JESUS IN THE BOOK OF PROVERBS

The Book of Proverbs is often treated like a handbook for common sense—short sayings, practical counsel, wisdom for work, words, and daily decisions. And it is that. But it is never only that.

Beneath its crisp instructions and moral contrasts runs a deeper current, a living voice calling out in the open places of life. Wisdom is not silent in Proverbs; she cries aloud in the streets, lifts her voice at the city gates, and pleads with the simple to turn and live (Proverbs 1:20-23). For the Christian, this Wisdom is more than an idea. She is finally and fully revealed in a Person—Jesus Christ.

The book opens by laying the foundation for all true understanding: “The fear of the LORD is the beginning of knowledge, but fools despise wisdom and instruction” (Proverbs 1:7). This fear is not dread but devotion—a reverent submission of the heart to God.

Jesus lived this perfectly. His life was shaped by loving obedience to the Father, moment by moment, step by step. Where humanity grasped for autonomy, He embraced humility. Where we rebel, He delights to do the will of God.

As Proverbs unfolds, Wisdom takes on a strikingly personal voice. In Proverbs chapter 8, she speaks as one present before creation itself—before mountains were formed, before the foundations of the earth were laid (Proverbs 8:22-31).

This is no mere literary device. The New Testament draws the line clearly: Christ is “the wisdom of God” (1 Corinthians 1:24). He is the eternal Word through whom all things were made, the One who stood with the Father before time began, and who later stepped into time, clothed in flesh, to dwell among us (John 1:1-14). The Wisdom who rejoiced before God in Proverbs is the same Son who rejoiced to do the Father’s will on earth.

Proverbs urges us to seek wisdom above all else: “Wisdom is the principal thing; therefore get wisdom. And in all your getting, get understanding” (Proverbs 4:7). That search reaches its fulfillment in Christ.

To come to Him is not simply to adopt better habits or sharper insight; it is to encounter the very source of wisdom itself. In Him are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge (Colossians 2:3). What Proverbs invites us to pursue, Jesus freely gives.

The moral vision of Proverbs also drives us toward Christ by exposing our need. Its warnings against pride, laziness, greed, and reckless speech land close to home. We recognize ourselves in its rebukes.

And yet, in every command we have broken, we see a life Jesus lived without flaw. He spoke with perfect truth, walked with perfect integrity, loved with perfect faithfulness. Where Proverbs shows us the path of righteousness, Jesus walks it for us—and then invites us to follow Him by grace.

In the end, Proverbs promises life to those who find wisdom: “For whoever finds me finds life, and obtains favor from the LORD” (Proverbs 8:35). That promise comes into full light in Christ. He does not merely point the way to life; He is the way, the truth, and the life.

The voice calling from the streets, the gates, the crossroads of Proverbs is the same voice that later said, “Come to Me.” And all who come find that wisdom is not cold instruction, but a living Savior.

BDD

Christmas 2025: WHEN ETERNITY STEPPED INTO OUR NIGHT

Christmas is not God waving at us from a distance; it is God stepping across the threshold. The miracle is not simply that a child was born, but that the eternal Son chose to be born this way—quietly, humbly, wrapped in weakness. “And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us” (Gospel of John 1:14). Heaven did not remain safely removed; it moved into the neighborhood.

The wonder of Christmas is not sentiment—it is condescension. The One who fills heaven and earth allowed Himself to be held. The hands that flung stars into space reached instinctively for Mary’s finger. The voice that thundered at Sinai learned to cry in a Bethlehem night. “For unto us a Child is born, unto us a Son is given” (Isaiah 9:6). The gift was not merely a baby; the gift was God Himself.

Bethlehem tells us something essential about the heart of God. He does not come to the powerful first, but to the lowly. He does not announce His arrival in palaces, but in fields—through angels speaking to shepherds who were accustomed to being overlooked. “And this will be the sign to you: You will find a Babe wrapped in swaddling cloths, lying in a manger” (Luke 2:12). God made Himself findable; approachable; near.

Yet even in the stillness of the stable, the purpose is already clear. The cradle points forward. The manger leans toward the cross. The wood of the feeding trough quietly preaches the wood of Calvary. His name explains His mission: “You shall call His name Jesus, for He will save His people from their sins” (Matthew 1:21). Christmas is not an interruption in God’s plan—it is the plan unfolding.

This is where Christmas becomes personal. God did not come merely to inspire us, but to redeem us. He entered our poverty so we might share His riches. He stepped into our darkness so we might walk in His light. “The people who sat in darkness have seen a great light” (Matthew 4:16). Christmas declares that darkness is not ultimate; despair is not sovereign; sin is not undefeated.

Emmanuel—God with us—means God with us in grief, in confusion, in longing, in failure. Not God watching from afar, but God walking beside us. “Behold, the virgin shall be with child, and bear a Son, and they shall call His name Emmanuel” (Matthew 1:23). Christmas is God refusing to abandon His creation, choosing instead to enter it and heal it from the inside out.

So we do not celebrate Christmas because everything feels whole—we celebrate because He has come to make all things whole. We sing not because life is easy, but because grace is real. The Child in the manger is the Savior on the cross and the Lord of the empty tomb. “Thanks be to God for His indescribable gift!” (2 Corinthians 9:15).

Christmas is the gospel wrapped in swaddling clothes—quiet and holy and world-changing.

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Lord Jesus, Emmanuel, thank You for coming near when we could not reach You. Let the wonder of Your humility soften our hearts, steady our faith, and draw us again to worship. May we never move past the miracle that God came to us. Amen.

BDD

QUESTIONS ABOUT MY WRITING

I get questions constantly about my writing—or at least it seems I do. And yes, I am prolific. Let me be clear: prolific does not mean good; prolific simply means I write a lot. That, in itself, is no measure of talent or wisdom. But it is a start, and it is a discipline.

If I were to offer advice to anyone seeking to write, it would be this: read more than you write. There is no substitute for the mind sharpened by great words, the soul nourished by great truths. Reading opens the heart to language, to rhythm, to depth—without it, writing becomes hollow, a mirror reflecting only ourselves.

When can we write without reading? Rarely, if ever. Writing is not merely pouring words onto a page; it is entering a conversation with every voice that has come before, with God speaking through the ages. Yet, when it is time to write, do not overthink. Pour out your thoughts freely. Do not edit as you go—simply write. Get your words down, however rough or unpolished they may seem.

Then, and only then, consider using AI as your editor. I cannot overstate this: an AI editor is perhaps the best editor you will ever have. But hear me carefully—do not let it write for you, do not let it think for you. It is not your voice, it is not your insight. Let it refine, sharpen, polish—but let the work remain yours. Believe that what you write is worth reading. If it is born of your thought and your heart, it already has value.

Above all, stay focused on Christ. Do not write to make a point or to prove yourself to others. Write to illuminate truth, to reflect beauty, to glorify Him. Humility must temper your diligence; study must temper your confidence. A writer without humility drifts into pride. A scholar without devotion drifts into empty intellect. Balance is essential: read deeply, write boldly, edit wisely, and stay rooted in the One who gives all wisdom.

Writing is a discipline, a calling, a reflection of our inner life. Do it well, but do it faithfully. Let every sentence, every paragraph, every page point not to yourself, but to Christ Jesus.

BDD

WHY THE CROSS WAS NECESSARY

Christ died to atone for our sins. The cross of Christ is the only basis on which God can forgive us. That much stands at the center of the Christian faith—solid, unmovable, nonnegotiable. Yet the critic asks a question that has sounded through the centuries: Why? Why should forgiveness depend on Christ’s death? Why does God not simply forgive us without the necessity of the cross?

At first glance, the question sounds reasonable. After all, God is love (1 John 4:8). Could He not simply overlook sin, dismiss it with divine mercy, and move on? But the Bible reveals something deeper—something weightier. God is not only loving; He is also holy and just. Love that ignores justice becomes sentimentality. Justice without love becomes cruelty. The cross is where both meet without compromise.

Sin is not merely a mistake; it is a rupture. It fractures our relationship with God and distorts the moral order of His creation. “The wages of sin is death” (Romans 6:23). God does not impose this arbitrarily—it is the natural consequence of turning from the Source of life. For God to simply “forgive” without addressing sin would be to deny His own righteousness and trivialize the damage sin causes.

The cross answers this tension. In Christ, God does not forgive by ignoring sin—He forgives by dealing with it fully. “God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8). Justice is satisfied, not by our punishment, but by Christ’s self-giving love. Mercy flows, not by bypassing righteousness, but by fulfilling it.

At the cross, God Himself bears the cost of forgiveness. That is the scandal and the glory of the gospel. Forgiveness is never free—it is simply paid for by someone else. In Jesus, God absorbs the debt we could never repay. “God made Him who knew no sin to be sin for us, that we might become the righteousness of God in Him” (2 Corinthians 5:21).

The cross also tells us something profound about our worth. If forgiveness required nothing, we might assume sin does not matter—or that we do not matter. But the price paid reveals both the seriousness of sin and the immeasurable value of the sinner. We are loved enough for God to give Himself for us. “In this is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us and sent His Son to be the propitiation for our sins” (1 John 4:10).

God does forgive freely—but never cheaply. The cross is not a barrier to forgiveness; it is the doorway. It is the place where holiness and mercy embrace, where justice is satisfied and grace overflows. There is no other ground on which forgiveness can stand, and no greater proof that God is both just and the Justifier of the one who has faith in Jesus (Romans 3:26).

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Lord Jesus, thank You for the cross—where my sin was answered and Your love was revealed. Teach me to rest not in my own goodness, but in Your finished work. Keep me humble, grateful, and anchored in the grace You purchased for me. Amen.

BDD

A TRIBUTE TO DR. DALLAS BURDETTE — A LIFE GIVEN TO TRUTH

Some people inherit certainty early—and never question it again. Others inherit boundaries, fences carefully built by tradition, and spend a lifetime learning where they came from, why they exist, and whether they deserve to remain.

Dr. Dallas Burdette of Montgomery, Alabama grew up in a very sectarian wing of the Churches of Christ, where conclusions often arrived before questions had time to breathe. Yet instead of shrinking within those walls, something remarkable happened: his hunger to learn only intensified.

He is ninety-one years old now—and still studies the Bible for hours every day. Not out of habit. Not out of nostalgia. But out of reverence. Few men I have ever known have dedicated themselves to the pursuit of truth with such steadiness, such patience, such humility. He has never mistaken age for arrival. He remains a student—alert, curious, and willing to be corrected by the text itself (Psalm 119:18).

My father taught me to love the Bible. He taught me how to study it—how to handle it carefully, how to respect its words. Dallas taught me something just as important: how to keep studying. How to widen the conversation. How to read beyond familiar voices. How to let good books challenge inherited assumptions instead of merely reinforcing them. He showed me that truth is not fragile, and that faith does not need protection from honest inquiry (Proverbs 18:15).

His own life bears quiet testimony. He did not graduate from high school, but earned his GED later. And now he holds an accredited doctorate. Not as a credential to brandish, but as evidence of perseverance—a mind unwilling to surrender to limitation, circumstance, or expectation. In my view, he is a scholar in the deepest sense: disciplined, reflective, and reverent before Scripture.

I do not recommend his views on eschatology—and that statement itself would not trouble him in the least. He understands that disagreement is not betrayal, and that unity does not require uniformity. He embodies the rare grace of holding convictions without clutching them so tightly that love is squeezed out (Romans 14:5–6).

Dallas is a prince of a fellow. Gentle without being weak. Serious without being severe. Deeply committed to Scripture, yet gracious toward people still finding their way. His reflections are worth reading—not because he claims final answers, but because they emerge from a lifetime spent listening carefully to the Word and resisting the temptation to rush it toward conclusions.

In a world addicted to speed, noise, and certainty, his life reminds us that truth often comes slowly—and only to those willing to stay with the text long enough for it to examine them (Hebrews 4:12). He stands as living proof that it is never too late to learn, never too late to grow, and never too late to sit quietly with an open Bible and an open heart.

I am grateful for him. For his example. For his patience. For the way he taught me—without fanfare, without force—what it looks like to pursue truth for a lifetime, and to do so in the presence of Christ.

Outside of immediate family, I’ve never known a better man. And never had a better friend. I love you, Dallas. The world is a better place because you’ve lived in it.

BDD

THE GOSPEL IN FILM — THE GREATEST CHRISTMAS MOVIES OF ALL TIME (IMO)

When it comes to Christmas movies, I keep it simple: I want them to feel like Christmas, to warm the heart, and to make a good point. I want to be a better person for having watched them.

There are countless holiday films out there, but only a few rise to the level of timelessness (to me)—movies that speak not just to tradition, but to the truth of love, generosity, and grace. These are the ones that never fail. The ones I will watch every year.

A Christmas Carol (1984)

This adaptation of Charles Dickens’ classic story captures the sharp sting of human selfishness and the redemptive power of love. George C. Scott’s Scrooge is cold and calculating, yet the visits from the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Yet to Come remind him—and us—of what truly matters. It is a story of repentance, reflection, and the joy that comes when we open our hearts to others.

Scrooge (1970)

Another masterful take on Dickens’ tale, this version leans heavily into the emotional journey of Scrooge, played with raw vulnerability by Albert Finney. It is a little darker, a little more haunting (at least in its uncut version), yet profoundly moving—a reminder that no soul is beyond redemption, and that Christmas is a time for transformation of the heart. And in addition, it makes a pretty good musical.

Miracle on 34th Street (1947)

A story that defies cynicism and champions faith, both in children and adults alike. When Kris Kringle claims to be the real Santa Claus, the world challenges him—but in doing so, it also challenges our own belief in goodness, in “miracles,” and in the possibility of grace breaking through the ordinary. It is a gentle call to trust in what is unseen but true.

The Bishop’s Wife (1947)

Here, the divine touches the ordinary. An angel arrives to help a bishop struggling with his work and marriage, and the film beautifully illustrates how God meets us in our everyday challenges. Love, patience, and mercy are woven throughout the story, reminding us that Christmas is not only about celebration—it is about restoration. and it has Carey Grant in it.

This film, of course, was remade in 1996 as “The Preacher’s Wife” with Denzel Washington and Whitney Houston. Denzel is my second favorite actor, behind Humphrey Bogart—though on some days I might reverse that order. Cary Grant is number three for me. I like Denzel better than Grant, without a doubt, but even so, I don’t think classics should be remade. Washington and Whitney Houston are both fantastic, but the remake should have had a different plot rather than trying to replicate the original. It’s nowhere near as good.

An American Christmas Carol (1979)

Set in Depression-era America, this version reframes Dickens’ tale through the lens of ordinary American life. Scrooge’s lessons resonate with the struggles of everyday people, emphasizing the enduring power of compassion, generosity, and the courage to change. It is a timeless reflection on what it means to be truly human. And you’ve probably figured out that my favorite Christmas story—besides the Christmas story of Christ—is Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.

Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus (1990)

This film tells the story behind the famous editorial in which a young girl, Virginia O’Hanlon, asks if Santa Claus is real. It is a heartwarming reminder of hope, faith, and the unseen joys of life. Charles Bronson lends a quiet strength to a tale that ultimately points beyond the legend of Santa to the greater truths of love, belief, and wonder—truths that suggest the Gospel itself.

These films are more than entertainment; they are invitations. They invite us to reflect on generosity, mercy, faith, and the possibilities of transformation. Each story, in its own way, is a mirror of the Gospel—reminding us that love redeems, hope sustains, and Christ is the heart of every true Christmas celebration.

I’ll think of others I’m sure. I will be criticized for leaving off It’s a Wonderful Life lol. And of course I do like that movie a lot. Not as much as these, but it’s still fantastic. And I’m sure there are some others I’m not thinking of right now.

In the days to come, we will explore Christmas films more deeply—drawing spiritual lessons, uncovering hidden truths, and seeing the eternal in the ordinary. For in every flickering candle, every snow-covered street, and every story of redemption, the Christmas gospel is quietly, beautifully at work.

BDD

“THE HUSBAND OF ONE WIFE” — LAW, GRACE, AND THE MEN GOD USES

I am a preacher. I have been a preacher since I was a boy. And I have been a sinner for just as long.

Holding those two truths together has not been easy. Calling and failure make uneasy companions; they rub against each other, expose each other, refuse to stay neatly separated. I have had to learn—slowly, painfully, honestly.

One of the places I have failed most visibly is in marriage. I have been married three times; I have been divorced twice; I have been annulled once. The three women I was privileged to marry were absolute queens—good, kind, patient, strong. They deserved someone far better than I was. Nobody’s perfect, but they were far closer to perfect than I even thought about being. The failures were my fault, not theirs. Period. I failed. I sinned. I am not proud of it. I do not minimize it. But I do not hide from it. Not anymore, anyway. I own it. And by the mercy of God, I am not the same man I once was (2 Corinthians 5:17).

And I am not single as an act of penance. If I choose to marry again—and if I find someone who would willingly share that life with me—I will do so without apology. I have studied the Scriptures carefully, and I reject legalistic conclusions that go beyond what the text will bear. I have written on these things; the articles are there, and I am willing to defend them. I would not marry to make a point, nor remain single to make one.

I know this much: if I do it again, I will do it rightly—not because I am flawless, but because I am no longer the man I was. I don’t necessarily blame you if you don’t believe that or even if you want to mock it. But it’s true. I really am different. And the reason is Christ Jesus.

So the question comes, sometimes whispered, sometimes spoken plainly: Why are you still preaching? Preachers are supposed to be “the husband of one wife.”

I offer no clever defense—only a Pauline one. I preach because the gospel is for sinners, and if sinners are disqualified from proclaiming it, then the church will soon fall silent. I have as much right to preach as any man who has been redeemed by Christ, because the authority is not in my résumé but in the message itself (1 Corinthians 1:23).

When Paul writes that an elder or pastor (we can discuss exactly what “office” he’s talking about later) must be “the husband of one wife” (1 Timothy 3:2; Titus 1:6), there are certain things the text cannot mean—no matter how often it is wielded like a blunt instrument.

It cannot mean that a man must be married. If it does, then Jesus Himself is disqualified. So is the apostle Paul. Can you imagine Paul—an apostle over many churches—laying down qualifications that would exclude himself from serving as an elder in a local congregation? That he could plant churches, correct elders, rebuke Peter to his face, but could not shepherd a single flock because he did not have a wife? Believe that if you can; I never really have. And certainly do not now.

Nor can it mean that a divorced man has “living wives.” I am told sometimes that I do. Where are they? As I understand it, I am single. Divorced—yes. But single. I have no wife.

When I have asked, rather pointedly, since I have “living wives,” whether I am therefore free to have marital relations with my former wives—if I could persuade them—the answer is, of course, no. And rightly so. But if they are still my wives, why not? The logic collapses in the mirror of its own lack of anything resembling real logic. I do not have a wife.

Paul was addressing polygamy—a real, present issue in the ancient world. One woman. Faithful. Not a man with divided loyalties, divided affections, divided households. That is the point.

Even if someone disagrees with me, they cannot be dogmatic about it—because the text does not allow for dogmatism. No one can prove, beyond question, that Paul meant what later legalisms insist that he meant.

And that brings us to the deeper issue. The qualifications for pastors were never intended to be read as a cold legal checklist. If they are, then no man qualifies. Paul also says an elder must be “able to teach.” Teach what? Perfectly? Without ever being corrected? Without blind spots? Without growth?

He “must manage his household well”—does that mean every child must always believe rightly, behave rightly, and never stray? If so, God Himself would be disqualified as a Father, for His children rebel constantly (Isaiah 1:2).

He must not be quick-tempered—how quick is quick? Not greedy—how much is too much. Well thought of by outsiders—which outsiders, and at what moment in time? Taken woodenly, legalistically, these qualifications do not produce humble shepherds; they produce either hypocrites or cowards.

But lo and behold, when it comes to all these other qualifications, we suddenly want to live by principles rather than by ironclad rules. We allow wisdom, discernment, context, and charity to guide us—except at the one point where failure is most visible and easiest to police.

I am a preacher. If your sect, your customs, or your traditions do not allow me to preach to you, that is fine—truly, no hard feelings. The gospel has never lacked for ears, and I will always find someone willing to hear it preached.

The tragedy is that divorce is visible. Other sins are easier to hide. So we quietly tolerate pride, harshness, lovelessness, prayerlessness, and biblical ignorance—while disqualifying men whose repentance is written in plain sight. Jesus reserved His harshest words not for broken men, but for religious ones who strained out gnats and swallowed camels (Matthew 23:24).

I’m not condemning you, I’m not judging you, I’m not your enemy. You do you. Go where your convictions lead. But don’t try to bind them on me. I’ll decide how I serve God in my own life.

None of this excuses my failures. Grace is not denial. Repentance is not revisionist history. But neither is the church served by pretending that God only uses men with tidy stories. If that were true, Abraham, David, Peter, and Paul would all be sidelined. God has always written straight with crooked lines (2 Corinthians 4:7).

I preach not because I am worthy, but because Christ is. I preach not as a man who has arrived, but as one who has been forgiven much—and therefore loves much (Luke 7:47). If that disqualifies me with you, then so be it. But I cannot find such a gospel in the New Testament. And I’m not going to let you put it there for me.

The church does not need fewer wounded preachers pretending to be whole; it needs more redeemed sinners telling the truth about grace.

So I will keep preaching. Not in defiance, not in bitterness, not to prove a point—but because I am called, forgiven, and compelled by the grace of God.

I will preach as a man who knows his own weakness and therefore trusts wholly in Christ’s strength; as a sinner saved by mercy, not a trophy of moral achievement.

I will preach Christ crucified—again and again—because the church does not need flawless messengers but faithful ones, and the gospel does not rest on the perfection of the preacher but on the power of the cross (1 Corinthians 1:18).

Until the Lord Himself tells me to be silent, I will open my mouth, open the Scriptures, and tell the old story to anyone who will listen.

I will lead where I am invited, shepherd where I am trusted, guide and counsel where I am needed. I am no longer driven by position or title, but by service. I am different now—humbled, teachable, and resolved—and no one can take that from me. And I am excited about the changes Christ has made in me. I will not apologize for them.

By the grace of God, I will spend whatever days I have left helping, healing, and pointing others to Christ, content to serve in whatever way love requires (Mark 10:45).

And I encourage you, no matter who you are or what you have done, to come to the cleansing fountain of God‘s grace and do the same thing in your life.

BDD

READING, WRITING, AND REFUSING TO STAGNATE

I write a lot; I read even more. Most of the time I read fast—devouring pages, tracing arguments, following ideas wherever they lead. But when something truly feeds me, when it rings with truth or wrestles honestly with reality, I slow down. I underline. I highlight. I linger. Some books are meant to be consumed; others are meant to be inhabited.

I am, in a sense, an omnivorous reader—across genres, across traditions, across disagreements. It would be impossible to catalog everything. I read whatever I believe will teach me, stretch me, unsettle me; I despise stagnation. A stagnant mind is a dangerous thing for a Christian, because faith was never meant to calcify—it was meant to live, breathe, and grow (2 Peter 3:18).

I also read the enemies of Christianity. Not out of fascination, but out of strategy. I want to know how they think, how they argue, how they frame their objections. I intend to live on the offensive, not the defensive. A soldier who never studies the opposing defense will always be reacting instead of advancing. If we are to contend earnestly for the faith, we must know where the pressure is coming from and why (Jude 3).

But if you want to know the voices that have shaped me—the ones whose pages feel like old friends—there are a few names that rise above the rest. My writing is, at best, a pale imitation of these men. These are the writers I would read anything by, whenever I could get my hands on it.

Charles Spurgeon taught me that truth need not whisper to be holy. He preached with thunder and tenderness, conviction and warmth, never apologizing for clarity. He showed me that depth and accessibility are not enemies. My style of writing was likely shaped as much by Spurgeon as by anyone.

Andrew Murray taught me to kneel. His words carry the quiet authority of a man who lived much of his theology on his knees. He reminded me that surrender is not weakness but alignment, and that abiding in Christ is not a slogan but a way of life (John 15:4-5).

James D. Bales — this one mattered deeply. I learned a great deal from him, but the most consequential lesson was not one he intended to teach. He was an absolutely brilliant thinker, disciplined, careful, and sincere. And yet, watching him attempt to defend a man-made system—Restorationism as an ironclad pattern, an unbending blueprint—taught me something sobering: if he cannot successfully defend it, then no one can. Not because he lacked intelligence or effort, but because the system itself cannot bear the weight placed upon it. A brilliant mind cannot rescue a flawed foundation. The gospel does not need scaffolding; it needs proclamation (1 Corinthians 1:18).

T. Austin-Sparks was deep, heavy, demanding. He does not skim the surface; he descends. Reading him is not casual—it is costly. But he will take you places few are willing to go, places where Christ is not merely studied but encountered.

Then there is D. Martyn Lloyd-Jones, who showed me the power of logic baptized in fire. C. S. Lewis, who taught me that imagination can be a servant of truth. John R. W. Stott, who modeled clarity without cruelty. William Barclay, whose breadth of knowledge and pastoral instinct opened the Scriptures in fresh and human ways.

I have read everything I could get my hands on from these men, not because they replaced Scripture, but because they helped me see it more clearly.

All of this—reading widely, writing often, engaging critics, honoring mentors—serves one aim: growth. Not growth for its own sake, but growth in Christ.

Systems will fail; personalities will fade; even our best formulations will eventually show their cracks. But Jesus remains. He does not ask us to defend Him with fragile frameworks; He asks us to follow Him with honest hearts (John 14:6).

I will keep reading. I will keep writing. I will keep pressing forward—offensive, not defensive—not because I am confident in my arguments, but because I am confident in Him.

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Lord Jesus, keep my mind sharp and my heart soft. Save me from stagnation, from fear, from clinging to systems more than to You. Teach me to love truth wherever it is found, to test all things, and to hold fast to what is good. Lead me deeper, always deeper, into Yourself. Amen.

BDD

BAPTIZING WHAT WE LOVE, NOT BURYING IT

Somewhere along the way, we picked up the idea that becoming a Christian means becoming smaller—quieter, narrower, less human. That to follow Jesus, we must give up our favorite music, lay aside our hobbies, abandon the things that once stirred joy in us.

We mistook restriction for righteousness. And in doing so, we often drove tender souls toward guilt instead of grace.

But the gospel does not work by subtraction; it works by redemption.

Christianity is not a call to amputate the affections—it is a call to baptize them. Jesus does not ask us to burn our loves; He asks us to bring them to the water. He does not say, “Leave everything that made you human behind.” He says, “I make all things new” (Revelation 21:5).

For a long time, I believed it was more spiritual to listen to contemporary Christian music than to The Rolling Stones. I measured holiness by playlists. I ranked faithfulness by genres. And instead of producing fruit, it produced strain. The joy thinned. The soul tightened. The Christian life began to feel like a room with no windows.

I don’t like contemporary Christian music. I never have. I love hymns. And Christian music in “secular” genres—Christian country, bluegrass, blues, soul, etc.—but not really “praise and worship music” and definitely not “Contemporary Christian Music.” If that’s your thing, you do you. I love that for you. It’s just not for me. I’d much rather hear “House of Gold” by Hank Williams than “I Can Only Imagine” by whoever did that song. That’s just me.

You do what fits you. But don’t tell me I can’t do what fits me. That kind of religion doesn’t sanctify—it suffocates.

The Gospel never teaches that the answer to sin is cultural exile. The apostle Paul did not tell the Corinthians to flee the world, but to learn how to live faithfully within it (1 Corinthians 5:9-10). He told the Romans that everything—everything—could become an act of worship when offered to God with gratitude (Romans 12:1; Romans 14:23). And he reminded Timothy that what God has created is good, and is to be received with thanksgiving (1 Timothy 4:4-5).

The problem has never been music; it has always been the heart. A melody cannot damn a soul. A guitar riff cannot dethrone Christ. But fear can. Legalism can. The subtle belief that Jesus is not strong enough to walk with us into ordinary places—that will do damage.

Jesus did not come to make us less alive. He came that we might have life, and have it more abundantly (John 10:10). He ate with sinners. He attended weddings. He told stories drawn from farming, money, weather, and daily work. He stepped into the rhythms of human culture and redeemed them from the inside out.

We do not disciple people by stripping them of what they love. We disciple them by teaching them to see Jesus within what they love. We help them ask better questions:

What does this song awaken in me?

Where does this story reflect truth?

How does this beauty point beyond itself?

When Christ is Lord, nothing is neutral—but neither is everything forbidden. The Spirit sanctifies not by fear, but by light. He teaches us to hear echoes of longing in a blues song; to recognize brokenness in a lyric; to see the ache for redemption that hums beneath even the most secular art. The world is groaning, Paul says, waiting to be redeemed (Romans 8:22-23). Why would we cover our ears to that groan?

If we require people to abandon their music and hobbies as a condition for grace, we preach a smaller Christ than the One who fills all things (Ephesians 1:22-23). But if we show them how Christ meets them there—how He walks into their playlists, their passions, their stories—then faith becomes spacious. Breathable. True.

The gospel does not erase your humanity; it restores it.

It does not demand silence; it teaches us how to listen.

It does not fear culture; it redeems it.

And sometimes, holiness sounds less like a worship chorus—and more like learning to hear Jesus whisper through a song you’ve loved all your life.

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Lord Jesus, teach us not to fear the world You came to save. Sanctify our loves, our music, our hobbies, our joys. Give us eyes to see You in all things, ears to hear truth even in broken songs, and hearts that rest in Your freedom. Make our lives living offerings—whole, grateful, and alive. Amen.

BDD

THE GOSPEL IN HISTORY — A LEGACY THAT WILL NOT BE DISMISSED

History has spoken—and it has spoken clearly. You may argue with it, attempt to revise it, or try to diminish it with cynicism and distance; but you will not discredit the legacy of Martin Luther King Jr. His life has already been weighed by time, and time has rendered its verdict. The fruit remains.

Dr. King did not invent the gospel; he was shaped by it. His courage was not self-generated, nor was his vision borrowed from political theory alone. It was born in Scripture, steeped in the prophets, anchored in the words of Jesus—especially those words that sound beautiful until they are required: love your enemies…pray for those who persecute you (Matthew 5:44).

History remembers many men who responded to violence with greater violence; their names fade into footnotes of blood and regret. But King responded to violence with peace—not passivity, not weakness, but a costly, disciplined, Christ-shaped peace. He understood something the early church knew well: evil is not overcome by becoming its mirror, but by refusing its methods while exposing its emptiness (Romans 12:17-21).

Preaching love for all was not a slogan for him; it was a conviction that put him in danger. He preached it when it was unpopular, when it was mocked, when it put his own life at risk. And that is where the gospel shows itself most clearly in history—not when it is applauded, but when it is embodied at great cost. Jesus did not conquer by the sword; neither did King. Both bore wounds so that others might glimpse healing.

You can critique methods. You can debate outcomes. You can acknowledge his humanity, his flaws, his limitations—because saints are still human. But you cannot erase the moral clarity of a man who stood in a violent age and insisted that love was not naïve, but necessary; not weak, but world-altering. History does not honor him because he was perfect; history honors him because he was faithful.

And that is the gospel thread running through the fabric of history: God uses imperfect people to point toward a perfect love. The legacy stands firm because it rests on something deeper than speeches or marches—it rests on truth. Truth has a way of surviving its critics. It outlives slander. It endures the long arc of time.

Jesus said, “By their fruits you will know them” (Matthew 7:16). The fruit of this legacy is still visible—in laws changed, consciences stirred, and generations taught that justice and love are not enemies, but companions.

History has spoken, yes—but more importantly, the gospel has sounded through history once again, reminding us that light still shines in dark places, and the darkness has not overcome it (John 1:5).

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Lord Jesus, thank You for the witnesses You raise in every generation—men and women who show Your love in the public square and private cost. Keep us faithful to peace, courageous in truth, and anchored in Your kingdom that cannot be shaken. Amen.

BDD

THE GOSPEL IN MUSIC — LUKE THE DRIFTER

If one were to name the greatest country songwriter of all time, few arguments could stand against Hank Williams—a humble son of Alabama, whose lyrical genius reshaped the very soil of American music. Though Randy Travis holds my personal heart as tops in country music, and his voice is a comfort and guide, the absolute best country artist of all time, in sheer influence, craft, and emotional truth, would have to be Hank.

He didn’t just write songs—he gave voice to the heartache, hope, sorrow, and redemption of a people, and in doing so he changed every genre that came after him. His songs have been sung by blues artists, rockers, folk musicians, and even poets of the pulpit, because his gift spoke to the universal soul.

But beyond the honky-tonk anthems and the heartbreak classics like “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry” lies a still deeper testimony—the gospel in his music, and especially in the persona he called Luke the Drifter.

Hank’s first great success came on secular charts, but from his earliest recording sessions, gospel music was woven into his journey. As a young man, he wrote and recorded sacred songs like “I Saw the Light,” a hymn of redemption that he tracked during his first session for MGM Records in 1947.

The inspiration for that song came from a drive into Montgomery, when his mother’s words sparked a vision of hope in the restless wanderer’s heart. Though it wasn’t a major hit at first, it became one of the most enduring country gospel standards ever written.

But gospel was more than a single song—it was something that meant a great deal to Hank himself. Throughout his brief but meteoric career, he continued to record spiritual material alongside his secular hits. Many of these sacred recordings didn’t fit the jukebox-friendly image the record executives wanted for “Hank Williams,” so he adopted an alter ego: Luke the Drifter.

Under that name, Hank released a series of moralistic recitations and gospel-tinged songs in 1950 and 1951, including “The Funeral,” “Beyond the Sunset,” and “Too Many Parties and Too Many Pals,” among others. These recordings were not just novelty tracks—they were heartfelt homilies, reflections on life, loss, sorrow, and grace, delivered with the compassion of a man who had walked through his own shadows and still longed for truth.

The record company’s concern was simple: spiritual or spoken-word pieces might confuse the marketplace. So Hank cloaked these songs in the pseudonym of Luke the Drifter—and yet, if you listen closely, you hear Hank’s very soul in every word. Luke was not a mask but a mirror, reflecting the part of Hank that loved gospel enough to sing it even at the risk of commercial confusion.

In those tracks, you hear something like preaching—not merely songs, but sermons set to simple instrumentation, stories that bend toward soul and spirit. Williams delivered weighty truths in plain language, like a back-roads preacher, turning parables and psalms into heart-gripping, tear-stained poetry. In Luke the Drifter you see a man unafraid of the shadows, willing to speak of suffering, brokenness, and grace without apology.

And in this lies the gospel in his music: a recognition of human brokenness and a declaration of divine hope. The secular songs speak of heartbreak, but the gospel songs point to resurrection. The mournful twang of his voice carries both confession and consolation.

In “I Saw the Light,” the wandering sinner finds deliverance; in “Beyond the Sunset,” the weary soul looks toward eternity. Gospel wasn’t an add-on—it was the root of his creative life, the wellspring from which even his secular laments drew their depth.

Today, when we hear artists across genres—from George Strait to Bruce Springsteen—cite Hank Williams as an influence, it’s not just his melodies they honor. It’s the way his music carried the weight of the human condition and lifted it toward hope. Gospel music didn’t just shape his catalog—it shaped his legacy.

And maybe that’s the beautiful mystery of gospel in music: it turns a voice into a song of eternity, so that every listener who has known loneliness, longing, or love might hear something greater than song—they hear grace.

BDD

THE GOSPEL IN SCIENCE — THE LABORATORY OF LOVE

Science is often imagined as cold—white coats, glass beakers, sterile rooms, equations written with no emotion. Yet when we step closer, we discover something surprising: the laboratory is not loveless at all. It is a place of patience, observation, sacrifice, and hope. It is, in its own way, a workshop of love.

Every true experiment begins with trust. A scientist believes that the world is intelligible—that order exists, that cause and effect are faithful, that truth can be sought and found. This quiet faith mirrors the gospel itself. “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1). Long before the result appears, the scientist commits to the process, just as the believer commits to Christ before glory is revealed.

In the laboratory, progress is rarely instant. Experiments fail; hypotheses collapse; hours of careful work yield only negative results. Yet the scientist does not abandon the work at the first disappointment. Love for truth perseveres.

The Bible tells us that “love suffers long and is kind…bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things” (1 Corinthians 13:4, 7). The gospel, too, unfolds through patience—God working slowly, faithfully, relentlessly, for the good of His creation.

Consider the cost built into discovery. Breakthroughs are often born from sacrifice—late nights, personal loss, unseen labor. The gospel stands at the center of an even greater cost. “But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8). At Calvary, love entered the ultimate laboratory, where suffering was not avoided but embraced, and death itself was tested—and defeated.

Science also teaches us that life is sustained by unseen things. Gravity holds us though we cannot touch it. DNA writes its silent code in every cell. The heart beats because of electrical impulses no eye can see.

In the same way, the gospel declares a love that works beneath the surface of the soul. “We walk by faith, not by sight” (2 Corinthians 5:7). Grace operates invisibly, yet its effects are unmistakable—changed hearts and renewed minds and resurrected hope.

And what is the aim of all true science? Not destruction, but healing; not chaos, but understanding; not despair, but life.

The gospel reveals the same intention. Jesus said, “I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly” (John 10:10). The cross is not an accident; it is the deliberate experiment of divine love—tested in human history, proven by resurrection.

In the laboratory of love, God is both the Scientist and the Sacrifice, both the Designer and the Cure. The data is written in scars, the conclusion sealed by an empty tomb.

Science, at its best, whispers what the gospel proclaims aloud: this universe is not indifferent. It is governed by order, sustained by purpose, and redeemed by love.

____________

Heavenly Father, open our eyes to see Your love written into all things—into the laws of nature, the patience of discovery, and the grace that sustains us. Teach us to trust You, even when the experiment is painful, and to rest in the truth that Your love has already proven victorious. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

BDD

THE GOSPEL IN LITERATURE — DORIAN GRAY AND THE SOUL THAT CANNOT HIDE

Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray is not a Christian novel; yet the gospel stands quietly in its shadows—waiting, as truth often does, for eyes willing to see.

Beneath the wit, the beauty, the glittering surface of Victorian elegance, there is an old, biblical story being told again: the story of a soul that tries to escape consequence, a conscience that will not stay silent, and a sin that always tells the truth in the end.

Dorian makes a terrible wish—one that echoes the ancient temptation; let me have the fruit without the cost, the pleasure without the wound, the beauty without the aging, the sin without the stain. The portrait will bear what his soul earns; his body will remain untouched. And for a while, it seems to work. Outwardly, he shines. Inwardly—though hidden away—something is rotting.

This is the lie of the serpent dressed in literary clothing. Scripture names it plainly: “Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man sows, that shall he also reap” (Galatians 6:7). Dorian believes he has found a loophole in the moral universe. Wilde shows us there is none.

The painting becomes a kind of inverted gospel—a false substitution. The portrait suffers in his place, but it cannot redeem him. It can only record him. It bears witness; it does not forgive. It shows us what substitution without love looks like—atonement without mercy, sacrifice without grace.

The gospel, by contrast, proclaims a Savior who does not merely hide our sin, but removes it; who does not merely absorb corruption, but conquers it. “For God made Him who knew no sin to be sin for us, that we might become the righteousness of God in Him” (2 Corinthians 5:21).

Dorian locks the portrait away in an attic, believing that concealment equals freedom. Yet secrecy becomes its own prison. Sin always demands darkness, but darkness cannot heal what only light can cleanse. “For there is nothing covered that will not be revealed, nor hidden that will not be known” (Luke 12:2).

The painting grows uglier because sin does not stand still; it deepens, it hardens, it distorts. Wilde, perhaps unwillingly, preaches what the prophets always said—evil is progressive, never static.

What haunts Dorian most is not punishment, but memory. The portrait remembers who he truly is. This is conscience—God’s quiet courtroom within the human heart. We may drown it out with pleasure, philosophy, or distraction, but it waits patiently. “Their conscience also bearing witness” (Romans 2:15). The gospel does not silence conscience by denial; it satisfies conscience by the cross.

And here is the tragedy Wilde paints so well: Dorian wants relief without repentance. He wants peace without confession. He wants resurrection without death.

But the gospel insists on a narrower door—yet one that leads to life. “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness” (1 John 1:9). There is no attic in Christianity—only the open light of grace.

When Dorian finally strikes the portrait, he is not killing the sin; he is destroying the last witness to truth. The result is death. Sin cannot be stabbed into silence. Only Christ can speak peace to it.

Wilde shows us, with haunting clarity, what happens when a man tries to save his life by losing his soul. Jesus said it long before: “For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world, and loses his own soul?” (Mark 8:36).

The gospel whispers through Wilde’s pages like a warning bell—beauty fades, pleasure lies, conscience remembers, and sin always writes its own autobiography. But the greater word still stands: there is a true Substitute, a living Portrait, a Savior who bears our corruption not to display it, but to bury it forever.

Where Dorian hides his image, Christ displays His wounds. Where Dorian preserves his youth, Christ gives us eternal life. Where the portrait condemns, the cross redeems.

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Lord Jesus, search the rooms we keep locked away; bring Your light where we have hidden our truth. Teach us to trust Your cross more than our disguises, and Your mercy more than our secrets. Make us clean—whole—and free. Amen.

BDD

LORD OF THE SABBATH, FRIEND OF THE HUNGRY

In Matthew chapter 12, Jesus is walking with His disciples through grainfields on the Sabbath. It is an ordinary moment—no sermon, no miracle, no confrontation sought. The disciples are simply hungry. They pluck heads of grain as they walk and eat.

And that is when the Pharisees strike.

“Look,” they say, “Your disciples are doing what is not lawful to do on the Sabbath” (Matthew 12:2).

It is the first attack in this chapter, and it reveals something crucial. The Pharisees are not concerned with hunger, need, or people. They are concerned with rules—specifically, rules as they understand and enforce them. God’s law, layered with generations of oral tradition, had become rigid, unyielding, and heavy. What was meant to guide life had become something that crushed it.

Jesus answers them calmly, but firmly. He reminds them of David, who ate the consecrated bread when he and his men were hungry—a clear reminder that human need has always mattered to God (Matthew 12:3-4). He points to the priests, who “profane” the Sabbath by working in the temple and yet are guiltless (Matthew 12:5).

Then He says something staggering: “Yet I say to you that in this place there is One greater than the temple” (Matthew 12:6).

In other words, the presence of Jesus Himself redefines the moment.

Then comes the heart of His response: “I desire mercy and not sacrifice” (Matthew 12:7). This was not new language. Jesus is quoting Hosea, reminding them that God never intended His law—let alone human tradition—to be exalted above compassion. The law, rightly understood, was never meant to starve people in the name of holiness. It was given to enrich life, to protect love, to create space for mercy.

The Pharisees missed this because they treated the law as an end in itself. Jesus reveals it as a means—pointing toward love, care, and restoration. Where mercy is absent, the law has been misunderstood. Where sacrifice crushes people, God’s heart has been ignored.

And then Jesus pronounces the verdict: “If you had known what this means…you would not have condemned the guiltless” (Matthew 12:7).

The disciples were not lawbreakers. They were not careless. They were guiltless. And their freedom from guilt was announced by the One who had the authority to do so.

“For the Son of Man is Lord even of the Sabbath” (Matthew 12:8).

That statement changes everything.

The Sabbath does not rule Jesus; Jesus rules the Sabbath.

The law does not stand over Him; He stands over the law as its fulfillment and interpreter.

And the One who is Lord of rest is also the One who understands hunger, weakness, and need.

This moment still speaks to us. It warns us about a faith that is precise but unkind, correct but merciless. It reminds us that God’s commands were never meant to harden us against one another. When faith stops serving love, it has lost its way.

When rules become more important than people, something sacred has been misplaced.

Jesus does not abolish God’s law here—He rescues it. He restores it to its proper purpose: not control, but care; not condemnation, but life.

And standing in those fields, with hungry disciples and hostile critics, He declares what is still true today—those who walk with Him are not defined by accusation, but by grace.

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Lord Jesus, teach us to understand Your ways rightly—to value mercy over pride, people over performance, and love over rigid rule-keeping. Help us walk in the freedom You give, trusting the One who is Lord of the Sabbath. Amen.

BDD

Christmas 2025: THE SAVIOR OF THE WORLD CAME AT CHRISTMAS

Christmas did not begin with nostalgia, lights, or familiar songs playing softly in the background. It began with a promise kept—quietly and humbly and almost unnoticed. The Savior of the world did not arrive with ceremony or spectacle; He came the way God so often works—low, gentle, and wrapped in ordinary human flesh.

The world was not waiting expectantly. Rome was powerful. Israel was weary. Religion had grown heavy with rules and thin on hope. And into that tired world, God did not send an idea or a warning—He sent a Person.

“He will save His people from their sins” (Matthew 1:21).

Jesus did not come first as a teacher, though He would teach like no other. He did not come first as a king, though all authority would one day rest upon His shoulders. He came as a baby—dependent, vulnerable, held in human arms. The rescue of the world began with a heartbeat, a cry, and a manger borrowed for the night.

Christmas tells us something essential about God: He is not distant. He does not shout salvation from the heavens; He steps into the mess of human life. The Son of God took on hunger, fatigue, tears, and time. He entered our story from the inside. Emmanuel—God with us (Matthew 1:23).

The shepherds were told, “For there is born to you this day…a Savior, who is Christ the Lord” (Luke 2:11). Not a helper. Not a moral example. A Savior. Someone who would do for us what we could not do for ourselves.

Christmas only makes sense when we remember why He came—because the world needed saving, and we could not save ourselves.

The manger already pointed toward the cross. The wood of the cradle hinted at the wood of Calvary. From the beginning, Jesus was given not to impress the powerful, but to rescue the broken. He came for sinners, for the weary, for those who had run out of strength and answers (Luke 19:10).

And that is why Christmas still matters. It is not about pretending everything is fine; it is about knowing God stepped into what was not. The Savior of the world came—not when we were ready, but when we were lost. Not to condemn, but to redeem. Not to demand perfection, but to offer grace upon grace (John 1:14-16).

So when we celebrate Christmas, we are not merely remembering a birth—we are receiving again the truth that God came near. That heaven entered earth. That love took on flesh. And that salvation began, quietly and faithfully, in the dark of a Bethlehem night.

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Lord Jesus, we thank You that You came—not in power, but in humility; not to judge, but to save. Help us to receive the gift of Christmas anew, and to live each day in the light of Your nearness and grace. Amen.

BDD

WHEN YOU KNOW YOU’VE LET THINGS SLIDE — AND YOU’RE TIRED OF BEATING YOURSELF UP (WEIGHT GAIN/WEIGHT LOSS)

There’s a feeling a lot of people know well, though most don’t talk about it out loud. You catch your reflection. Your clothes fit different. You already know the truth—you’ve been eating too much, and too much of what doesn’t help. And what makes it heavier isn’t just the weight; it’s the quiet discouragement that settles in behind it.

Here’s the thing most of us need to hear: this didn’t happen because you’re careless or undisciplined. It happened because life got busy, stressful, tiring. Food became easy comfort. A pause. Something familiar when everything else felt loud. That’s not a character flaw—it’s a human one.

The problem starts when shame gets involved. Shame always talks rough. It points fingers, piles on guilt, and somehow convinces us that feeling worse will make us do better. It never does. It just makes us tired and stuck. Grace, on the other hand, tells the truth without trying to crush us—and that’s the only voice that ever leads to real change (Romans 8:1).

Our bodies aren’t the enemy. They respond honestly to what they’re given. They carry us through long days, short nights, stress, grief, and ordinary living. When things get out of balance, it’s not a verdict—it’s a signal. And signals aren’t there to condemn us; they’re there to guide us.

Most change doesn’t start with dramatic promises or strict plans. It starts small. One decent choice today. One moment where you stop before you’re miserable. One walk around the block. One meal eaten slower than usual. That’s how momentum begins—not all at once, but quietly, almost unnoticed.

And yes, there will be days you slide back. Everyone does. That doesn’t cancel progress. It doesn’t mean you’ve failed. It just means you’re still human and still learning how to care for yourself better. God isn’t standing over this with crossed arms. He’s walking with you in it, patient as ever, steady as always (Psalm 103:13–14).

So if you’re discouraged—if you feel heavier than you’d like, inside and out—don’t give up on yourself. Don’t wait for some perfect moment to start again. Start where you are. Take the next small step. Grace is already there, and it’s enough.

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Lord, help us drop the shame and pick up honesty. Teach us to care for our bodies with patience and our hearts with kindness. Walk with us as we begin again—slowly, faithfully, and without fear. Amen.

BDD

JESUS IN THE BOOK OF PSALMS

The Psalms are not scattered religious poems gathered at random; they are a witness. They breathe before Bethlehem, weep before Calvary, and rejoice before the stone is rolled away. Long before the name Jesus was spoken aloud in Nazareth, the Spirit was already giving Him words—songs shaped by suffering, trust, obedience, and hope.

“Blessed is the Man who walks not in the counsel of the ungodly” (Psalm 1:1). That Man is more than an ideal; He is real. He delighted in the law of the Lord without hesitation or compromise. He stood where Adam fell, where Israel wavered, where we so often fail—and He stood in perfect faithfulness. The Psalms begin with Him because history does too.

Then the tone deepens. Psalm 22 opens a wound that only the cross can explain: “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” (Psalm 22:1). These are not borrowed words spoken in desperation; they are ancient words waiting for their moment. Hands pierced, feet pierced, garments divided, mockers surrounding Him (Psalm 22:16-18). David wrote them in pain; Jesus fulfilled them in blood. Yet the psalm refuses to end in despair. Praise rises. The afflicted One lives. The nations hear. Resurrection breathes between the lines (Psalm 22:22-31).

Psalm 16 whispers what the tomb would later shout: “You will not leave my soul in Sheol, nor will You allow Your Holy One to see corruption” (Psalm 16:10). Death could not keep Him. The grave could not claim Him. The Psalms already knew what Easter morning would confirm.

When we walk through Psalm 23, we are not walking alone. “The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want” (Psalm 23:1). Jesus would later speak the words plainly—“I am the good shepherd” (John 10:11)—but the Shepherd was already there, leading, restoring, staying close. He does not remove the valley; He enters it. He does not shout directions from heaven; He walks beside us, rod and staff in hand.

The Psalms also lift our eyes to a throne. “Yet I have set My King on My holy hill of Zion” (Psalm 2:6). The nations resist Him. The rulers reject Him. But heaven laughs—not in cruelty, but in certainty. Psalm 110 takes us further: “The Lord said to my Lord, ‘Sit at My right hand, till I make Your enemies Your footstool’” (Psalm 110:1). David calls Him Lord because He is more than David’s Son; He is David’s Savior.

Even the penitential psalms lean toward Christ. Psalm 51 teaches us how sinners come home—not by hiding, not by pretending, but by surrender. And though Jesus had no sin to confess, He would carry ours, so that “a broken and a contrite heart” would no longer be crushed, but restored (Psalm 51:17).

The Psalms are not merely about Jesus; they are prayed by Him and through Him. When we read them, we are borrowing His voice—lamenting without losing faith, rejoicing without denying sorrow, trusting God even when the night is long. They teach us that honest prayer is holy prayer.

Every cry, every song, every quiet line points to Him—the righteous Man, the suffering Servant, the risen Lord, the faithful Shepherd, the reigning King. The Psalms are the gospel in seed form, waiting for Christ to step into history and make every word flesh.

BDD

THE GOSPEL IN MUSIC — THE GREATEST CHRISTMAS SONGS OF ALL TIME (PART THREE)

Some Christmas songs feel like doctrine set to melody; others feel like testimony—truth learned the hard way, sung gently so it can be received. These are not hymns, yet they preach. They do not quote Scripture, yet they lean on it—sometimes without even knowing its name.

“This Christmas” — Donny Hathaway.

This is joy that has passed through grief and come out warmer on the other side. Not naïve celebration, but seasoned gladness—love promised with scars still visible. It sounds like light that knows what darkness feels like and shines anyway (John 1:5). For many of us, this song is Christmas.

“Silver Bells” — Elvis Presley.

Elvis slows Christmas down. The bells do not rush; they walk the streets. There is tenderness here—an awareness that holiness often hides in ordinary places, city sidewalks and quiet moments (Luke 2:7).

“There’s No Place Like Home for the Holidays” — Perry Como.

Few songs understand the ache beneath the season like this one. Home is not always perfect—but it is longed for. And that longing is deeply Christian; it reminds us that even our best homes are signposts pointing toward a better country (Hebrews 11:13-16).

“The Little Drummer Boy” — Bing Crosby.

This is the gospel sung by empty hands. No speech, no offering, no résumé—only what is already there. And the Child receives it gladly. Grace has always loved the poor gift offered honestly (2 Corinthians 8:9).

“If We Make It Through December” — Merle Haggard.

This is Christmas without tinsel—faith tested by bills, layoffs, and tired hearts. Yet hope still breathes. Perseverance becomes its own prayer; endurance its own hymn (Romans 8:18).

“White Christmas” — Bing Crosby.

A song of memory and yearning. It does not demand that the present be perfect—it remembers goodness and waits for its return. In that waiting, it quietly joins Christmas’s ancient cry (Isaiah 9:6).

“Christmas Time Is Here” — Vince Guaraldi Trio.

Hope and fear side by side—just like Bethlehem. The melody knows that joy often arrives trembling, and peace sometimes comes softly (Luke 2:10-14).

“Joy to the World” — Aretha Franklin.

This is not background music—it is proclamation. Aretha does not decorate the song; she announces it. The joy here is cosmic, defiant, unashamed—creation answering its King (Psalm 98:4-6).

“Do You Hear What I Hear?” — Whitney Houston.

This is Christmas as revelation—rumor becoming truth, whisper becoming proclamation. A question turns into a confession, just as it always does when heaven interrupts earth (Matthew 2:9-11).

“Merry Christmas Strait to You” — George Strait.

Plainspoken, faithful, unpretentious. Like a front-porch benediction. Sometimes Christmas sounds like steadiness—love that stayed (Lamentations 3:22–23).

“Santa Looked a Lot Like Daddy” — Buck Owens.

A song of laughter and love, reminding us that joy is not unspiritual. God entered family life, silliness and all. Grace often wears a smile (Ecclesiastes 3:4).

These songs remind us that Christmas does not demand perfection—only presence. Christ did not wait for the world to be ready; He entered it while it was still weary. And somehow, the music remembers.

BDD

Christmas 2025: YES VIRGINIA, THERE IS A SANTA CLAUS — AND WHY CHRISTMAS ASKS US TO BELIEVE

More than a century ago, a little girl named Virginia O’Hanlon wrote a letter that has refused to fade with time. She did not write as a philosopher or a theologian. She wrote as a child — honest, curious, and unafraid to ask what adults often dodge. “Is there a Santa Claus?” Her question reached the desk of an editor at The New York Sun, and his reply became immortal—the most famous editorial of all time: “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.”

The answer was never really about reindeer or red suits. It was about whether the world is only as large as what we can touch.

That same question stands at the center of one of the finest Christmas films I have seen, Yes Virginia, There Is a Santa Claus (1991) starring Charles Bronson. Bronson plays a seasoned journalist struggling with alcoholism and the death of his wife and child — skeptical, hardened, trained to trust ink, evidence, and proof alone.

He is assigned to answer the little girl’s letter, “Is there a Santa Claus?” and one would think he might expose sentimentality. Instead, he finds himself unsettled by something deeper. The film treats belief seriously, not playfully. Santa becomes a symbol — not of fantasy, but of unseen virtues that hold civilization together: generosity, self-giving, moral responsibility. It is a very heartwarming film.

And yet, the movie never confuses the symbol with reality.

Santa Claus belongs to Christmas tradition. He teaches kindness. He invites wonder. He reminds us that giving is better than receiving. But Santa is not the foundation — he is the illustration. He points beyond himself.

Jesus Christ is something altogether different.

Santa represents what we hope people might be. Christ reveals who God actually is.

The birth of Jesus does not rest on symbolism or sentiment. It is rooted in history — a real child, born in a real place, under a real empire, at a particular moment in time. No sleigh, no myth, no metaphor. “And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us” (John 1:14). Christmas is not an idea we preserve; it is an event we receive.

Still, belief is required — not because Christ is imaginary, but because God refuses to coerce the heart. Jesus arrived quietly. Shepherds believed a message they could not prove. Wise men followed a star they could not explain. Mary trusted a promise she could not control. Faith came before understanding. “For we walk by faith, not by sight” (2 Corinthians 5:7).

Virginia’s letter endures because it exposes the poverty of a world that believes only what it can dissect. The editorial argued that Santa exists wherever love and generosity exist.

The Gospel goes further: love exists because God exists. “God is love” (1 John 4:8). Remove belief in God, and love itself becomes an accident. Believe in God, and love becomes a calling.

Santa may fade with age. Christ does not.

Santa passes through the imagination for a season. Christ steps into a life and stays. One teaches children to be kind. The other teaches sinners to be redeemed. One belongs to Christmas morning. The other belongs to eternity.

So yes, Virginia — there is a Santa Claus. He reminds us that goodness is worth believing in. But Christmas does not end with Santa. It begins and ends with Jesus — the unseen God made visible, the eternal Word made flesh, the Love that does not vanish when the decorations come down.

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Lord Jesus, Thank You for the joy of Christmas and the symbols that point us toward goodness. But anchor our hearts in You — not in sentiment, but in truth; not in myth, but in Your living presence. Teach us to believe rightly, love deeply, and follow You faithfully. Amen.

BDD

THE GOSPEL IN ASTRONOMY — WRITTEN IN MOONLIGHT

Lift your eyes at night and you will see a sermon that has been preached longer than any cathedral has stood. The moon—silent, steady, faithful—hangs in the dark like a witness. It does not shout; it reflects. And in its quiet glow, the gospel is written in the language of the heavens.

The moon has no light of its own. It shines only because it turns its face toward the sun. Cut off from that light, it becomes invisible—still present, still real, but no longer radiant.

Here is the gospel in simplest form: life, beauty, and guidance flow from abiding in the light. “I am the light of the world,” Jesus said. “He who follows Me shall not walk in darkness, but have the light of life” (John 8:12). The moon preaches what discipleship looks like—receiving, reflecting, and refusing to pretend the glory originates with us.

The moon rules the night—not as a tyrant, but as a servant. It governs tides, steadies the oceans, and shapes the rhythms of the earth. The Bible speaks of this ordered kindness: “He made the moon for seasons; the sun knows its going down” (Psalm 104:19).

Even in darkness, God has not left the world without structure, without beauty, without guidance. The gospel declares the same truth—when the night falls, God is still governing; when we cannot see the sun, His purposes are still pulling the tides of our lives toward redemption (Romans 8:28).

The phases of the moon tell another gospel truth. It waxes and wanes; it appears full, then thin, then hidden, then returns again. Yet the moon itself is never destroyed. What changes is our vantage point.

So it is with the life of faith. There are seasons of fullness—joy visible to all—and seasons of thinning light, when hope feels like a sliver. But Christ is not diminished by our seasons. “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever” (Hebrews 13:8). The gospel assures us that absence of feeling is not absence of presence.

The moon also marks time. Long before clocks and calendars, humanity looked upward to know when to plant, to rest, to celebrate. God tied sacred patterns to lunar cycles—Passover, new moons, appointed feasts—embedding redemption into time itself (Leviticus 23:5; Psalm 81:3).

In Christ, time finds its meaning again. The gospel is not rushed; it is patient. It tells us that history is not random, and neither are our lives. There is an appointed fullness—“when the fullness of the time had come, God sent forth His Son” (Galatians 4:4).

And then there is this quiet wonder: the moon is scarred—marked by craters, struck again and again—yet it still shines. It has endured violence and remains faithful to its calling.

Here, too, the gospel speaks. Christ bears scars still—marks of love, not defeat. “By whose stripes you were healed” (1 Peter 2:24). The moon reminds us that suffering does not cancel purpose; redeemed suffering often becomes the very means by which light is most clearly seen.

One day, Scripture tells us, the moon will no longer be needed in the same way. “The city had no need of the sun or of the moon to shine in it, for the glory of God illuminated it. The Lamb is its light” (Revelation 21:23). Until then, the moon continues its nightly sermon—faithful, borrowed, beautiful—pointing beyond itself.

So when you see the moon tonight, remember the gospel it reflects: turn toward the Light; trust God in the dark; endure your seasons; keep shining with what you have received. The heavens are still declaring the glory of God (Psalm 19:1), and even in the night, grace is visible.

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Lord Jesus, Light of the world, turn my face toward You. Teach me to reflect what I receive, to trust You in the dark, and to shine faithfully until the night is gone. Amen.

BDD