THE GOSPEL IN SONG — “SWEET CHERRY WINE”

Tommy James and the Shondells—now there is a group that almost defies explanation.

In the landscape of popular music history, they are endlessly creative, endlessly catchy, yet somehow always underappreciated. From “Crimson and Clover” to “I Think We’re Alone Now,” their songs capture the hearts of listeners with melodies that linger and lyrics that surprise.

And Tommy James himself—what a voice, what a mind for songwriting! To call him underrated is an understatement; he has the gift of combining joy, reflection, and emotion in ways that few popular artists ever have.

One of their most stirring songs, “Sweet Cherry Wine,” was released in 1969, a year when the world was in upheaval. The song’s vibrant melody and hypnotic rhythm draw you in, but there is a depth many might not realize at first listen.

Tommy James, a devout believer, has said that the song is about the blood of Christ—a truth that transforms the song from a piece of pop history into a devotional treasure. The chorus, the repetition, the heartfelt delivery—they all become a celebration of the sacrifice that brings us life.

Indeed, the blood of Christ is the ultimate “sweet cherry wine.” It is the life poured out for us, the cleansing that washes us free, the gift that restores the soul. Just as the song invites the listener to savor the imagery and energy, so too Christ invites us to come and drink deeply of His grace (Revelation 1:5; 1 John 1:7).

It is not a distant, abstract promise; it is a reality we taste in faith, a delight for the soul, and a sustaining power through every trial and every dark night.

So let us listen, not only with ears, but with hearts attuned to His Spirit. Sweet cherry wine—how fitting that a song meant to move the world also points us to the Savior, whose blood redeems and whose love endures.

Let us come to Him, drink, and be refreshed. There is no greater melody, no sweeter tune, than the life and sacrifice of Jesus Christ.

Lord Jesus, thank You for the gift of Your blood, for the life it gives, and the grace it pours into my soul. Let me drink deeply of Your love, and carry the sweetness of Your salvation wherever I go. Amen.

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THE GOSPEL IN SONG — “BRING IT ON HOME TO ME”

Some hearts have wandered far—further than they ever meant to go. The path bent slowly, gently, then sharply, until one day they looked up and realized they were far from the Father’s house.

And now they wonder: Will Jesus take me back? Is there room for someone who walked away?

Oh yes—He receives all who come, even those who are coming home again. Nothing in your past stands as a barrier—not the failures, not the doubts, not even the wandering itself. What matters is that you turn your steps toward Him now. Just come back.

Sam Cooke understood the longing of a heart that wants someone to return. In 1962, at RCA Studios in Hollywood, he recorded “Bring It On Home to Me,” a song released that same year—a soulful plea wrapped in velvet tones, inviting a loved one to return no matter what had happened. One of my all-time favorite songs by one of my all-time favorite singers.

Cooke’s voice held both ache and welcome, a promise that the door would be open, the arms wide, the heart willing. It remains one of the great American soul songs because it speaks to something deep in all of us—the desire to be received again, to be loved beyond our mistakes.

And that is the very heart of Jesus toward every returning soul. If Sam Cooke could sing, “If you ever change your mind…bring it on home to me,” how much more does Christ say to the wandering, “If you change your mind, My child, come home. I have never stopped loving you.”

He is not tallying your failures; He is watching the road for your return (Luke 15:20). He does not remind you of how far you traveled; He rejoices that you have decided to come back. Grace does not scold—it embraces.

So come home now.

Come while your heart is stirring, while you feel the pull of mercy. Jesus welcomes the weary, the broken, the ashamed, and the returning.

He will not ask where you’ve been; He will rejoice that you are here.

The gates of grace are open, the Father’s house is bright, and the Savior’s voice still calls: “If you change your mind…bring it on home to Me.”

Lord Jesus, thank You for Your mercy that never gives up on me. Draw every wandering heart home, and let me rest in the certainty that Your love is greater than my past. Amen.

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LIVING FREE IN JESUS

There is a place where the gates are high, yet the welcome is wide. A community founded not on walls of stone, but on the unshakable rock of Christ, where safety is not measured by locks or guards, but by the presence of the Savior Himself.

Here, the hearts of the residents are secure, for their lives are rooted in His truth and their feet stand firm on His promises (Psalm 16:5-6). Though the world may see barriers, Jesus opens the way for every soul who comes seeking refuge.

In this place, freedom reigns. Not the fleeting liberty of circumstance, but the deep, abiding freedom that flows from surrender to Him. To live in Jesus is to walk unburdened by fear or guilt, to breathe the air of grace, and to move through life without the chains of doubt or shame.

Every soul within this community carries the mark of Christ’s peace, a quiet assurance that comes not from striving, but from resting in Him (Galatians 5:1).

And yet, it is not hidden. The gates are open to all who will enter. Christ invites every wandering heart to come and dwell, to find rest and fellowship. There is no exclusive list, no secret password—only the simple call to follow Him and belong.

Here, strangers become family, and the walls of division fall away beneath the touch of His love (Ephesians 2:19-22).

This life is both settled and foundational. Firmly planted in the hope of salvation, it does not sway with the shifting winds of the world. Each day brings the simple joy of walking in His presence, of being known and cherished, and of knowing that the way is secure because He Himself is the Way (John 14:6).

In Jesus, we are free, we are home, and we are invited to share this freedom with all who will come.

Lord Jesus, thank You for the freedom and security found in You. Help me to live in Your love, fully trusting Your invitation, and to welcome others into the safety of Your presence. Amen.

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JESUS IN 1 SAMUEL

First Samuel feels like the turning of a page in Israel’s soul—dust still settling from the chaos of the Judges, hearts longing for stability, and the quiet ache for a King who could steady their steps.

And through these chapters, Jesus walks—unannounced, unnamed, yet unmistakably present. He is the mercy beneath Hannah’s trembling prayer, the strength in her voice when she sings of a future Anointed One who will shatter His enemies and raise the horn of His people (1 Samuel 2:10). Her cradle-song points beyond Samuel, beyond David, to the Christ who would cradle the whole world in redeeming grace.

He is the whisper in the dark when the boy Samuel hears his name for the first time (1 Samuel 3:10). Long before the Word became flesh, the Word came calling in the night—a gentle reminder that God still speaks, still pursues, still shapes His people by His voice.

Samuel becomes a shadow of the greater Prophet who would not merely bring a message from God but be the message Himself.

Then Jesus shines through David—shepherd, singer, giant-slayer. When Samuel pours oil over that young man’s head (1 Samuel 16:13), a deeper anointing is being foretold.

David’s courage in the valley of Elah points toward a greater Champion who would face a far more ancient enemy. David runs toward Goliath with a sling and a stone; Jesus approaches the cross with love and obedience. One brings down a giant; the other brings down death itself.

And even Saul’s collapse preaches Christ. Saul is everything the flesh desires—tall, strong, impressive—yet he cannot save himself, much less a nation.

His trembling walls teach us that no kingdom built on human strength will stand. Only the King after God’s own heart—only the Son who would wear a crown of thorns before He wore a crown of glory—can rule us into peace.

1 Samuel is not merely history; it is a window into the steady, unfolding promise of God. Page by page, kingdom by kingdom, heart by heart, the Lord was preparing the world for its true King.

And when we read these ancient stories with open eyes, the dust of Ramah, Shiloh, Bethlehem, and the Valley of Elah begins to shimmer with the footsteps of Jesus—always present, always working, always drawing the story closer to the fullness of His redeeming love.

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JESUS, THE WAY IN THE DARK

There are hours when the path dims beneath our feet, when shadows stretch long across the heart, and when every step feels unsure—but it is in such moments that Jesus draws nearest. He does not merely point the way; He is the Way (John 14:6).

Christ is not simply our helper, but our very life; so also He is not simply the map of the journey—He is the road beneath us, steady and unfailing, even when the night is thick.

And in the dark, He becomes our Light. Not a flicker, not a candle battling the wind, but the true Light that “shines in the darkness” (John 1:5), untouched by the shadows that intimidate us.

The world’s lights dazzle briefly and fade, but His presence glows with a holy, inward certainty—a light that does more than reveal the path; it warms the traveler. Christ does not give light as something separate from Himself; He gives Himself, and in receiving Him, we receive a radiance that cannot be dimmed.

He also gives direction—gentle, patient, sovereign. His leadership is not hurried, not harsh, but deeply personal. He guides us not as a distant voice calling from the end of the road, but as One who walks beside us, step by step, whispering grace and imparting strength. “My sheep hear My voice” (John 10:27); it is a Shepherd’s guidance, born of love, not law; communion, not compulsion.

Yet He does more still—He brings us where we need to go. Jesus is not only the Way and the Light, but the finisher of the journey.

Where His hand leads, His hand also keeps.

Where His grace starts, His grace completes.

Through valleys, over ridges, across deserts of the soul, He does not simply steer us—He carries us. And when the path ends in glory, we will confess with joy that every mile of light was Him, and every step of trust was His gift.

Lord Jesus, Light of every shadowed hour, lead me by Your presence. Be my Way, my Lamp, and my Guide. Carry me where I cannot walk, and let Your gentle radiance fill my steps with peace. Amen.

THE GOSPEL IN SONG — “LIKE A ROLLING STONE”

I’ve loved “Like a Rolling Stone” by Bob Dylan since I first heard it as boy. a portrait of a soul that has fallen from certainty into confusion, from comfort into a kind of spiritual homelessness.

The melody stumbles forward like someone trying to find footing on unfamiliar ground.

And in its own poetic way, it asks a question the human heart has whispered for centuries: What happens when the props give way—when the illusions crumble, when pride dissolves, when you discover you are not as self-sufficient as you once believed?

That question, though sung on a stage in the 1960s, could have been sung beside a well in Samaria, or along the dusty road of the prodigal’s return.

The gospel tells the same story from a different angle. Jesus speaks of a heart that wanders, a soul that drifts “like sheep without a shepherd” (Matthew 9:36). There is a loneliness in being spiritually unanchored, a hollow feeling in rolling from one moment to the next without purpose, direction, or identity.

When Dylan’s song asks, “How does it feel?” the Scriptures quietly answer: It feels empty, unstable, thirsty—like sand slipping through the fingers.

But the gospel doesn’t stop with diagnosis; it offers the cure. The Shepherd seeks the wandering. The Father runs to the returning. Grace finds the ones who have nothing left to lean on.

The song’s refrain echoes the experience of many who once held the world in their hands—its confidence, its applause, its illusions of invincibility—only to find that all of it fades.

But the mercy of Christ often meets us in precisely those moments. When pride finally collapses, when identity finally crumbles, when all the false pillars have fallen, then the heart is ready to hear the whisper of the One who says, “Come to Me…and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28).

What feels like ruin becomes room—room for grace to enter, room for hope to rise, room for God to rebuild what life has broken.

Like a rolling stone, the human heart is restless until it comes to rest in Christ.

The gospel does not shame the wanderer; it welcomes them. It does not mock the one who has lost their way; it gently leads them home. What the world calls failure, Jesus often calls awakening. What the song frames as disorientation, the Scriptures frame as invitation: “Return to Me, for I have redeemed you” (Isaiah 44:22). Jesus uses emptiness to birth fullness, brokenness to build beauty, and wandering to guide us into His embrace.

And perhaps that is the quiet devotional truth within Dylan’s thunderous chorus: we are all rolling stones until grace gathers us. We all wander until the Shepherd finds us. We all fall until mercy lifts us.

Life may strip away our illusions, but Christ clothes us with His love. Life may leave us without a home, but He becomes our dwelling place forever (Psalm 90:1).

In Him, the restless soul finds its anchor, its meaning, its song.

Lord Jesus, thank You for meeting us in our wandering, our weariness, and our broken pride. When life leaves us rolling and restless, gather us in Your mercy. Anchor us in Your love, steady our steps, and give our hearts a home in You. Let every fall become a doorway to grace, and every emptiness a place where Your fullness is revealed. Amen.

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LIVING WATERS FOR A THIRSTY WORLD

The closing visions of Zechariah sweep across redemptive history like a great sunrise—beginning in the shadow of a pierced Shepherd (Zechariah 12-13) and rising into the brilliance of a world awakened by divine mercy (Zechariah 14).

These chapters carry us from the sorrow of Calvary to the fire-lit birth of the church at Pentecost. They show the dark wound of sin and then unveil the healing stream that flows from God’s own heart.

What begins with a fountain opened “for sin and for uncleanness” (Zechariah 13:1) ends with living waters pouring out from Jerusalem (Zechariah 14:8)—the very life of the gospel flowing outward to refresh the nations.

Isaiah once saw this day in a distant vision, describing the nations streaming toward the mountain of the Lord, hungry for His teaching, thirsty for His peace (Isaiah 2:2-4).

Centuries later, Christ placed the same hope upon the trembling shoulders of His disciples: that repentance and forgiveness would be preached “beginning at Jerusalem” (Luke 24:47-48).

What the prophets foresaw and what the apostles obeyed are one and the same reality—the gospel as God’s river of life, running outward from the city where the Lamb was slain and the Spirit was poured out.

The imagery is rich and restorative: living waters—not stagnant, not seasonal, not uncertain—flowing continually, east and west, summer and winter, swelling with the grace of a kingdom that cannot be shaken.

This is the age Zechariah foresaw, the age we now inhabit—the remedial, renewing, Spirit-shaped era in which Christ reigns over hearts and the nations are invited to drink freely. The battle scenes, the cosmic signs, the trembling earth, all find their fulfillment not in earthly terror but in the triumph of the risen Christ, who turns judgment into joy and desolation into deliverance.

And so these apocalyptic scenes—so mysterious, so sweeping—merge beautifully into the gentle, life-giving stream of the gospel. The God who once thundered from Sinai now whispers through the pierced Son. The God who once shook the nations now sends living water to heal them. The God who once dwelt behind a veil now opens a fountain for every thirsty wanderer who dares to come.

For the believer, this becomes a deeply devotional truth: we live in the age of open rivers. Grace is not rationed. Mercy is not seasonal. The life of Christ does not flow in trickles but in torrents.

Wherever this living water runs, it cleanses, restores, softens, and renews. And the invitation still echoes—“If anyone thirsts, let him come to Me and drink” (John 7:37). The water is Christ Himself, and the river is His gospel—unceasing, unstoppable, unforgettable.

Lord Jesus, thank You for the living waters that flow from Your wounded side and wash over a dry and weary world. Let Your gospel stream through my life with freshness and power. Cleanse what is stained, revive what is weary, and deepen my longing for Your presence. Make me a channel through which Your grace reaches others, until every heart knows the joy of Your redeeming love. Amen.

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A LEADER WHO LOVED PEOPLE

There was once a president—born in Hawaii, seasoned in Chicago—whose life became a quiet parable of what leadership can look like when compassion guides the compass.

He walked into the national spotlight with a humble steadiness, a graceful confidence, and a conviction that people matter more than politics, more than power, more than position.

He had a radiant wife at his side, a woman of dignity and brilliance, and two daughters whose laughter reminded the nation that family is still a sacred gift.

Though his work was heavy, his heart remained open; though his responsibilities were vast, his kindness remained real.

When a leader cares for people, protects the vulnerable, champions unity, and speaks with hope rather than hostility, these qualities themselves become the sermon. They remind us that greatness is measured not in applause, but in compassion; not in being served, but in service; not in dividing people, but in drawing them together.

He demonstrated the kind of calm strength that refuses cynicism, the kind of optimism that lifts rather than lowers, the kind of grace that listens before it speaks.

He believed that every human being—regardless of color, culture, or class—deserves dignity. And in this, his example becomes quietly devotional: he loved widely, and love is always a gospel-shaped act.

To care about people is to reflect the heart of the One who formed them. To treat others with dignity is to be like the Savior who touched lepers, welcomed children, and knelt to wash feet.

Whether or not one agreed with every decision he made, the truth remains: he embodied a certain gentleness, a certain humanity, a certain hope. He reminded us that leadership can be civil, compassionate, and courageous all at once. He reminded us that loving people is not weakness—it is wisdom.

It is Christlike to lift others rather than belittle them; it is Christlike to value unity over division; it is Christlike to aim for justice, mercy, and humility, even in the halls of power (Micah 6:8).

In a world where many chase greatness, he lived a greatness shaped by love. And perhaps that is the point: when love leads, greatness follows—not the greatness of monuments and marble, but the greatness of hearts healed, burdens lifted, and people seen.

For in the end, the measure of any leader is the measure of Christ’s own call: “By this all will know that you are My disciples, if you have love for one another” (John 13:35).

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Christmas 2025: THE INNOCENCE OF THE NEWBORN AND THE SINLESSNESS OF CHRIST

One of the most tender themes in Scripture is the innocence of a child. When Jeremiah spoke of those “who do not know to refuse the evil and choose the good” (Jeremiah 7:24; cf. Isaiah 7:16), he revealed a truth shouted throughout the Bible: sin is not something we inherit like eye color—it is something we commit when knowledge awakens and the heart turns away from God.

To say that babies are born guilty would make them sinners before they have ever chosen sin, and Scripture never lays that burden on them. Instead, children are portrayed as precious, innocent, and embraced by the Lord Himself (Matthew 19:14).

This truth leads naturally to an important theological reality: if babies are born sinners, then Jesus—who was born a baby—would have been born a sinner too.

Some attempt to solve this by claiming the virgin birth prevented Him from inheriting a sin nature from Joseph. But this argument raises a serious question: Was Mary not a sinner? She was a godly woman, chosen by grace, but she herself rejoiced in “God my Savior” (Luke 1:47). If sin is inherited biologically, then Jesus could have inherited it from her as easily as from Joseph.

But Scripture never teaches that sin is a biological substance passed from parent to child. The Bible teaches instead that “all have sinned” (Romans 3:23)—not because they were born guilty, but because they eventually chose sin.

Jesus remained sinless not because His DNA was shielded from corruption, but because He perfectly obeyed the Father’s will at every moment of His earthly life (Hebrews 4:15). His sinlessness is moral, not mechanical; it is rooted in His divine nature and His flawless obedience.

The virgin birth served a different purpose entirely: it was God’s sign that the Messiah had come in a miraculous, God-ordained way (Isaiah 7:14; Matthew 1:22–23). It testified that Jesus was both fully God and fully man—conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of a woman, the eternal Word made flesh (John 1:14). It was not about avoiding inherited guilt but about announcing the arrival of the incarnate Son.

If infants are born lost, guilty, or stained with sin, then Jesus Himself—born as a true human infant—would have shared that stain.

But He did not.

Therefore the premise must be rejected. Babies are born innocent; Jesus was born innocent. We fall into sin when we choose it knowingly, just as Adam and Eve did—not because it seeps into us biologically, but because we walk the same path of temptation.

This is why the gospel calls for repentance, faith, and new birth: not because we were born in guilt, but because we eventually walked into guilt.

And this is why every soul must come to Christ personally—because sin is a personal act, and salvation is a personal rescue.

Through His sinless life, sacrificial death, and victorious resurrection, Jesus restores us—not to the innocence of infancy, but to the righteousness of a new creation (2 Corinthians 5:17).

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“FOR ALL SHALL KNOW ME”: THE NEW COVENANT AND THE KNOWING HEART

There is a holy contrast woven into the pages of Scripture—a contrast that shimmers between Jeremiah’s promise and the writer of Hebrews’ proclamation: “None of them shall teach his neighbor, and none his brother, saying, ‘Know the Lord,’ for all shall know Me” (Jeremiah 31:34; Hebrews 8:11, NKJV).

These words do not merely decorate the covenant; they define it. They reveal that God’s new covenant is not a continuation of the old—it is a transformation, a rebirth, a divine re-creation of how God relates to His people.

Under the old covenant, one entered the family of God by physical birth; Israelite infants were already in the covenant community the moment they drew their first breath. They were then taught to know the Lord as they grew, instructed in the Law, surrounded by sacrifices and shadows that whispered His name but could not yet reveal His face.

Circumcision was the mark placed on those who belonged, but that belonging began before personal faith, before understanding, before the heart could choose. The covenant community was filled with both faithful and faithless—men like Joshua and men like Achan lived within the same borders, carried the same sign, sang the same psalms, yet possessed entirely different hearts.

But the new covenant sweeps in with a promise as fresh as morning light: You will not be born into this by the flesh; you must be born into it by the Spirit.

Citizenship no longer comes through lineage but through new birth (John 3:3). Entrance is not granted by ancestry but by faith (Galatians 3:26). No one stumbles into this salvation unwittingly, and no one receives its sign unwillingly.

The new covenant community is not a mixed multitude of believers and unbelievers; it is a family of those who know the Lord from the heart—those whose sins have been forgiven, whose consciences have been cleansed, whose hearts have been written on by the very finger of God (Hebrews 8:10-12).

And this is why circumcision is not analogous to baptism—or faith, or any other response to Christ. Circumcision was given to infants who were already covenant members by physical descent; baptism is given to believers who enter the covenant by coming to Jesus in faith.

One marked a child already inside the old covenant; the other symbolizes the new birth that brings a person into the new. To confuse the two is to blur what God Himself has made bright: babies are not in need of salvation, for they have no guilt, no knowledge of good and evil, no sin laid to their charge (Deuteronomy 1:39). The new covenant is not inherited—it is embraced.

The glory of this promise—“all shall know Me”—is not about information, but intimacy; not about ritual, but relationship.

The old covenant called Israel to know the Lord; the new covenant creates a people who do know Him, because He has written His truth on their hearts and placed His Spirit within their souls.

Every citizen of this kingdom enters by faith, walks by the Spirit, and lives by the grace of the God who makes all things new.

Gracious Father, thank You for the new covenant—written not on stone but on our hearts. Thank You for the gift of new birth, for bringing us into Your family not by flesh, but by faith. Teach us to cherish the grace that makes us Yours, to walk in the Spirit You have given, and to rejoice that we know You, even as we are known. Let our lives reflect the beauty of this better covenant and the Savior who sealed it with His blood. Amen.

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WHEN WE DISAGREE: THE CHRIST-FIRST WAY

Disagreements are inevitable, even among those who sing the same hymns, read the same Scriptures, and call on the same Lord. Yet the gospel compels us to ask a deeper question—what will we do when we disagree? Will we respect one another’s mutual faith, remembering that “God has received him” (Romans 14:3)? Will we embrace one another as Christ has embraced us, not because we are perfectly aligned in thought, but because we are perfectly loved in Him (Romans 15:7)?

Disagreement becomes dangerous only when ego replaces grace—when we defend our rights more fiercely than we defend the brotherhood and sisterhood of humanity; when we clutch our opinions more tightly than we hold the cross.

The apostle Paul reminds us that love “does not seek its own” (1 Corinthians 13:5), and Jesus whispers again and again that the world will know we are His not by our accuracy, but by our love (John 13:35).

For in the great kingdom economy, God is not nearly as interested in who is “right” as in who is becoming Christlike. He cares about people—souls made in His image, hearts longing for grace, wanderers needing a Shepherd. He cares about men and women learning to walk in the gentle steps of Jesus and helping others do the same (Philippians 2:5).

When we choose stubbornness over unity, pride over peace, or winning over welcoming, we place stumbling blocks in the path of people coming to Christ (Romans 14:13).

But when we choose compassion over contention, service over status, and Jesus over everything—barriers fall, hearts open, and the fragrance of Christ fills the room. Our calling is not to build fences higher but to lift Jesus higher, for He alone draws all people to Himself (John 12:32).

So when disagreements come, as surely they will, let us remember that Christ has called us not simply to be correct—but to be kind; not merely to hold truth—but to hold one another; not only to proclaim the gospel—but to embody it.

Let us put Christ first, doing the things He has called us to do: loving deeply, forgiving freely, welcoming warmly, and living simply for the glory of God and the good of people. The world does not need more Christians who win arguments; it needs more Christians who remove obstacles so others can see Jesus clearly, walk toward Him freely, and rest in Him fully.

Lord Jesus, teach me to love as You love, to welcome as You welcome, and to hold truth with humility and grace. When disagreements arise, guard my heart from pride and guide my steps toward peace. Let nothing in my life become a barrier that keeps someone from finding You. Make me a bridge, not a wall; a servant, not a scorekeeper; a disciple who sees people the way You do. Amen.

BDD

Christmas 2025: THE STAR AND THE SON

The story of the wise men is one of the quietest yet most profound glimpses into the heart of God. They followed a star—an unmistakable sign in the night sky—that guided them across deserts, through foreign lands, and past kingdoms, until they arrived at the house where the Child lay.

That star was not merely a celestial decoration or a romantic part of a nativity scene; it was the deliberate hand of God reaching down to lead seekers to the Savior. It shone as a beacon for those with longing hearts, for those who were searching, for those willing to journey far and pay a price for the truth.

And when the wise men finally saw Him, they did not find a king on a throne or a palace draped in gold. They found a Child, swaddled and humble, lying in a home rather than a manger—a divine paradox that would define the rest of His life.

Jesus blends the infinite with the intimate, the eternal with the everyday, the Creator with the created. He is the Son of God who stoops to meet human eyes, the King who bends to hold a trembling hand, the Savior who knows the tenderness of our humanity because He Himself walked it.

The wise men and their gifts remind us that Jesus’ life was meant to intersect with ours: His glory is not distant, His holiness is not untouchable. The star guided them to a specific place, but His humanity drew them near; the heavens announced His coming, yet His earthly presence invited worship.

The paradox is breathtaking—God made flesh, fully divine and fully human, and still approachable, still tender, still willing to meet our smallest needs.

This story continues to speak to us today. Just as the star guided the wise men, the Holy Spirit guides our hearts to Christ. Just as the Child invited the wise men to worship, Jesus invites us into a personal relationship, to kneel not just in awe but in intimacy.

Every detail of the story—the star, the gifts, the humility of the house—teaches that God’s plan is precise, personal, and full of mercy. Like Isaiah 9:6 promises, He is our Wonderful Counselor and Mighty God, the Everlasting Father and Prince of Peace, blending majesty with mercy, eternity with humanity.

And so, we are called to follow the light, to recognize His presence in the ordinary, and to bring the treasures of our hearts to the feet of the One who is both star and Son, both God and man.

Lord Jesus, thank You for guiding us by Your light and drawing us close through Your humanity. Teach us to follow You with faith, to worship You with wonder, and to trust that the God who orchestrates the stars also knows the details of our hearts. Amen.

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JESUS IN THE BOOK OF RUTH

Ruth is a quiet story—soft as a sigh between the thunder of Judges and the rise of kings—yet every line glows with the presence of Christ. Bethlehem’s fields, its long shadows and gleaning corners, become a cradle for the gospel long before a manger ever stood there. His name is not spoken, but His heart is everywhere; His grace breathes through the barley, the brokenness, and the breathtaking redemption that only He can give.

The tale opens in famine, and famine is where every human story begins—hungry, wandering, empty. Naomi walks away from “the house of bread,” and life seems to drain from her like water spilling through trembling fingers. She returns with bitterness on her tongue (Ruth 1:20), believing the Almighty has forgotten her.

But even in her sorrow, Christ is quietly at work; He is the unseen Companion turning hearts homeward, the gentle Providence that begins healing long before we recognize His hand.

And then there is Ruth—faithful, fierce in love, clinging to Naomi with a devotion that sounds like the heart of Jesus Himself. “Where you go, I will go” (Ruth 1:16)—words spoken by a Moabite, yet shaped by the God who draws strangers near. Her loyalty is a whisper of the One who would leave heaven for us; who would walk our roads, bear our burdens, and bind His life to ours with cords of everlasting mercy.

When Boaz steps into the story, he carries the fragrance of Christ’s compassion. Before Ruth asks anything of him, he sees her (Ruth 2:5). Before she earns a place, he gives her one. He shelters her under wings she did not know she needed, invites her to his table though she has nothing to offer (Ruth 2:14), and speaks blessing into the cracks of her humility.

He is a living parable of our greater Redeemer—the One who meets us in our need, spreads His grace over our shame, and names us as His own.

Then comes the night on the threshing floor, quiet and trembling with hope. Ruth lays at Boaz’s feet, asking him to spread his garment over her (Ruth 3:9)—a plea for covenant, for covering, for redemption.

And Boaz does not hesitate; he pays the price, secures the future, and gathers her into a story far larger than she could imagine (Ruth 4:9-10). So Christ does for us—our Kinsman by incarnation, our Redeemer by His cross, our Bridegroom by everlasting promise. Every step Boaz takes foreshadows the footsteps of Jesus on the same Bethlehem soil.

And the book closes with a lineage—a quiet genealogy that blooms into David, and beyond David into Jesus Christ (Ruth 4:17). Ruth, the foreigner; Ruth, the widow; Ruth, the unlikely vessel of grace—woven into the very bloodline of the Savior.

This is the gospel’s gentlest thunder: God takes the overlooked, the hurting, the outsider, and by grace alone folds them into His eternal story.

BDD

Christmas 2025: WHEN THE WISE MEN FINALLY ARRIVED

Christmas tradition often paints a lovely scene: shepherds gathered close, angels fading into the night sky, and wise men kneeling beside a manger—three figures in flowing robes offering gold, frankincense, and myrrh while the newborn sleeps. It is beautiful; it is familiar; and it is not accurate.

The wise men did not come to the manger at all. The Bible says they arrived later, when the Child was in a house (Matthew 2:11). By the time they bent their knees before Jesus, Joseph and Mary had already settled into more permanent lodging, and the Lord—a toddler by then—was growing under their loving care.

This gentle correction is not meant to spoil our Christmas pageants; it is meant to awaken our hearts to a deeper truth: tradition, if left unchecked, can blur the edges of Scripture.

And while this particular misunderstanding is small, it reminds us that larger traditions—those touching salvation, worship, and the nature of the gospel—can obscure the Word if we do not continually anchor ourselves in what God has actually said. The wise men, arriving later than the nativity scene suggests, quietly testify that truth matters, even in the little things.

Yet these distant travelers still carry a message radiant with grace. They came because a star—placed by the God who names every light in the heavens—summoned them across deserts, kingdoms, and dangers.

That star was not a cosmic accident but a divine invitation, a beam of mercy pointing toward the true Light of the world (John 8:12). In their journey we see God’s relentless pursuit of seekers, wanderers, and outsiders—men who had only a hint of prophecy, yet followed it faithfully until it led them to the King.

And when they arrived, they did the only thing a soul can do when it meets Jesus: they worshiped. Not merely admired. Not simply offered polite respect. They opened their treasures—and their hearts.

Gold for the King who reigns (Matthew 2:11).

Frankincense for the Priest who intercedes (Hebrews 4:14).

Myrrh for the Savior who would die (John 19:39).

Their gifts spoke a language deeper than their understanding; they preached the gospel before the apostles ever walked Galilee.

Thus the wise men preach to us still: truth matters; worship matters; and Christ alone deserves our treasures. They remind us that God’s revelations—whether in prophecy or in the quiet corrections of Scripture—are never meant to burden us, but to draw us nearer to the humility and holiness of Jesus.

And perhaps this Christmas, as we stand once more before the Child who is King, Priest, and Sacrifice, we will join the wise men not at the manger—but at His feet.

Lord Jesus, Light of the world, lead my heart as surely as You led the wise men of old. Deliver me from traditions that cloud truth, and draw me into worship that opens every treasure before You. Teach me to love Your Word, to follow Your light, and to bow before You in humility and joy. Amen.

BDD

Devotional in Song “IF I DIDN’T CARE”

The old Ink Spots classic, “If I Didn’t Care,” drifts through time like a gentle confession—soft, aching, honest. The singer wonders aloud whether his love would mean anything at all if he didn’t care, if his heart were untouched, unmoved, unbroken by affection. But every line circles back to the truth he cannot escape: “I do care.” And because he cares, everything changes—every word, every thought, every moment.

There is something profoundly devotional hidden in that simple refrain. For the Christian, the question is not merely sentimental; it is spiritual. If I didn’t care about Christ, my life would look exactly the same as everyone else’s—rootless, restless, drifting through the world’s noise. But I do care; His love has pressed itself into my soul. And because of that, everything is different: my priorities, my wounds, my hopes, my purpose.

When the singer imagines what life would be like without genuine love, he speaks of emptiness and echoes. In much the same way, Scripture tells us that a life without love—real love, divine love—is hollow, clanging, and cold (1 Corinthians 13:1). If I didn’t care about the Savior who died for me, then forgiveness would be optional, righteousness would be negotiable, and eternity would be little more than a vague idea. But because I do care—because His cross has captured me—sin becomes bitter, grace becomes sweet, and heaven becomes home.

And perhaps most humbling of all is this thought: long before I ever cared for Christ, He cared for me. Long before I ever sang a love song to Him, He sang one over me (Zephaniah 3:17). The gospel itself could be rewritten in Ink Spots fashion: “If I didn’t care what happened to your soul, I would have left you in your sin; if I didn’t care, I would not have walked to Calvary; if I didn’t care… but I do.” The cross is God’s everlasting declaration: “I care more than you can comprehend.”

So when you hear that old melody drifting through memory, let it remind you of a greater love than the Ink Spots ever imagined. Let it remind you of the Savior whose voice still whispers through Scripture and through conscience, “If I didn’t care, I would not have sought you…but I did—and I do.” And let your heart answer Him with a life that proves the same: “Lord, I care—because You first cared for me.”

Gracious Father, thank You for caring for us even when we were careless with Your love. Let Your compassion soften our hearts, deepen our devotion, and shape a life that sings of Your mercy. Teach us to care as You care, to love as You love, and to walk closely with the One who gave Himself for us. Amen.

BDD

THE CROSS AND THE CONFEDERATE FLAG

There are symbols that lift the heart toward heaven, and there are symbols that chain the heart to the soil of a broken past. Yet in the South—where pews are filled with Bibles, and porches are lined with stories—many believers cling to both. They hold the cross in one hand and the Confederate flag in the other, calling both “heritage,” calling both “identity,” calling both “sacred.” But the gospel will not share the throne with any lesser loyalty—not even a cultural one.

The cross is the place where Christ broke every dividing wall, where Jew and Gentile, slave and free, male and female were invited into one family under one blood (Galatians 3:28). But the Confederate flag—no matter how gently some describe it—represents a cause built, defended, and sustained by division. It is a banner under which men fought to keep an entire population in chains. You can try to soften that reality with phrases like “states’ rights” or “Southern pride,” but history is stubborn; it refuses to bend under sentimental pressure. And when Christians elevate that flag as their “heritage,” they forget the heritage that truly matters—Calvary.

Some insist, “It’s not hate; it’s history.” Yet symbols preach louder than words. And when a symbol that once flew above slave markets and battlefields is raised beside the symbol of Christ’s love, the message becomes painfully clear: We have not fully surrendered our identity to the gospel. Just as a “Black Night” on a lectureship reveals more about the heart than the planners realize, so a flag defended with fierce passion exposes an allegiance that competes with the way of the cross. The psychology is the same: people believe they are upholding something innocent because they do not understand how deeply the symbol wounds those who have lived its consequences.

The cross calls us to die—to die to pride, to die to our old loyalties, to die to the stories we inherited but never questioned. The Confederate flag calls us to remember a world divided by color and kept by power. These two symbols cannot walk together; one liberates, the other binds; one exalts Christ, the other exalts a culture. When Christians fight harder for a Confederate banner than they do for the unity of God’s people, they reveal that their heart has not yet been shaped by the mercy of Jesus.

The gospel gives us a new identity in a new Kingdom—a Kingdom where no earthly flag can claim supremacy, a Kingdom where our true heritage is forgiveness, reconciliation, and the radiant love of Christ. We honor our forefathers best not by preserving their errors, but by walking closer to the light they never saw. And when we finally lay down every rival banner, every ancestral loyalty, every symbol that divides rather than heals, we discover that the cross is more than enough to define us—yesterday, today, and forever.

BDD

THE HIDDEN SICKNESS OF SELECTIVE INCLUSION

Racism rarely announces itself with raised voices or clenched fists; more often, it hides behind polite smiles, curated moments, and carefully staged displays of “diversity.”

It is a quiet sickness—a distortion of vision—that convinces otherwise decent people that they are healthy simply because they have arranged one night, one speaker, or one token gesture to prove their innocence. This is what I call the hidden sickness of selective inclusion—a condition in which people believe they have transcended prejudice while still breathing its air, repeating its patterns, and defending its systems.

I once attended a Christian university that prided itself on its annual lectureship. For one night—one—a Black preacher was invited to speak. That same night, a Black song leader stood before the assembly, and the men offering prayer were also Black. It was presented as evidence that the school was open, accepting, and above any whisper of racism.

But everyone could see it, even if no one said it: this was “Black Night.”

One night out of many.

One window dressed up to give the illusion that every room was bright. And in that moment, their attempt to prove they were not racist revealed something deeper: they did not understand racism at all. They did not understand its psychology—or its quiet psychosis.

Racism is not merely hatred; it is hierarchy. It is not simply personal animosity; it is selective inclusion. It is the unspoken belief that whiteness is the default, the center, the norm—and that everyone else enters only by invitation. Racism thrives not only in who is excluded but in how someone is included.

When a person is invited to the table only on the night when “diversity” is on display, their presence is not fellowship; it is presentation. They become a symbol, not a brother; a tool, not a treasured member of the Body. And those who orchestrate such moments often congratulate themselves for doing what love would have done naturally, consistently, and without applause.

Jesus never used people as props. He never needed a “Samaritan Night” to prove He loved Samaritans. He never needed a “Gentile Night” to show that the gospel was for all. He simply walked with them, spoke with them, touched them, healed them, and honored them as image-bearers of God.

Racism cannot survive in a heart that sees every person through the eyes of Jesus; but selective inclusion thrives in a heart that sees diversity as a decoration rather than a conviction.

The hidden sickness of selective inclusion works like this: people who do not believe they are racist defend themselves by pointing to isolated exceptions rather than examining consistent patterns. “We had a Black speaker.” “We invited a Black song leader.” “We honored a minority brother last year.” “I have Black friends.”

These gestures become shields, preventing the honest self-examination that Jesus demands—an examination that asks: Do I see all people as truly equal? Do I give equal voice, equal honor, and equal presence not occasionally but continually? Do I choose inclusion because it reflects the character of Christ, or because it helps my image?

Racism is a broken lens; it distorts without the person realizing the distortion is there. And the tragedy is that those caught in it often believe themselves righteous because they can point to one moment where they got it right.

But love does not wait for a special night to appear; it flows through the ordinary, the weekly, the everyday rhythms of fellowship and leadership and worship.

When we choose selective inclusion, we do not heal racism—we hide it behind stained-glass windows. When we walk in the inclusive love of Christ, we expose racism for the sickness it is, and let His grace begin the cure.

May the Lord give us eyes to see as He sees, courage to repent where we’ve been blind, and hearts that welcome without calculation or pretense—until the church reflects not one-night diversity, but everlasting Kingdom unity.

BDD

THE BIBLE TRANSLATION ISSUE MADE SIMPLE

The Word of God was never meant to be a museum piece sealed behind ancient glass; it was meant to be heard, received, and lived in the language of real people walking through real life. When Paul wrote his letters, he did not write in a lofty, sacred tongue reserved for scholars—he wrote in the everyday Greek of shopkeepers, sailors, and mothers in the marketplace (see Acts 21:40).

When Jesus taught the crowds, He spoke in the warm, familiar Aramaic of their homes and villages, not in a foreign or ceremonial language (Matthew 27:46). From the very beginning, God’s heart has been to make His truth understandable.

Some today fear that using anything other than the King James Version is somehow disrespectful to Scripture. But the King James translators themselves openly admitted their work was not perfect and would one day need to be revised. And it has—as language always changes, and as our understanding of ancient manuscripts improves.

The King James Version is beautiful, noble, and historic—but it contains translation decisions and textual issues just like any other version. It is no more perfect—and no less valuable—than the trustworthy English Bibles we have today.

What matters most is not the age of the translation but the accuracy of the translation. God does not require us to read in 1611 English to know His heart. Any standard, reputable translation—the New Internatuonal Version, the New King James Version, the English Standard Version, the New American Standard Bible, the New Living Translation and others—will faithfully tell you what God wants you to know. These translations are built on rigorous scholarship, ancient manuscripts, and the same desire the apostles had: to put God’s truth into the language people actually speak.

The issue is simple: God gave His Word to be understood. He meets us where we are—not where our dictionaries were four hundred years ago. The Spirit who inspired Scripture is the same Spirit who delights to illuminate it in clear, living words that reach the mind and stir the heart.

BDD

THE HIDDEN STRENGTH OF FASTING

Fasting, when spoken of in Scripture, is not a punishment; it is a pathway—quiet, ancient, and holy—where the soul leans into God with a hunger deeper than the body’s own. From the prophets who trembled before the glory of the Lord to the early church that prayed and fasted before sending out missionaries (Acts 13:2–3), the people of God have always known that there are seasons when the stomach must grow silent so the spirit may speak. I believe, deeply and unapologetically, that fasting is good; not as a badge of honor, not as a legalistic demand, but as a gift that turns our hearts heavenward.

Yet wisdom compels us to speak with tenderness. Some cannot fast from food because of health needs—diabetes, medical treatments, pregnancy, or medications that require nourishment. The Lord who formed our bodies (Psalm 139:14) never calls us to harm the very temple He inhabits. There is no shame in this, no lesser devotion.

The purpose of fasting is not starvation; the purpose is surrender—and surrender can take many forms. Someone may set aside television. Another may fast from the endless scroll of the cell phone, that subtle thief of silence. Still another may lay aside books, hobbies, or anything that has grown too large in their affections. The point is not the object we set down, but the God we take up.

There are many kinds of fasts. Some abstain from all food for a brief season; others from certain foods like Daniel did in Babylon (Daniel 10:2–3).

Some choose a partial fast—skipping a meal to spend the hour in prayer; others choose a soul-fast—laying aside distractions that numb the spirit. Each is valid when done with a heart that seeks the Lord (Matthew 6:16–18).

In a world that feasts constantly on noise, novelty, and screens, a fast can be the holy refusal that opens the heavens.

And the spiritual benefits—oh, how rich they are.

Fasting sharpens our dependence on God; it reminds the heart that “man shall not live by bread alone” (Matthew 4:4). It softens pride, breaks stubbornness, and teaches us that the kingdom is found in weakness more than strength (2 Corinthians 12:9). It heightens our prayers, tunes our ears to the whisper of the Spirit, and loosens the weights that cling so tightly.

Many discover renewed clarity, deeper repentance, greater compassion, and a tender, almost trembling awareness of God’s nearness. Fasting can be a classroom where the flesh grows quiet—and Christ becomes everything.

But one truth must be spoken plainly. Many who champion “patternism”—the idea that we must replicate every possible detail of New Testament practice—seldom fast themselves. The early Christians fasted; Jesus assumed His disciples would fast; and fasting was woven into the worship, decision-making, and spiritual life of the first-century church (Acts 14:23).

To speak loudly of following a New Testament pattern while refusing the disciplines that shaped the New Testament people is a curious contradiction.

Fasting is not a mark of advanced spirituality; it is the humble melody of ordinary disciples who want more of Christ and less of themselves.

So, let the strong fast with wisdom; let the weak fast in other ways; let none feel coerced; let all feel invited. For whenever we set something aside for the sake of Christ, the heart discovers again that He is enough—He has always been enough.

Lord Jesus, gentle Shepherd of our souls, teach us to fast—not as a burden but as a blessing; not to impress You, but to draw near to You. Give us wisdom for our bodies, courage for our spirits, and joy in the journey. Empty us of lesser things, that we may be filled again with Your peace, Your presence, and Your perfect will. Amen.

BDD

WHEN THE BUSY SOUL BENDS TO PRAY

There is a gentle wisdom that steals through the Psalms like sunlight through stained glass—“Evening and morning and at noon, I will pray” (Psalm 55:17).

David lived a life crowded with responsibilities, enemies, expectations, and burdens—yet he carved out the day like a sacred loaf, slicing it into moments where his heart could breathe in the presence of God. He knew what we so easily forget: the busiest seasons are the very moments when prayer becomes not a luxury, but a lifeline.

Our lives chase us from task to task, from message to message, from obligation to obligation; yet the Lord waits for us in the small spaces between breaths.

A whispered prayer as the sun climbs the horizon; a brief pause in the rush of noon; a quiet moment when evening shadows lengthen—these tiny offerings are not wasted. They steady the soul. They anchor the mind. They remind us that the world is not carried on our shoulders, but on His everlasting arms (Deuteronomy 33:27).

And how kind is our God, that He never asks for hours we cannot give, only the heart we can offer. A single minute can become a sanctuary—a whispered “Lord, help me,” a soft “Thank You,” a quiet “Guide me.”

The clock does not dictate the depth of prayer; the heart does. When we lift our eyes for even a breath, heaven bends low to meet us. The God who hears long prayers hears short ones too; the God who welcomes early morning vigils welcomes hurried whispers in traffic, in hallways, in the spaces where life presses hard.

Even the saints before us knew this secret. Daniel knelt three times a day even when the lions’ den waited (Daniel 6:10). The early Christians persevered in prayer while the world shook around them (Acts 2:42). And our Lord Himself, weary and pushed to His limits, slipped away into solitary places just to commune with the Father (Mark 1:35).

If Jesus needed that connection, how much more do we?

So let us lift our hearts heavenward throughout the day—morning, noon, evening, and in every moment that stirs us to remember. Let every pause become a prayer, every sigh become a petition, every breath become a blessing.

Prayer does not slow life down; it gives life meaning. It does not weaken our hands; it strengthens our steps. And when the day grows long and the path grows heavy, a single whispered prayer can become the doorway where peace enters again.

Lord Jesus, teach me to pray in the pauses and in the pressures, in the quiet and in the rush. Draw my heart toward You morning, noon, and evening. Fill every small moment with Your presence, every hurried breath with Your peace, and every weary step with Your strength. Let my life become a continual conversation with You, the One who never leaves my side. Amen.

BDD