, remember me,” and heaven opened to him (Luke 23:42-43). The woman who washed Jesus’ feet with her tears did not understand doctrines in tidy categories; she only knew she loved Him, and He declared her forgiven (Luke 7:47-48). A heart turned toward Christ is dearer to Him than a mind full of definitions with no devotion.

The Bible never says we are justified by understanding, or by precision, or by theological polish. It says we are justified by faith—faith that clings to a living Savior, not to lifeless slogans (Romans 4:5). Doctrine is a faithful servant, but a harsh master; if it does not lead to Christ, it leads nowhere. The gospel is not our accuracy; the gospel is our attachment to Christ. “He who has the Son has life” (1 John 5:12). Everything else stands in the shadow of that truth.

We have taken the lovely fingers that point us to Christ—sola fide, sola gratia, sola scriptura—and sometimes we stare so long at the finger that we forget to follow where it points. If it is by faith alone, it cannot also be by grace alone; if by grace alone, it cannot be by faith alone—the word alone refuses companions. The truth is simpler and sweeter: we are justified by Christ alone. Faith reaches; grace gives; but Christ is the treasure held in trembling hands.

Systems do not save; slogans do not justify; precise vocabulary does not bring peace with God. Jesus does. The living, bleeding, risen Lord is the One who justifies the ungodly (Romans 4:25; 5:1). Let us lay aside the combative spirit, the pride of tidy definitions, the impulse to measure one another by syllables or phrases. The Holy Spirit is not impressed by our polish; He is moved by our surrender.

Justification is not a banner to wave; it is a life to walk. The justified man or woman trusts Christ, leans on Christ, rests in Christ, day after day. The deeper our understanding grows, the humbler our worship becomes—because the doctrine always bows before the Deliverer (Romans 3:26).

So let us speak gladly, not of faith alone, but of Christ alone. For in Him, through Him, and unto Him all things hold together (Colossians 1:17). Faith without Christ is an empty hand; grace without Christ is an empty word; Scripture without Christ is a closed door. Everything leads to the Lamb—everything bends before the Savior who loved us and gave Himself for us.

Let us fix our eyes not on our creeds but on the Cross; not on Latin syllables but on the Lord who still calls weary sinners to rest. When the heart is filled with Christ, the slogans fade, the systems quiet themselves, and the soul at last finds peace—not in an idea, but in a Person.

“Therefore, having been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.” (Romans 5:1)

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THE BOOK OF ENOCH

There are seasons in the Christian life when curiosity whispers in our ear; ancient books, mysterious writings, and shadowy traditions beckon us with the promise of “deep things.” The Book of Enoch is one of those lures—an old document, wrapped in strange tales of angels and visions, often marketed today as a hidden treasure. Yet, for all its age and intrigue, it has never belonged to the people of God, nor has it ever nourished the souls of the saints. Its pages may fascinate, but fascination is not the same as edification.

Christians, both young and seasoned, must remember that not every old book is a wise book; not every ancient voice is a faithful voice. Enoch’s writings—whatever fragments and translations exist—were never recognized by Israel, never accepted by Jesus, never preached by the apostles, and never embraced by the early church. The Lord, who promised to feed His sheep, did not hide our nourishment in obscure corners; He set it plainly in the Scriptures (2 Timothy 3:16–17). When God wants His people to know something, He does not whisper it through disputed manuscripts; He thunders it through His Word.

Moreover, the Book of Enoch often becomes a distraction masquerading as depth. It stirs the imagination, but it does not strengthen the heart; it raises questions, but it does not anchor the soul. Christians who wander into it frequently find themselves chasing speculations instead of embracing the clarity of the gospel. And anytime a believer trades the solid bread of Scripture for the cotton candy of speculation, spiritual malnourishment is right around the corner (Colossians 2:8). The enemy loves a distracted Christian—one who is nibbling at the edges rather than feasting at the Table.

Some will say, “But Jude quotes Enoch!” And it is true—Jude quotes a line, just as Paul quoted pagan poets on Mars Hill; yet no one would argue that Paul endorsed paganism. A single quotation does not grant divine authority to a book any more than referencing a proverb makes the entire volume inspired. God’s Spirit guided Jude to use what was true in a sentence without endorsing what was false in the rest.

I am not telling anyone what to do; I’m simply offering a shepherd’s caution. The world is noisy enough; the soul is needy enough; and the Scriptures are rich enough. Why spend precious hours rummaging around in writings that neither sanctify nor satisfy? Why wander in the fog when God has given us the sunrise?

Keep your heart in the Book that keeps your heart—Genesis to Revelation, the wide river of God’s breathed-out truth. Everything else is, at best, a curiosity; at worst, a distraction. As for me, I’ll stay with the Word that saved me, steadies me, and points me home. And I will not be coaxed or nudged into studying something that has sidetracked many.

Be careful, Christian. Be wise. And keep your eyes on the Scriptures, where Christ shines, and where the Spirit still speaks.

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THE KINDNESS OF A BETTER COMPANION A Short Devotional Reflection

Emily Dickinson once wrote her most haunting line: “Because I could not stop for Death—He kindly stopped for me—” A carriage waits, the journey begins, and the traveler moves slowly toward eternity. It is a quiet picture—honest, unflinching, poetic. Yet for all its beauty, the poem reveals what every heart already knows: death always comes. We do not stop for it; it stops for us. But the gospel whispers a greater hope, a truer Companion—One who has already walked through death and returned. Jesus entered the grave not as a passenger but as the Lord of life, and He broke its grip from the inside out (2 Timothy 1:10).

Dickinson’s carriage moves with a cool inevitability; Christ’s empty tomb moves with blazing certainty. Dickinson’s Death is “kind,” but only in the calmness of surrender; Christ’s kindness is the kindness of a Shepherd who lays down His life for the sheep, who leads us through the valley of the shadow of death and calls us by name (Psalm 23:4; John 10:11). Death’s carriage may arrive uninvited, but for the believer, the risen Christ rides with us, and His presence changes everything: fear becomes peace, the unknown becomes home, and the ending becomes a beginning filled with everlasting light.

We do not choose when Death stops for us, but we can choose the One who walks beside us now. Dickinson gave us a poem of aching beauty; Christ gives us a Savior of unbreakable hope. And in Him, the believer can say, “O Death, where is your sting?”—because the One who conquered the grave has taken the sting for us (1 Corinthians 15:55). So we rest in Him, live in Him, and look toward the day when the carriage that stops will not be driven by dread, but by the arms of the One who prepares a place for us (John 14:2).

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THE GOSPEL MADE SIMPLE

The word gospel comes from the Greek word euangelion, which simply means “good news.” That’s all it is—good news. And not just any good news, but news that changes everything: it tells us that God has acted in history to save lost people, to bring light into darkness, and to open the door of eternal life to anyone who will believe. It is the story of Jesus Christ, who came, lived, died, and rose again, so that sinners might be forgiven and reconciled to their Creator (1 Corinthians 15:1–4). When we hear the gospel, we hear that our past, our failures, and our sins are not the end of the story.

The gospel is important because it is God’s power to save. Paul said in Romans 1:16 that he was not ashamed of it because it is the very power of God for salvation. It is not clever arguments, self-improvement, or good behavior that saves us; it is the message of what Christ has done. The gospel reaches into our hearts and changes us from the inside out. It gives hope when everything seems lost, peace when life is stormy, and a purpose that outlasts this world. Without it, life is directionless; with it, life is full of meaning and eternal hope.

The beauty of the gospel is that it is simple enough for anyone to understand, yet deep enough to occupy the mind and heart for a lifetime. A child can hear that Jesus loves them, died for them, and rose again—and be saved. A scholar can study the riches of God revealed in Scripture and never exhaust its depth. God made it this way because salvation is not earned by human wisdom, but given freely through faith in Christ. That is the wonder of the good news: it welcomes all, excludes none, and brings joy to anyone who believes (John 3:16).

So the gospel is not just a word we hear; it is life we receive. It is the announcement that death has been defeated, sin has been conquered, and the kingdom of God is open to anyone who will turn and trust in Jesus. When we understand the gospel, we understand the heartbeat of God’s plan for the world. And when we share it, we carry hope to others, a message so simple, yet so powerful, that it can change hearts, homes, and nations. That is why the gospel matters, and why it is good news for everyone.

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WHEN LIGHT STRIKES THE DARKNESS The Conversion of Saul of Tarsus

There are moments in history that stagger the imagination—moments so extraordinary that they defy human explanation and leave the soul trembling in awe. The conversion of Saul of Tarsus is one such moment. Here is a man, zealous beyond measure, hunting the followers of Christ, breathing threats and murder into every town.

Yet suddenly, on the road to Damascus, light blazes from heaven, a voice cuts through the darkness, and the very trajectory of a life is overturned. Saul does not merely change his opinion, nor does he stumble into civility or mere morality; he is utterly transformed. His own letters, written afterward under the guidance of the Holy Spirit, attest that the only adequate explanation for such a metamorphosis is that he truly saw what he said he saw—Jesus Christ, risen and glorious, revealed to him in blazing reality (Acts 9:3–6).

Skepticism comes easily to us, and it should, for a human mind naturally demands reasoning. Yet consider Saul’s life before that encounter: fanatical, unyielding, and utterly consumed with opposition to Christ and His church. Transformation by mere persuasion, by exposure to new arguments, or by human reasoning, could never produce the fervor, boldness, and endurance of the Apostle Paul.

Nor could it explain the immediate cessation of his old life—his name change, his suffering, his willingness to endure chains, beatings, and shipwreck for the sake of the One he once persecuted. Only the irrefutable reality of divine revelation can account for such radical change. It is, in every sense, an argument for the authenticity of Christ Himself, for the power of God revealed to man.

Some will say it is vision, hallucination, or fervent imagination. But the evidence of the early church, of companions like Ananias, and of Saul’s own writings, testifies otherwise. They do not speak of a private, psychological experience, but of an event with public consequence: Saul preaches boldly, converts multitudes, and confronts every form of opposition with unshakable authority. His life becomes a living letter, written by God’s hand, proving that the light he saw was no shadow of imagination but the piercing brilliance of the risen Lord (Acts 22:6–11).

Here, then, is an apologetic truth wrapped in devotion: the supernatural, when it strikes, leaves no room for half-measures. The same Lord who halted a raging persecutor on the road to Damascus still works in the lives of men and women today. He still confronts stubborn hearts with radiant truth, calling the proud to humility, the blinded to sight, the lost to eternal life. Saul’s conversion is not merely history; it is evidence that God’s power is unbounded, His glory inescapable, and His will for redemption unmistakable (2 Corinthians 5:14–15).

And so we stand before the story of Saul, forced to reckon with its reality, forced to choose: will we dismiss the possibility of divine intervention, or will we bend our hearts to the One who makes enemies into apostles, darkness into light, and death into life?

Let us not rationalize or explain away what Scripture presents as undeniable. Let us instead marvel, believe, and submit, for the same Lord who transformed Saul longs to shine His light into our hearts, revealing truths that no human wisdom could ever uncover. To deny the reality of Saul’s vision is to deny the power of the risen Christ; to believe it is to embrace a God who changes everything, and whose grace knows no bounds.

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THE SHADOWED REALM AND THE SAVIOR WHO SHINES (A Reflection on Christ’s Victory Over Demons)

Before I begin, let me speak with humility: what follows is what I believe, drawn from patterns, hints, and shadows in Scripture—yet not declared in one thunderous verse. The Bible never gives us a tidy definition of demons or a full map of the unseen realm; it simply shows us enough to trust Christ completely. So while I hold this view sincerely—that demons are the wandering spirits of wicked men, and not fallen angels—I do not bind it upon anyone. I receive it as a reasonable conclusion, not an ironclad doctrine.

It is entirely reasonable to believe that demons are the disembodied spirits of wicked men rather than fallen angels, because Scripture never explicitly identifies demons with fallen angels, uses distinct terminology for each, and describes fallen angels as confined while demons operate freely; furthermore, the behavior of demons in the Gospels aligns more naturally with restless, corrupted human spirits than with celestial beings, and this interpretation fits within ancient Jewish and Greco-Roman understandings familiar to the New Testament world. Since the Bible gives hints but no emphatic definition of a demon’s origin, this view remains a legitimate, text-honoring possibility.

And with that spirit of humility and reverence for God’s Word, I offer these thoughts.

There are mysteries that whisper from the edges, not to draw us into fear or speculation, but to remind us that the unseen world is real—and that Christ rules over all of it. One of those mysteries concerns demons, those unclean spirits that trembled at the voice of Jesus. When I read the Gospels closely, I see no hint that these beings were angels who fell from some lofty height; rather, they bear the marks of something far more human, far more tragic—the restless spirits of those who lived in rebellion, died in rebellion, and now roam in the misery they chose (Matthew 8:28-32). Angels fall, yes, but demons in Scripture speak, plead, fear, and cling to bodies in a way that mirrors the disordered cravings of corrupted humanity, not the nature of celestial beings.

And so the distinction matters—not to satisfy curiosity, but to steady the soul. Fallen angels, Scripture tells us, are already “reserved in everlasting chains” awaiting judgment (2 Peter 2:4; Jude 6). They are confined, restrained, held by the Lord’s command. But the demons Jesus confronted moved among men, afflicted the weak, and sought embodiment as though homelessness burned them. Their misery is the misery of human rebellion multiplied; their torment is the torment of being cut off from God without a body through which to express their desires. In every encounter, they reveal not angelic majesty lost but human ruin displayed. And Jesus—blessed Jesus—sent them fleeing with a word.

When I think on these things, I do not think of doctrine only; I think of grace. If demons are the disembodied spirits of the wicked dead, then every deliverance Jesus performed was a declaration of His authority over humanity’s darkest harvest. He did not merely heal the sick or open blind eyes; He stepped into the wreckage of human sin and showed that no grave, no ghost, no restless spirit could stand against Him (Mark 1:23-27). He walked among the tombs and reclaimed the living. He stared into the abyss and the abyss trembled. He is Lord—not only of angels, but of the final consequences of human unbelief.

And this truth sobers me. It reminds me that sin does not end at the grave; rebellion does not dissolve with death; choices echo in eternity. The demons Christ drove out are warnings—silent, shrieking testimonies—that to die without God is to enter a realm of shadow, restlessness, and regret. Yet even in that shadow, their fear of Christ preaches to us. They knew who He was. They bowed. They begged. The living, with breath in their lungs and mercy on their doorstep, sometimes resist Him more stubbornly than the spirits of the dead. What a tragedy—to have the opportunity to surrender joyfully, and yet refuse.

So let this distinction lead us not into speculation but into worship. For if demons are the ruined souls of men, then Christ’s authority shines even brighter. He is the Shepherd who rescues the living from the grip of the dead; the Savior whose voice silences every spirit; the Light whom darkness cannot endure (John 1:5). And as we walk with Him, we walk in a kingdom where His Word is final, His mercy available, His protection sure, and His victory complete. Let others chase theories; I will rest in the One whose name makes every realm—seen and unseen—bow in trembling awe.

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THE ONE WHO BREAKS OUR WALLS AND OPENS OUR PRISONS

Foxes have their holes, and birds of the air settle into their nests; yet the Son of Man—our blessed Redeemer—once walked this world with no place to lay His head (Matthew 8:20). He came without earthly shelter so that He might become our eternal refuge; He entered our wandering so He could lead us home; He tasted the frailty of homelessness so He could clothe us with the strength of heaven.

For the heart has walls—thick, quiet, unseen; walls built out of fear, pride, wounds, and the long memories of yesterday’s failures. And sin forges its own bars, locking us within habits that bruise the soul and patterns that drain the life from our prayers. We move about in different spheres—some visible, many hidden—yet in every one of them, Christ draws near; He who knew no sin stands in the midst of our ruin with righteousness, peace, and redemption in His hands (1 Corinthians 1:30).

We echo Paul’s cry, “I want to know Christ and the power of His resurrection” (Philippians 3:10). For it is not enough to admire Him from afar; the soul aches to walk with Him, to breathe the air of His grace, to rise with Him from the tombs of our own making. In His rising, the bars of guilt begin to loosen; in His rising, the walls of fear begin to crumble; in His rising, the weary heart learns again that freedom is not a dream but a Person—Christ Jesus the Lord.

Humans build walls and prisons, but Jesus brings everything we lack and everything we long for. He is our righteousness when our conscience trembles, our peace when the night grows long, our redemption when we have nothing to bring but our need. He steps into every locked place with nail-scarred authority and says, “Be free; be whole; be Mine.”

And so we rest—in the One who never had a place to lay His head, yet now prepares a place for us (John 14:2); the One who walked without earthly shelter, yet shelters us beneath the everlasting arms; the One who broke every barrier by the power of His cross and rises still within those who trust Him.

May we know Him more deeply today—Christ our Freedom, Christ our Home, Christ our All.

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WHEN WORRY TIGHTENS, LET A DEEP BREATH TESTIFY

There is a quiet wisdom hidden in the way God shaped us: worry thrives on shallow breaths, but peace grows where we breathe deeply. Anxiety presses in, narrows the chest, and shortens the breath until even the smallest concerns feel overwhelming. It crowds the mind, quickens the pulse, and convinces us that everything depends on us—right now, all at once.

But a deep breath tells a different story. A deep breath slows the body and widens the world. A deep breath reminds the heart that panic is not our master. A deep breath makes room for God’s presence to be remembered—not because He ever left, but because worry blinded us for a moment.

To breathe deeply is to interrupt fear’s momentum. It is a small but powerful act of surrender, a way of saying, even without words, “Lord, You are here.” With each steady inhale, the soul leans back into the truth that the Father watches, the Son intercedes, and the Spirit helps our weaknesses. The tightness begins to loosen, not because the problem vanished, but because the presence of God becomes clearer.

You cannot fill your lungs with air and your mind with panic at the same moment. One always pushes the other aside. And when you choose a deep breath—slow, calm, intentional—you are choosing to make space for peace, for trust, for the quiet reminder that “He will be your stability” (Isaiah 33:6).

So pause.

Breathe in hope.

Breathe out fear.

Let your breath become a simple sermon to your heart: God is with me. God is my help. God is enough.

Lord, quiet my heart. As I breathe deeply, fill me with Your peace and drive out my fear. Hold me close and help me trust You in this moment. In Jesus’ name, amen.

BDD

HOW WE KNOW THE BIBLE IS THE WORD OF GOD

There are books that charm the mind, books that stir the imagination, and books that gather dust; but there is only one Book that lays hold of a man’s conscience, shakes his very soul, and compels him to stand before God as though the judgment throne were set before him. Such a Book cannot be of man. It must be of God. The Scriptures carry a majesty that no human pen could counterfeit—a thunder in their tones, a tenderness in their pleas, a righteousness in their commands. The Word of God is like a lion; you don’t need to defend it—just let it out.

First, the Bible vindicates itself by the unmatched purity of its message.

A book written by mortals would have softened sin, excused pride, or flattered human nature. Instead, Scripture unmasks us. It tears away every fig leaf, strips us of our excuses, and exposes our desperate need for grace. It speaks of holiness with such brightness that the sinner trembles, and of mercy with such sweetness that the sinner runs to Christ. No human mind—darkened as ours is by self-interest—could have produced a Book so honest in its rebukes and yet so healing in its promises. This moral grandeur bears the stamp of heaven.

Second, the Bible proves itself by its transforming power.

Where it enters, chains fall; where it shines, darkness retreats; where Christ is proclaimed, dead hearts rise and walk. Open its pages by candlelight in a prison, a sickroom, or beside a lonely deathbed—and watch what happens. Hope appears. Peace descends. Sinners become saints, and cowards become martyrs. This is no dead letter—it is the living Word, sharper than any two-edged sword, searching the motives, renewing the mind, and giving life where there was none. A merely human book may inform, but only God’s Book can regenerate.

Third, the Scriptures reveal their divine Author through their unity.

Think of it: shepherds and kings, fishermen and prophets, writing across deserts and islands and palaces—yet one crimson thread runs through it all. One message, one Redeemer, one unfolding promise, all pointing to the Lamb slain from the foundation of the world. If many instruments produce one perfect harmony, you may be sure there is a single Master directing the orchestra. The unity of the Bible is the symphony of God.

Lastly, fulfilled prophecy stands like a lighthouse towering above the sea of doubt.

Here is the Almighty writing history before history arrives. Nations foretold, kingdoms sketched, the Messiah described centuries before the angel ever whispered to Mary. Human predictions are guesses; divine prophecy is certainty wrapped in advance. Look to Bethlehem, look to Calvary, look to the empty tomb—all spoken beforehand, all fulfilled in the fullness of time. There is no escaping it: the Scriptures know tomorrow because their Author reigns over eternity.

So, how do we know the Bible is the Word of God?

Because its truth is too holy for human hands, its power too mighty for human invention, its unity too perfect for human coordination, and its prophecies too precise for human foresight.

Open its pages, and you will hear not the echo of man, but the very breath of God. And where God breathes, life begins.

BDD

Christmas 2025: THE MYSTERY OF GODLINESS

There are moments when heaven seems to lean close—when the veil thins, when the soul senses a truth too radiant for mere human language. Paul called it “the mystery of godliness”—a mystery not meant to confuse us, but to capture us; not meant to hide truth from us, but to humble us before the Truth Himself (1 Timothy 3:16). For godliness does not begin with man climbing toward God; it begins with God stooping toward man in Christ Jesus. It begins with mercy stepping into flesh, holiness walking dusty roads, righteousness wrapped in swaddling cloths, grace made visible.

“God was manifested in the flesh”—and suddenly Bethlehem becomes the blazing center of reality. The Infinite becomes an infant; the One who spoke worlds into being learns to speak human words; the eternal Son accepts time, frailty, hunger, sleep. Here is the scandal and the sweetness of the gospel—Deity veiled, yet never diminished; glory hidden, yet never absent; love embodied, yet never exhausted. No wonder angels sang—heaven had never seen anything like this.

“Justified in the Spirit”—for the Spirit hovered over His every step, vindicating Him at every turn, declaring Him righteous in His obedience, powerful in His compassion, sinless in His suffering. The water of His baptism did not cleanse Him, but revealed Him; the Spirit descending like a dove testified that this Man is the Father’s beloved Son (Matthew 3:17). Even His cross, rugged and bleeding, was not a defeat—they pierced His body, but they could not touch His holiness; they crushed His flesh, but they could not stain His righteousness.

“Seen by angels”—for heavenly beings watched His ministry with awe. They were present at His birth, ministered to Him in temptation, strengthened Him in Gethsemane, witnessed His resurrection, and stood ready to accompany His ascension. Angels, who saw creation dawn, bent low in wonder as the Creator walked among His creatures.

“Preached among the nations”—for His gospel refuses borders; it breaks through languages, cultures, kingdoms. He is too great to be confined to one people, one land, one generation. The same Christ who walked the hills of Galilee walks now through every nation by the preaching of His Word; the same voice that called fishermen still calls sinners—“Follow Me” (Matthew 4:19).

“Believed on in the world”—and here the miracle continues. Hearts once darkened by sin awaken to His light; souls once bound by guilt rise to His pardon; men and women, frail and flawed, suddenly find themselves longing for holiness—hungering for the God who first hungered for them. Faith itself becomes evidence of the mystery, a quiet miracle in the human heart.

“Received up in glory”—the final note, the eternal crescendo. The One who descended to our misery has ascended to Majesty. He did not vanish; He reigns. He did not retreat; He intercedes. He did not abandon us; He promised to return. And from that throne—not distant, but divine—He shapes us into His likeness day by day, until the mystery of godliness becomes the reality of glory.

So we stand before this mystery—humbled, lifted, awakened. Christ is the secret of godliness; Christ is the power of transformation; Christ is the beauty behind every virtue; Christ is the fire that warms the cold heart, the light that breaks the long night, the Shepherd who guides His flock through every valley.

And as we behold Him—crucified, risen, reigning—we discover the greatest mystery of all: the God who reveals Himself in Christ also remakes us into Christlikeness. Not by our striving; not by our strength; but by the quiet, steady work of grace.

“Great indeed is the mystery of godliness”—and great indeed is the Savior who embodies it (1 Timothy 3:16).

BDD

“HE RAISED LAZARUS”

John 11

Imagine yourself seated in the narrow streets of first-century Jerusalem, the air thick with dust, debate, and expectation. The rumors swirl like desert wind—This Galilean rabbi claims to forgive sins. Some shake their heads, some lean forward with a cautious hope, and others mutter that only God can speak such words. You can hear the whispers through the crowd: “Who does He think He is?” And before the question even settles into the minds of those who ask it, a breathless messenger presses through the throng with news that shames every doubt and silences every scoffer: “He raised Lazarus from the dead.”

Can you imagine the shock? The very One who says your sins can be forgiven has just called a man out of his tomb. The One who speaks of life everlasting has just proved His authority over death itself. The same voice that declared, “Your sins are forgiven,” now echoes through Judea with a testimony no argument can erase: He raised Lazarus.

In that moment, every whispered suspicion about Him collapses beneath the weight of glory. If He can summon life from the grave, then surely He can speak pardon to the guilty. If He can command death to release its prisoner, then surely He holds the keys to every chain that binds the human heart. The miracle outside Bethany becomes the sermon none can refute—His words are not blasphemy, but divine mercy breaking into time.

And so the question that once stirred the crowds now falls with quiet conviction upon every soul: If Jesus can call a dead man out of the tomb by name, what can He not do for you? What sin can He not forgive? What darkness can He not scatter? What grave of fear, guilt, or despair can He not command to open?

He has proven Himself—not only a teacher, not only a prophet, but the Resurrection and the Life. The news that echoed through Jerusalem still rings through the centuries: He raised Lazarus from the dead. And if that is true—and it is—then every promise He gives you rests upon unshakable ground.

BDD

THE GOD WHO REIGNS AND THE HUMAN WHO CHOOSES (Divine Sovereignty and Human Responsibility)

God is big enough—glorious enough, sovereign enough—to rule the universe without needing to micromanage it. Yet there are some who imagine themselves defenders of orthodoxy, as though the honor of God depends upon their system rather than His Word.

They uphold a version of sovereignty that insists God must make every single decision in the universe, as if true deity requires absolute determinism. They rarely say it that bluntly, of course; they wrap it in the language of theology, in phrases made palatable for the masses. But beneath the vocabulary lies the same assertion: that if man makes a real choice, God ceases to be fully God.

But this is not the sovereignty of Scripture. This is not the sovereignty that thunders from the heavens and yet stoops low to converse with Abraham; the sovereignty that ordains history and yet invites, warns, pleads, commands, and holds man accountable for his response. We have no true grasp of divine sovereignty if we cannot see that His sovereignty itself makes room for human free will.

He is sovereign enough—infinitely so—to remain in total control while allowing real decisions, real responsibility, real love, real obedience, and tragically, real rebellion. A God who must choose everything in order to remain sovereign is far too small; the God of the Bible is Lord of all precisely because He can govern a universe filled with beings who act, respond, and choose in real time.

Yes, there are mysteries here—depths beyond our reach, oceans of truth too vast for our minds. Yet we are not in the dark. The Bible speaks clearly: God “works all things according to the counsel of His will” (Ephesians 1:11), and yet man is commanded to “choose this day whom you will serve” (Joshua 24:15); God hardens and God shows mercy (Romans 9:18), yet He also says, “I have set before you life and death… therefore choose life” (Deuteronomy 30:19). The Bible holds these truths together without apology, without embarrassment, without adjusting the edges to make them fit. And so must we.

Anytime we bend the truth to serve our narrative—whether determinist or libertarian, whether philosophical or emotional—we do grave injustice to the Word of God. Our task is not to force Scripture into our mold, but to let Scripture shape us. God is sovereign. Man is responsible. The Bible declares both with full voice, and we must not silence either.

The glory of God’s sovereignty is not diminished by human freedom; it is displayed in the way He weaves every human choice, every act of obedience, every sin, every prayer, every turning of the heart into His eternal purpose. Only a truly sovereign God could do that. And only a truly free man could respond to Him with faith, love, and surrender.

Lord God, Sovereign of all, teach me to marvel that You reign over the universe and yet invite my heart to choose You freely. Help me to see that Your power is not threatened by my decisions, but glorified in the way You guide, direct, and work through them. Guard me from bending Your Word to fit my understanding or my desires; keep me humble before Your mysteries, yet confident in Your truth. Let me live in awe of Your sovereignty and in gratitude for the freedom You grant, that every choice I make may honor You, and that my soul may rest in the wonder of a God who is both absolutely in control and infinitely gracious. Amen.

BDD

SALVATION COMES BY GRACE

The truth that makes men free rests in the radiant simplicity of the Lord’s own words: “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). This is the gospel in its most condensed form—grace revealed, Christ given, faith invited. And Scripture, as if unwilling to let us miss the wonder, adds its own commentary again and again.

Paul’s thunderous affirmation in Ephesians reinforces the Lord’s declaration: “For by grace you have been saved through faith, and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of God, not of works, lest anyone should boast” (Eph. 2:8–9). The gospel is a gift; salvation is rooted not in human merit but in divine mercy. One would have to deny the very authority of Scripture to deny this central truth.

Yet some, though seldom by open confession, effectively deny salvation by faith in their attempt to emphasize the necessity of obedience. They see rightly that Scripture everywhere commands holiness, and that those who persist in disobedience have no hope; but instead of placing obedience within the framework of God’s free grace, they allow obedience to overshadow grace altogether.

In their zeal, salvation by faith becomes nearly indistinguishable from salvation by works. They confuse the fruit of salvation with its foundation, making human performance the ground of justification. In doing so, they repeat the ancient error of those who “fell from grace” because they sought to be “justified by law” (Gal. 5:4). However sincere their intentions, the result is spiritually disastrous.

The witness of Scripture stands unshaken: man cannot save himself. He cannot climb his way to heaven on the rungs of his own obedience; he must rest entirely on the finished work of Christ. Yes, the grace of God instructs us, trains us, empowers us to live soberly, righteously, and godly (Titus 2:11–14). But grace never shifts the ground of justification from Christ to us. If righteousness could come by law-keeping, Paul reminds us with piercing bluntness, “then Christ died in vain” (Gal. 3:21).

Therefore, the church must continually reemphasize salvation by grace through faith. We must “stir up our minds by way of remembrance,” for the enemy is subtle. He speaks often of the “necessity of obedience,” yet uses the very language of holiness to pull our gaze away from the cross and toward our own efforts. If we are not watchful, we may soon find ourselves embracing “another gospel”—a distortion of the one once delivered (Gal. 1:6–9). The gospel of Christ is a gospel of grace; and grace, when believed, will always lead to obedience—but obedience will never replace grace.

BDD

THE SINCERITY OF GOD’S INVITATION

When we speak of the goodness of God, we must be honest enough to let Scripture define that goodness—and bold enough to reject any system that makes the Lord appear arbitrary or unjust. Many claim that God, from all eternity, unconditionally decreed some people to salvation and others to damnation, allowing no real possibility for repentance among the non-elect. But if this is true, then every call to repentance becomes little more than a hollow echo—an offer made to those who, by divine decree, cannot possibly respond. And no matter how it is dressed up, that does not reflect the God revealed in Christ Jesus.

If God commands all men everywhere to repent (Acts 17:30), and if He takes no pleasure in the death of the wicked but desires the wicked to turn and live (Ezekiel 18:23; 33:11), then we must take those words seriously. We cannot claim that God “wants” men to repent on the one hand while saying He withholds from most the very ability to do so on the other. That would make His commands a form of judgment rather than an expression of mercy, and His invitations a form of condemnation rather than grace. The Scripture never presents God that way.

If the gospel invitation is universal—and the New Testament declares that it is (Mark 16:15; Revelation 22:17)—then it must be sincerely extended to all. A real offer requires a real possibility. Otherwise we are forced to believe that God laments the destruction of sinners He Himself rendered incapable of responding. This is not the God who so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son (John 3:16). This is not the Shepherd who leaves the ninety-nine to pursue the one (Luke 15:4). This is not the Christ who wept over Jerusalem because they would not, not because they could not (Luke 19:41–42).

The character of God matters. His goodness matters. His trustworthiness matters. Any theology that portrays Him as double-minded in His invitations or selective in His mercy must be weighed carefully against the revelation of God in Jesus Christ. And the Christ we meet in the Gospels is earnest in His calls, sincere in His compassion, and genuinely willing that all should come to repentance (2 Peter 3:9).

Therefore, we must hold firmly to what the Bible actually teaches: God desires salvation for all; Christ died for all; the Spirit convicts all; and whoever calls upon the name of the Lord shall be saved (Romans 10:13). Anything less diminishes the goodness of God and misrepresents the gospel.

BDD

WHEN WEARY HANDS FIND HELP

There is a beautiful, mysterious tenderness in that moment on the hill—Moses standing with the rod of God lifted toward heaven, Israel striving below, the sound of battle rising like thunder in the wilderness. As long as his hands were lifted, Israel prevailed; but when the weight became too great, when his strength trembled and faltered, the enemy surged forward (Exodus 17:8–13). It is a story painted in divine colors—human weakness, sacred dependence, and the quiet ministry of those who come alongside us when our souls begin to tire.

Moses’ arms were not held up by sheer will, nor by some heroic inner power. He grew weary—as every believer eventually does. The calling was heavy, the moment demanding, the burden beyond what one man could sustain alone. And when his arms sagged, Aaron and Hur stepped into the story; they placed a stone beneath him, they stood on either side, and they held his hands steady until the sun dipped below the horizon. What a picture—faith strengthened by fellowship, courage renewed by companionship, divine purpose upheld by human hands.

In our own battles—those unseen struggles of the mind, those quiet wars of the heart—our arms grow heavy too. We begin with zeal, with confidence, with fire; but life’s pressures press down upon us, and suddenly the strength that once felt unshakable begins to tremble. Yet the God who watched over Moses watches over us; the same Lord who gave victory to Israel gives mercy to His people still. He sends us companions—friends, mentors, brothers and sisters in Christ—who lift us when we falter, who pray when we cannot find the words, who steady our souls when weariness threatens to undo us. “Two are better than one,” the Bible whispers, “for if one falls, the other lifts him up” (Ecclesiastes 4:9–10).

And beyond every human helper stands Christ Himself—our intercessor, our Advocate, the One whose own arms were stretched out upon a cross, not in weakness but in redeeming love. He ever lives to make intercession for us (Hebrews 7:25); He upholds us with the strength we lack; He steadies our trembling faith with His everlasting arms. When our spirit faints, His Spirit sustains; when our courage wavers, His grace prevails. In Him, our weary hands find rest, our tired hearts find hope, and our battles find meaning.

BDD