THE PRESENCE OF GOD AT CHRISTMAS

Christmas is not loud—though we often make it so. It does not arrive with spectacle or insistence, but with nearness. The great wonder of the season is not the star, nor the angels, nor even the manger itself, but this single, staggering truth: God came close. Not symbolically. Not spiritually alone. He entered time, flesh, breath, and weakness. “And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us” (John 1:14).

From the beginning, the Scriptures tell us that the deepest human ache is not merely forgiveness, or guidance, or even hope—but presence. After the fall, the first question God asks is not What have you done? but Where are you? (Genesis 3:9).

Sin fractures fellowship; it drives us into hiding. Christmas is God’s answer to that hiding place. He does not shout from heaven—He steps into the room.

The birth of Christ tells us that God’s presence is not reserved for sanctuaries or ceremonies. He is found in a stable, among animals and straw, amid the smells and sounds of ordinary life. Heaven does not wait for cleanliness or calm. It comes where it is invited—or where it is desperately needed. “For unto you is born this day in the city of David, a Savior, who is Christ the Lord” (Luke 2:11). The promise is not merely salvation someday, but presence today.

Notice how the shepherds encounter God—not through study or status, but through watchfulness and wonder. They are keeping sheep in the dark, doing what they have always done, when suddenly glory breaks in.

Christmas reminds us that God’s presence often interrupts routine rather than replaces it. He meets us in the fields, not just the temples; in exhaustion, not just in preparation (Luke 2:8-9).

And then there is the name given to the child: Immanuel. God with us. Not God above us. Not God tolerating us. God with us. In joy and grief, in celebration and loneliness, in belief and doubt.

The presence of God does not evaporate when the music fades or the decorations come down. It abides. “I am with you always, even to the end of the age” (Matthew 28:20).

Christmas assures us that we are never unseen, never unheard, never alone. God has not delegated our rescue—He has entered it. He has walked our roads, felt our hunger, known our sorrow. His presence is not abstract; it has a face, a name, a heartbeat. Jesus does not merely bring God to us—He is God among us (Colossians 2:9).

So when the house is quiet, when the year feels heavy, when joy is thin and memories are loud—Christmas whispers a holy truth: God is here. Not waiting for you to improve. Not standing at a distance. He has come near, and He has not gone away.

Lord Jesus, thank You for coming close. Help us to notice Your presence in the ordinary, to trust You in the silence, and to rest in the promise that You are with us—now and always. Amen.

BDD

THE GOSPEL IN FILM — MIRACLE ON 34TH STREET (1947)

Christmas has a way of asking questions the rest of the year politely avoids. Not loud questions—gentle ones. Questions about belief, about wonder, about whether the world is more than contracts and courtrooms and carefully managed expectations.

Miracle on 34th Street is not merely a holiday film; it is a quiet examination of faith in an age that prefers proof, and hope in a season tempted toward cynicism.

At the center of the story stands Kris Kringle—a man who insists, calmly and without defensiveness, that he is who he says he is. He does not argue; he does not manipulate. He simply is.

And that, in itself, is profoundly Christlike. Jesus did not shout His identity into the world; He lived it—steadily, faithfully, truthfully. “If I tell you, you will by no means believe,” He said, knowing that faith is rarely born of evidence alone (Luke 22:67).

What unsettles the world of Miracle on 34th Street is not that Kris claims to be Santa Claus—it is that he refuses to play by the rules of disbelief. He speaks of generosity instead of profit, of children instead of sales figures, of trust instead of control.

In a world organized around measurable outcomes, he represents something dangerously unmeasurable: faith. “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1). The film understands this deeply—faith is not opposed to reason; it simply lives beyond its jurisdiction.

Little Susan, raised on logic and evidence, mirrors the modern soul—carefully protected from disappointment, yet quietly starved of wonder. Her mother believes she is doing the loving thing by shielding her child from belief.

But the Gospel teaches us something different: that belief, even when it risks heartbreak, is the doorway to joy. Jesus welcomed children not because they were naïve, but because they were open—because they trusted (Matthew 18:3).

The courtroom scene, so often remembered for its humor, is in fact a parable. The world puts faith on trial and demands documentation. And astonishingly, the evidence that sways the verdict is not logic—but testimony. Letters. Witnesses. People who believe because they have seen love at work. The Gospel moves the same way. It advances not through coercion, but through lives changed—through witnesses who say, “I once was blind, now I see” (John 9:25).

And then there is the house—the gift that seems impossible until it isn’t. A promise fulfilled just beyond the reach of certainty.

The Kingdom of God often arrives this way: not announced with fireworks, but discovered with trembling joy. “Eye has not seen, nor ear heard…the things which God has prepared for those who love Him” (1 Corinthians 2:9). Christmas itself is such a gift—God keeping a promise in the most unexpected form imaginable.

Miracle on 34th Street endures because it understands what Christmas really asks of us. Not whether we can explain the miracle—but whether we are willing to receive it. Whether we will believe that goodness is real, that love can be trusted, that joy is not foolish.

The Gospel makes the same invitation. The child in the manger did not come with proof—He came with grace. And those who recognized Him did so not with credentials, but with faith (Luke 2:19).

Christmas, then, is not about pretending miracles happen—it is about remembering that they already have.

BDD

THE GOSPEL IN FILM — THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO HUMPHREY BOGART

Denzel Washington and Humphrey Bogart stand alone for me. Different eras, different temperaments, but the same gravity. Both men could say more with silence than others could with speeches; both carried authority without begging for it.

Yes, there are men who walk into a room and change its gravity. And then there are men who walk onto a screen and change your soul. Humphrey Bogart was such a man—gruff, world-weary, never flashy, but always unmistakably present. He did not preach; he did not smile at sentimentality. Yet, through every trench coat, every cigarette, every hard glance, he told a story of truth, courage, and the possibility of grace.

Bogart played men who were flawed, yes—men scarred by life, tempted by cynicism, pressed by circumstance.

In Casablanca, Rick Blaine is a man hardened by disappointment, convinced that love is a luxury for others. And yet, when the moment comes, he sacrifices his heart for the sake of what is right. How much like the Gospel is this? The call to lay down what we want for the good of another, to step into risk and discomfort for justice and mercy, is at the center of the story of Christ (Matthew 16:24–25). Bogart’s Rick makes a choice not because it is easy, but because it is necessary—a small imprint of the Son who chose the cross.

In The Maltese Falcon, Sam Spade embodies integrity wrapped in a trench coat: clever, relentless, yet guided by a personal code. He does not seek approval; he seeks truth. And truth, always, is the measure of the soul.

The Gospel, too, does not bend to popularity, convenience, or compromise (John 18:37). It asks for honesty, courage, and clarity of conscience, even when the world around you cheers for something less.

Bogart was never a saint; he was not perfect. That is the point. His men were human—capable of error, yet capable of redemption.

Key Largo shows this beautifully: courage under fire, loyalty in the face of fear, sacrifice for the helpless. In every scene, there is a faint reverberation of the Cross—the call to stand for the vulnerable, to face evil without flinching, to hold fast to what is right even when the outcome is uncertain.

And perhaps that is why Bogart endures: he reminds us that the Gospel is not always tidy, never easy, often inconvenient, but always transformative. He is the man who says, without preaching, without fanfare: do what is right; hold your ground; love even when it hurts. His voice, a low murmur of resolve; his stare, a mirror of conscience; his films, a gallery of flawed men striving for the light.

Bogart and Denzel Washington: two different generations, two different voices, one common heartbeat. If Denzel carries the Gospel with faith alive in the present, Bogart carries it through the shadows of memory, the twilight of black-and-white moral complexity. Both remind us that truth matters, courage matters, integrity matters—and that redemption, whether on a screen or in life, is always possible.

BDD

THE GOSPEL IN FILM — THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO DENZEL WASHINGTON

Some men do not merely act—they bear weight. They step onto the screen and carry with them gravity, restraint, fire held in a disciplined hand.

Denzel Washington has done this for decades.

He is cool without trying; intense without excess; commanding without arrogance. And beneath the craft—beneath the polish and the power—there stands a man unashamed to speak of Jesus Christ. That alone is worthy of respect. But the work itself? The work is extraordinary.

Denzel has always played men at the crossroads—men pressed by truth, haunted by conscience, pursued by consequence. In Malcolm X, he did not imitate; he incarnated. The progression from rage to clarity, from blindness to costly conviction, was rendered with such discipline that the performance felt less like cinema and more like history breathing again. It is a study in transformation—and the Gospel has always been about transformation, about a man meeting truth and never being the same afterward (2 Corinthians 5:17).

Then there is Flight—a film that should unsettle comfortable souls. A man can save lives and still be lost; can perform heroically while collapsing inwardly. The brilliance of Denzel’s performance lies in its honesty.

Redemption is not achieved by talent, bravery, or reputation—but by truth confessed and sin brought into the light. “You will know the truth, and the truth shall make you free” (John 8:32). That film understands what many sermons avoid: grace does not excuse lies; it destroys them.

In Man on Fire, love burns hot and fierce—violent even—but still sacrificial. Creasy is no saint; yet he lays himself down for another. And somewhere in that brutal devotion, we hear the sounds of a greater love: “Greater love has no one than this, than to lay down one’s life for his friends” (John 15:13). Denzel plays broken men who love deeply—and the Gospel meets us there, not polished, not perfected, but willing to be remade.

Glory remains one of the great films of moral courage—men counted as expendable discovering their dignity in fire and blood. Denzel’s Oscar-winning performance crackles with defiance and vulnerability; pain without self-pity; honor without posturing. It reminds us that dignity is not granted by society but bestowed by God—every man stamped with worth, even when the world denies it (Genesis 1:27).

And then there are the quieter favorites—Out of Time, Déjà Vu—films driven by momentum, intelligence, and restraint. Denzel elevates everything he touches. He never winks at the camera; never chases approval. He trusts the story. He trusts the craft. He trusts the moment.

That kind of confidence is rare—and it mirrors a deeper truth: “Commit your way to the Lord, trust also in Him, and He shall bring it to pass” (Psalms 37:5).

Two-time Academy Award winner—yes. Should he have at least four? Probably (he was robbed with Malcolm X and Flight, in my opinion). But awards measure applause, not legacy.

Denzel Washington’s legacy is larger than trophies. It is the witness of excellence without compromise; of faith without spectacle; of strength disciplined by conviction. He reminds us that belief does not weaken art—it deepens it. That integrity does not shrink a career—it steadies it.

And perhaps that is the Gospel thread running through his work: truth matters; character costs; redemption is possible—but never cheap. The screen fades to black, the credits roll, and we are left thinking not merely about the story, but about ourselves. That is rare. That is powerful.

That is Denzel.

BDD

THE GOSPEL IN SCIENCE — NEUTRINOS

If you are looking for a tidy illustration, something respectable—say, gravity, light, or the orderly march of mathematics—you should stop reading now. This is not that kind of article. This one begins with particles that pass through your body by the trillions every second, have almost no mass, almost no interaction, and absolutely no interest in whether you find them useful for theology.

Neutrinos are, by any reasonable pastoral standard, a terrible place to look for the Gospel.

And yet—here we are.

Because every so often, the most faithful witnesses are the ones no one notices; the quiet things that refuse to behave as expected; the realities that pass straight through us, changing us without asking permission. If that already sounds suspiciously theological, it should. The Gospel has always had a habit of hiding in places no one would think to look.

So yes—this is an article about Jesus Christ and neutrino oscillations. I warned you.

______________

There is a particle that passes through you by the trillions every second, and you never feel a thing.

Neutrinos—ghostly, elusive, almost nothing at all—stream through your body, through the earth, through entire planets, as if matter were scarcely there. They are born in the heart of stars, in exploding supernovae, in the nuclear furnace of the sun; and yet they arrive here barely announcing themselves. They do not knock. They do not linger. They pass through.

And here is the strange part—so strange it unsettled physicists for decades: neutrinos change identity while traveling. What begins as one “flavor” arrives as another. The particle that left the sun is not, in a strict sense, the particle that reaches the earth. It oscillates. It becomes what it was not, without ever ceasing to exist.

No one would use this for an evangelism tract. And that is precisely why it works.

The Gospel, too, speaks of a change that occurs while passing through a hostile world—quietly, invisibly, without spectacle. “You must be born again” (John 3:7). Not resculpted. Not improved. Not cosmetically adjusted. Changed—while still traveling the same road, still inhabiting the same body, still moving through the same gravity and sorrow and resistance.

Neutrinos were once assumed to be massless. That assumption collapsed. Their oscillation proved they carried more reality than anyone expected.

In much the same way, the Gospel reveals a weight in the soul the world cannot measure. “We look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen” (2 Corinthians 4:18). Faith does not announce itself with instruments calibrated for surfaces; it reveals itself by transformation.

The believer moves through the world much like a neutrino through matter—present, effective, yet often unnoticed. No thunder. No parade. Just quiet passage.

And yet something changes.

Desires realign. Loves deepen. Allegiances shift. “You were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord” (Ephesians 5:8). The environment remains; the identity does not.

And like neutrinos, Christians often pass through opposition without being absorbed by it. We are struck, but not annihilated; resisted, but not erased. “We are hard-pressed on every side, yet not crushed” (2 Corinthians 4:8). The world may barely register our presence—but heaven does.

Most astonishing of all: neutrinos reveal their secret only after long journeys. You do not detect the change immediately; you detect it after distance. So it is with grace. Time passes. Suffering intervenes. Years stretch out. And one day you realize—you are not who you were. Something happened along the way.

I’ve lived it. I am living it. It’s amazing.

The Gospel does not shout its power. It passes through the human heart and leaves it altered.

Invisible. Persistent. Irreversible.

Just like those strange little messengers from the sun.

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Lord Jesus, You change us quietly as we walk this broken world; give us faith to trust Your unseen work, and grace to keep moving until Your transformation is complete. Amen.

BDD

JESUS IN ECCLESIASTES: MEANING UNDER THE SUN, GLORY BEYOND IT

Ecclesiastes opens with a sigh. Not the sigh of unbelief, but the weary exhale of a man who has seen too much. Pleasure was tasted and found thin; wisdom was pursued and found heavy; labor was embraced and found fleeting. “Vanity of vanities,” says the Preacher; “all is vanity” (Ecclesiastes 1:2).

The word itself carries the weight of breath—mist in the morning air, present for a moment, then gone. Life under the sun is restless, repetitive, unable to satisfy the hunger it awakens.

Yet Ecclesiastes is not a book of despair—it is a book of honesty. It strips the world bare of its illusions and refuses to let us baptize emptiness with religious slogans. Wisdom cannot save us. Wealth cannot secure us. Time erases all monuments. “That which is crooked cannot be made straight” (Ecclesiastes 1:15). The diagnosis is devastating—unless there is Someone who stands over the sun.

And there is.

Jesus Christ enters Ecclesiastes not as a footnote, but as its answer. The Preacher tells us that nothing new exists beneath the sun—“There is nothing new under the sun” (Ecclesiastes 1:9).

Christ does not contradict that truth; He transcends it. He does not arise from within the closed system of fallen creation—He comes from above it. “I am from above; you are from beneath” (John 8:23). In Him, something truly new appears—not a rearrangement of old dust, but resurrection life breaking into time.

Ecclesiastes grieves the tyranny of time: generations come and go, the earth abides, and humanity fades like grass (Ecclesiastes 1:4). Jesus steps into that grief and speaks words no philosopher dared to speak: “I am the resurrection and the life” (John 11:25).

The Preacher sees death as the great equalizer; Christ confronts death as the defeated enemy. What Ecclesiastes mourns, the Gospel answers.

The book also exposes the frustration of labor—work that never fully satisfies, effort that never fully rests. “What profit has a man from all his labor in which he toils under the sun?” (Ecclesiastes 1:3).

Jesus does not deny the burden; He lifts it. “Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). Not escape from work, but rest within it—rest anchored not in outcomes, but in communion with Him.

Even the Preacher’s insistence that joy is a gift points quietly to Christ. “There is nothing better…than to eat and drink, and that his soul should enjoy good in his labor” (Ecclesiastes 2:24). Joy is not seized; it is received. Jesus later stands and cries, “If anyone thirsts, let him come to Me and drink” (John 7:37). What Ecclesiastes tastes in fragments, Christ offers in fullness.

The book concludes not with cynicism, but with clarity: “Fear God and keep His commandments, for this is man’s all” (Ecclesiastes 12:13).

That command does not vanish in the New Testament—it is fulfilled. Jesus embodies perfect obedience and teaches reverent trust, drawing us not merely to duty, but to Himself.

And where Ecclesiastes warns that God will bring every work into judgment (Ecclesiastes 12:14), Christ stands as both Judge and Savior—the One who bore judgment so mercy could triumph.

Ecclesiastes tells the truth about life without Christ; the Gospel reveals life because of Him. Under the sun, all is vapor. In the Son, all is gathered, redeemed, and made new.

The ache Ecclesiastes awakens is not meant to crush us—it is meant to lead us. And it leads us, unmistakably, to Jesus.

BDD

CHRIST, THE REASON THE UNIVERSE BREATHES

Before there was language to name it, before numbers learned to count it, before light had a vocabulary—there was purpose. Not the cold purpose of machinery, nor the indifferent drift of atoms colliding in the dark, but intention—warm, personal, conscious. The universe did not stumble into being; it was spoken. And the One who spoke did not merely ignite a cosmos—He revealed Himself.

We live in an age intoxicated with scale. We measure galaxies by the billions, distances by the speed of light, time by epochs that dwarf imagination. Yet the larger the universe becomes in our calculations, the more haunting the question grows: Why is there something rather than nothing? Matter can describe itself only so far. Laws can govern motion, but they cannot explain meaning. A universe may be vast—but vastness alone is silent.

The Scriptures do not begin with speculation but with declaration: “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth” (Genesis 1:1). Not chaos refined into order, but order summoned from nothing. And the New Testament dares to go further—pulling back the veil and naming the Architect: “All things were made through Him, and without Him nothing was made that was made” (John 1:3). Christ is not an afterthought introduced to repair a broken world; He is the original Word by whom the world was spoken into coherence.

The universe is intelligible because it proceeds from intelligence. It is mathematical because it flows from a Mind. It is beautiful because beauty was not accidental—it was intended. Stars burn with precision, gravity holds its steady hand, and time marches forward with an eerie faithfulness. None of this demands worship on its own—but it invites it. Creation whispers what it cannot shout: it is not self-explanatory.

Yet here is the wonder that shatters both pride and despair—the same Christ who governs quasars and constellations also stepped into flesh. “He is before all things, and in Him all things consist” (Colossians 1:17). The One who holds the universe together by His word allowed His own body to be torn apart. The hands that set the stars in their courses were pierced. Infinity learned pain. Eternity stepped into time.

This is where reason alone must either bow or break. A purely material universe cannot explain sacrifice. Survival of the fittest cannot account for a cross. But Christianity does not ask us to abandon reason—it asks us to follow it to its rightful end. The logic of the cosmos leads not merely to power, but to love. The center of reality is not force—it is self-giving.

If Christ is the reason for the universe, then existence is not a cosmic accident and humanity is not a biological afterthought. We are not dust pretending to matter; we are creatures summoned by a Creator who knows our names. The same voice that said, “Let there be light,” now says, “Come to Me” (Matthew 11:28). And the invitation is not to escape the universe, but to understand it rightly—through Him.

The universe makes sense because Jesus Christ stands at its center—before it, beneath it, and beyond it. Remove Him, and all that remains is motion without meaning. But behold Him, and suddenly the stars are no longer indifferent; they are obedient. History is no longer random; it is directed. And life—your life—is no longer absurd, but accountable, loved, and destined.

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Lord Jesus Christ, Word through whom all things were made, steady our minds and humble our hearts. Teach us to see the universe not as a god, nor as an accident, but as a testimony—one that leads us to You. Hold our lives together as You hold the stars, and draw us into the purpose for which we were created. Amen.

BDD

WE NEED YOUR HELP—AND WE ASK IT CAREFULLY

Honesty is the only faithful path forward. The work before us is growing; the reach is widening; the opportunities are real. And we cannot pretend otherwise—we need your help.

This ministry exists for one reason: to make Jesus Christ known. Not merely known in name, but proclaimed in truth; taught carefully from the Bible; presented with reverence, clarity, and love. We teach the Gospel plainly. We explore doctrine thoughtfully. We wrestle with Scripture honestly. And by God’s grace, people from many places—some near, some very far—are listening, reading, learning, and being drawn toward Christ.

We do not believe money is the engine of ministry. The Holy Spirit is. The Gospel does not advance because of budgets, and no amount of funding can manufacture conversion. Only God gives life. “So then neither he who plants is anything, nor he who waters, but God who gives the increase” (1 Corinthians 3:7). We stand firmly on that truth.

At the same time, the Bible is equally clear that Gospel work is often sustained through willing generosity. Jesus Himself was supported by the gifts of others as He traveled and taught (Luke 8:1-3). Paul spoke openly, without embarrassment or manipulation, about the partnership of believers who shared in the work through their giving (Philippians 4:15-16). Support is not coercion; it is cooperation.

We want to be very clear about our heart. We are not asking out of desperation, nor are we attempting to pressure anyone. If you feel no freedom to give, you should feel no guilt in not giving. “Each one must give as he purposes in his heart, not grudgingly or of necessity; for God loves a cheerful giver” (2 Corinthians 9:7). That principle governs us completely.

But if this work has helped you—if it has pointed you to Jesus, steadied your faith, sharpened your understanding of the Bible, or encouraged you to endure—then you may wish to stand with us in a tangible way. Your support helps keep this work available, accessible, and expanding. It allows teaching to continue, resources to grow, and the message of Christ to reach people we may never meet on this side of eternity.

If you choose to help, you can simply click on the GIVE link provided. It will explain everything clearly and guide you step by step. No confusion. No pressure. Just a straightforward way to participate in Gospel work that is reaching beyond walls and borders.

Whether you give or not, we are grateful that you are here. We believe the Lord uses ordinary faithfulness—words written, Scriptures taught, truths shared—to accomplish eternal purposes. And if He moves some to give, we receive it as stewardship, not entitlement.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for praying. And thank you, if you are able, for helping us continue to point people to Jesus.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway

CHRIST, THE CENTER AND CONTINUANCE OF ALL TRUE LIFE

If Christ were removed from a man, what would remain? He might still breathe, still reason, still labor beneath the sun—but life, in its truest sense, would have departed. For life is not measured merely by motion, nor by sensation, nor even by consciousness. The Bible speaks with greater clarity and far deeper authority: life is bound to Christ Himself. Sever the branch from the vine, and though it may remain green for a moment, it is already dying.

The Bible does not hesitate to locate life in one place and one place only. “In Him was life, and the life was the light of men” (John 1:4). Life is not something Christ distributes at arm’s length, as though it were a commodity to be received and then managed independently.

He is life.

To possess Him is to live; to be without Him is to exist under the sentence of death, however energetic or impressive that existence may appear.

Our Lord’s own words admit of no dilution: “I am the way, the truth, and the life” (John 14:6). He does not say He points to life, or teaches about life, or improves life. He claims identity with it.

All vitality—natural and spiritual—finds its origin, its order, and its endurance in Him. “For in Him we live and move and have our being” (Acts 17:28). Every heartbeat borrowed from creation is sustained by the Creator who took flesh and dwelt among us.

Men search for life everywhere else. Some chase it through pleasure, others through purpose, others through distraction finely dressed as meaning. But these are broken cisterns, promising refreshment and yielding dust.

Christ alone sustains what He gives. “He is before all things, and in Him all things consist” (Colossians 1:17). Outside of Him, nothing holds together—not the soul, not the mind, not the future.

The Gospel does not flatter our condition. It declares us dead in trespasses and sins (Ephesians 2:1). And this diagnosis matters, because the remedy must match the disease. The dead do not need instruction; they need resurrection.

This is precisely what God has accomplished in Christ. “Even when we were dead in trespasses and sins, He made us alive together with Christ” (Ephesians 2:5). Christianity is not moral improvement with religious language; it is new life created by sovereign grace.

This life flows from the cross and stands secure in the empty tomb. Christ did not merely die to forgive; He rose to reign—and to give life that death can never reclaim. “I am He who lives, and was dead, and behold, I am alive forevermore” (Revelation 1:18). The believer’s confidence does not rest in endurance, but in union. “Because I live, you will live also” (John 14:19).

Nor is this life deferred until heaven. Eternal life begins the moment Christ is received. It is not merely endless duration, but present communion. “This is eternal life, that they may know You, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom You have sent” (John 17:3). To know Him is to live already in the light of eternity, even while walking through shadows.

Thus the Christian can say without exaggeration or fear: Christ is my life.

When strength wanes, He remains unexhausted. When joy flickers, He is unchanged. When death draws near, He is already there, holding the keys. “For to me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain” (Philippians 1:21).

Lose everything else—and if Christ is yours, life itself has not been touched.

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Lord Jesus Christ, You are my life and my hope. Keep me from seeking vitality apart from You. Let Your risen life be formed in me, until faith gives way to sight and I live fully in Your presence forever. Amen.

BDD

THE GOSPEL IN MUSIC — WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY FRIENDS

Sometimes truth reaches us sideways—not from a pulpit or a page, but through a song that finds its way into the heart before the mind has time to object.

Music has always carried meaning; long before most people owned a Bible, they learned what to believe by what they sang. Israel remembered the faith with psalms; the early Church held fast to Christ with hymns sung under pressure and in the dark. And many times, even a secular song brushes up against something unmistakably biblical.

With a Little Help from My Friends is not a Christian song. It makes no such claim. I’m probably aware of what “friends” The Beatles were talking about. But that does not change the fact that the song can be heard in a completely different way. To me, it names a reality the Bible takes seriously: human life was never meant to be solitary or self-sustaining.

“What would you do if I sang out of tune? “Would you stand up and walk out on me?”

That question carries a quiet vulnerability. It is the fear most people keep hidden—what happens when I disappoint, when I falter, when I am no longer impressive? The Bible answers that question not with theory, but with a Person. God does not walk out. He comes near. “But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8). Love is not offered after improvement; it is given at our worst.

The song leans hard on companionship. I get by with a little help from my friends. Scripture affirms that instinct, but deepens it. Jesus does more than tolerate us; He names us. “No longer do I call you servants…but I have called you friends” (John 15:15). And unlike even the best human relationships, this friendship does not collapse under strain. “I will never leave you nor forsake you” (Hebrews 13:5).

There is also an honesty in the lyrics that feels almost confessional: Do you need anybody? I need somebody to love. The Bible never treats that admission as weakness. It calls it humility. Grace begins where self-sufficiency ends. “God resists the proud, but gives grace to the humble” (James 4:6). The Gospel is not for those who have learned to manage on their own, but for those who know they cannot.

Still, the song stops where the Gospel must continue. Friends can steady us, encourage us, and walk beside us—but they cannot redeem us. They cannot bear our guilt or reconcile us to God. Only Christ does that. “For there is one God and one Mediator between God and men, the Man Christ Jesus” (1 Timothy 2:5). Community is a gift; salvation is the gift.

And yet, how generous God is to give both. The Bible never imagines faith as a solo act. The Church exists so that when one voice falters, others carry the song forward. “Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ” (Galatians 6:2). We come to Christ one by one, but we are joined together once we arrive.

So when that familiar tune plays, it can remind us of something the Bible has always said more clearly: we are not saved by our performance, nor sustained by our own strength. We are held by Christ—and surrounded, by His kindness, with fellow travelers who help us along the way.

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Lord Jesus, thank You for loving me when I stumble and fail. Thank You for saving me by grace and placing me among Your people. Teach me to depend fully on You and to love others with the patience You have shown me. Amen.

BDD

THE GOSPEL IN ART — WHEN BEAUTY BEARS WITNESS

From some of the earliest days, the Gospel has not only been preached with words; it has been seen. Before creeds were systematized and before many believers could read a single line of Scripture, walls spoke, colors confessed, and images testified.

Art became a quiet evangelist—often persecuted, sometimes misunderstood, yet stubbornly faithful. In catacombs beneath Rome, simple symbols—the fish, the anchor, the shepherd—declared what tyrants could not silence: Jesus Christ is Lord. Beauty, here, was not decoration; it was proclamation.

The Gospel in art begins, fittingly, with the incarnation. Christianity is the only faith that insists God may be pictured—not because wood and paint are divine, but because God once took on flesh and dwelt among us (John 1:14). When artists painted Christ’s face, they were not reducing Him; they were confessing Him. The very act of portraying Jesus said, He truly came. He walked. He wept. He bled. The brush affirmed what the apostles preached: “That which we have seen with our eyes…” (1 John 1:1).

Across centuries, the Gospel unfolded on canvas and stone. Medieval crucifixions were not polite or restrained; they were brutal, heavy with blood and sorrow. They refused to sentimentalize the cross. They declared, without apology, that salvation was costly. “He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities” (Isaiah 53:5).

Later, resurrection scenes flooded churches with light—Christ stepping out of the tomb, banners raised, death humiliated. Art preached both Friday and Sunday, judgment and joy, sin exposed and grace triumphant.

The Reformers, often suspicious of excess, still understood the power of image and hymn. Even stripped walls could not erase imagination shaped by Scripture.

Meanwhile, composers like Bach painted the Gospel in sound—layer upon layer of harmony, disciplined yet soaring, echoing Paul’s confession: “For I determined not to know anything among you except Jesus Christ and Him crucified” ( 1 Corinthians 2:2). The arts multiplied the message, not by replacing Scripture, but by responding to it—like melodies in a great cathedral.

And still today, the Gospel finds its way into galleries, songs, novels, films, and even street murals. Not all Christian art is explicitly religious; sometimes it whispers rather than shouts. A story of sacrifice. A painting of light breaking through darkness. A melody that aches with longing and resolves in hope. Wherever truth confronts despair and grace interrupts ruin, the Gospel leaves fingerprints. “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not comprehend it” (John 1:5).

Art does not save; Christ saves. Yet art can point—often powerfully—to the Savior. It can awaken the heart, unsettle the conscience, and prepare the soil. When rightly ordered, beauty becomes a servant of truth, not its rival. And when the Church remembers this, she regains a language the world still understands: the language of wonder.

The Gospel in art is not about making Christianity impressive; it is about making Christ visible. Not always clearly, not always perfectly—but faithfully. And in every age, He continues to stand at the center, inviting all who see to come and behold.

BDD

CHOSEN BY GOD—OR CALLED BY GRACE?

Before any critique is offered, something must be said plainly and without qualification. I have long admired R. C. Sproul’s intellect, his disciplined mind, and his visible reverence for Holy Scripture. He was no theological lightweight, nor was he careless with the text.

His passion for the holiness of God stirred many to take the Bible more seriously, to think more carefully, and to worship more reverently. I have learned real and lasting things from his teaching. I believe he was a godly man who loved Jesus, loved the God’s people, and labored sincerely to defend what he believed to be the truth.

There is no doubt in my mind whatsoever that Brother Sproul is with the Lord now. What follows, then, is not an attack on his character or his devotion, but a disagreement with a system he championed—one I believe ultimately presses Scripture further than Scripture itself will go.

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R. C. Sproul’s Chosen by God is written with clarity, seriousness, and reverence; it is not a careless book, nor the work of a man indifferent to holiness or the glory of God. For that reason, it deserves a careful response rather than a reactionary one. Yet clarity does not equal correctness, and reverence does not guarantee balance.

The system Sproul defends—classical, deterministic Calvinism—ultimately presses Scripture into a philosophical mold that Scripture itself resists. The God of the Bible is sovereign, yes; but His sovereignty is personal, covenantal, and moral—not mechanical, exhaustive, or coercive. When sovereignty is defined in such a way that human response becomes illusory, love becomes selective by decree, and judgment falls on those who never possessed genuine opportunity, something vital has been lost.

Sproul insists that if God is truly sovereign, then human freedom must be radically curtailed. Yet Scripture never defines God’s sovereignty in opposition to meaningful human response. Again and again, the biblical narrative holds both together without embarrassment. “I have set before you life and death, blessing and cursing; therefore choose life” (Deuteronomy 30:19).

The command is not theatrical, nor is the invitation hollow. The God who declares the end from the beginning also pleads, warns, grieves, and rejoices. Divine sovereignty in Scripture is not displayed by rendering human decisions irrelevant, but by accomplishing redemptive purposes through real choices made by real people—choices that matter eternally.

At the heart of Chosen by God is the doctrine of unconditional election: that God, before creation, chose certain individuals for salvation and passed over the rest, not based on foreseen faith, but solely on His secret will.

Yet the New Testament consistently frames election in Christ, not as an abstract decree concerning isolated individuals. God chose a people, a body, a covenant family—and the means of entering that chosen reality is faith-union with the Son. “He chose us in Him before the foundation of the world” (Ephesians 1:4).

The phrase “in Him” is not incidental; it is decisive. Election is Christ-centered before it is individualized, and corporate before it is personal. Sproul’s reading reverses that order, beginning with an eternal decree about individuals and only later situating Christ as the mechanism for its execution.

Moreover, Chosen by God asserts total inability in such a way that the Gospel call itself becomes selective in intent. Sproul maintains that the unregenerate cannot respond positively to God under any circumstances unless first regenerated—and thus the universal invitations of Scripture function merely as instruments to gather the already-chosen.

But the apostles did not preach as if this were so. They pleaded, reasoned, persuaded, and warned. Paul declares that God “now commands all men everywhere to repent” (Acts 17:30), not as a rhetorical flourish, but as a sincere summons grounded in the reality of accountability. A command that cannot possibly be obeyed—even in principle—empties language of its moral meaning.

Most troubling is the portrait of God that inevitably emerges. Sproul denies that God delights in the damnation of the reprobate, yet the system he defends requires that God eternally wills the non-salvation of multitudes for His own glory.

The Bible, however, repeatedly affirms that God’s disposition toward the world is genuinely salvific. He is “not willing that any should perish but that all should come to repentance” (2 Peter 3:9). He “desires all men to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth” (1 Timothy 2:4). These statements are not explained away by appealing to hidden wills or divided intentions; they are revelations of the heart of God as He has chosen to make Himself known.

None of this denies grace. Salvation is not earned, initiated, or completed by human effort. Faith itself is a response made possible by grace from beginning to end. But grace, in Scripture, is not irresistible force—it is divine generosity that can be received or resisted.

“You always resist the Holy Spirit” (Acts 7:51) is not a hypothetical accusation; it is a historical indictment. Love that cannot be refused is not love as the Bible presents it; and judgment that falls where no real alternative was possible cannot be reconciled with the justice God declares of Himself.

Chosen by God is right to exalt God; it is wrong to do so by diminishing the sincerity of His invitations, the integrity of human response, and the breadth of His redemptive desire. The Gospel does not announce that some are secretly chosen while others are silently doomed—it proclaims that Christ has been lifted up so that “whoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life” (John 3:16).

That promise is not qualified in the fine print of eternity; it is spoken plainly in history, to the world God so loved.

BDD

LEARNING FROM CALVINISTS WITHOUT BECOMING ONE

It is possible to be grateful without being governed; to learn without yielding allegiance; to receive nourishment without joining the camp that baked the bread. Theology, like history, does not require total agreement to offer genuine insight.

And so it is with Charles Haddon Spurgeon.

I am not a Calvinist—and I do not want others to be. Yet I would be dishonest, and perhaps ungrateful, if I denied how much I have learned from Spurgeon. Truth is not invalidated by the system that attempts to contain it. God has never waited for perfect frameworks before pouring out light. “Test all things; hold fast what is good” (1 Thessalonians 5:21). Discernment is not disloyalty; it is obedience.

Spurgeon called himself a Calvinist, but he did not act like the mechanical determinists of our own day. He was no theological commissar, no cold architect of inevitability, no preacher of a gospel that sounded more like a decree than an invitation. He did not speak as though men were puppets or as though repentance were theatrical rather than urgent. He preached as if souls were truly summoned, as if heaven and hell hung in the balance, as if men could actually come—or tragically refuse.

I think I have read everything the man did. Spurgeon’s “Calvinism” was not the bureaucratic Calvinism that now dominates conference stages and podcast studios. It had blood in it—tears in it—pleading in it. He begged sinners. He urged hearers. He spoke in the language of Scripture rather than the language of systems. Again and again, he thundered the free and open call of the gospel: “Whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely” (Revelation 22:17). That is not the voice of determinism; that is the voice of a preacher who believed the invitation was real.

Modern Calvinism often sounds like a closed circuit—self-reinforcing, internally logical, emotionally distant. Spurgeon’s preaching was nothing like that. He did not flatten the warnings of Scripture, nor did he explain away the urgency of repentance. He could say, without embarrassment, “You will not come,” and still plead, “Come to Christ tonight.” He refused to let logic silence the Bible’s plain speech—“Turn, turn from your evil ways! For why should you die?” (Ezekiel 33:11).

This is where the comparison must be made carefully—and honestly. Spurgeon cannot be recruited as a mascot for the hard, ideological Calvinism represented today by figures such as R. C. Sproul and John MacArthur. Whatever one thinks of those men, their tone, their emphasis, and their theological rigidity would have been foreign to Spurgeon’s evangelistic instincts. He was not interested in building a gated theological community; he was interested in seeing sinners saved.

Spurgeon did not preach election to quiet sinners—he preached Christ to awaken them. He did not use sovereignty as a cushion against responsibility—he used grace as a summons to repentance and faith. Whatever conclusions he held, he never allowed them to mute the gospel’s urgency or sincerity. “Now is the accepted time; behold, now is the day of salvation” (2 Corinthians 6:2).

I reject Calvinism—not because I reject Spurgeon, but because I take Scripture’s invitations seriously. I reject any system that dulls the edge of biblical warnings or turns the gospel call into a formality. The appeals of Scripture are not theatrical; they are real. The responsibility of the sinner is not imaginary; it is urgent. “Choose this day whom you will serve” (Joshua 24:15).

Yet I remain grateful. I take the gold and leave the gravel. I learn from Spurgeon’s reverence, his courage, his Christ-exalting passion—without surrendering to his system. My loyalty is not to Geneva, nor to London, nor to modern conference platforms—but to Jesus Christ alone, “who desires all men to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth” (1 Timothy 2:4).

I am grateful without being governed. I listen without submitting my conscience. I honor the man without inheriting the system. And I will not uncritically allow Charles Spurgeon to be retrofitted into a theological machine he himself never inhabited.

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I am not trying to be unfair to R. C. Sproul or John MacArthur. I have read their works; I am familiar with their arguments; I do not doubt their sincerity. I am sure they were godly men, and I have no reason to question their love for Christ or their devotion to Scripture. Many of their followers are godly people as well—earnest believers who love Jesus, cherish the Bible, and desire to think carefully about the faith once delivered to the saints. This is not an indictment of character, nor is it a dismissal of devotion. It is simply a historical and theological observation: there is no world in which Charles Spurgeon would have signed his name to “Chosen by God” by Sproul. Whatever labels we attempt to apply, Spurgeon’s preaching instincts, evangelistic urgency, and refusal to quiet Scripture’s open invitations place him outside the modern, system-driven Calvinism that book represents. To say that is not uncharitable; it is honest.

BDD

THE GOSPEL IN LOGIC — WHEN HEAVEN REASONS WITH EARTH

God does not ask us to abandon reason to believe the Gospel; He invites reason to bow before revelation. Christianity is not a leap into the dark—it is a step into the light. Scripture itself reasons, argues, and concludes. “Come now, and let us reason together,” says the Lord (Isaiah 1:18).

The Gospel can be preached poetically, sung doxologically, and prayed humbly—but it can also be stated logically. Not because logic saves, but because truth withstands examination.

At its simplest, the Gospel forms a syllogism.

Major Premise: God is holy and just, and must judge sin.

“The LORD is righteous in all His ways” (Psalm 145:17).

“The wages of sin is death” (Romans 6:23).

If God is truly good, He cannot ignore evil. Justice is not a flaw in God—it is a perfection.

Minor Premise: All humanity is guilty of sin and cannot justify itself.

“There is none righteous, no, not one” (Romans 3:10).

“All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:23).

No exception clauses exist. The indictment is universal.

Conclusion: Humanity stands condemned and in need of redemption.

Logic agrees with Scripture: if God is just, and we are guilty, judgment is unavoidable—unless something intervenes.

Here the Gospel introduces its necessary—and glorious—answer.

Major Premise: God is loving and desires to save sinners.

“God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8).

“[God] desires all men to be saved” (1 Timothy 2:4).

Minor Premise: Jesus Christ lived without sin and offered Himself as a substitute.

“He committed no sin” (1 Peter 2:22).

“The LORD has laid on Him the iniquity of us all” (Isaiah 53:6).

Conclusion: God can remain just while justifying sinners.

“To demonstrate at the present tim His righteousness, that He might be just and the justifier of the one who has faith in Jesus” (Romans 3:26).

This is not logical contradiction—it is logical fulfillment. Justice is satisfied; mercy is magnified.

The resurrection follows the same pattern.

Major Premise: God does not lie and keeps His promises.

“God…cannot lie” (Titus 1:2).

Minor Premise: God promised to raise His Holy One from death.

“You will not allow Your Holy One to see corruption” (Psalm 16:10).

Conclusion: Jesus was raised from the dead.

“This Jesus God has raised up” (Acts 2:32).

Faith, then, is not belief without evidence—it is trust in a true conclusion. The Gospel never pits faith against reason; it pits faith against pride. “If anyone wills to do His will, he shall know concerning the doctrine” (John 7:17).

Even repentance follows a logical path.

If sin leads to death,

and Christ leads to life,

then clinging to sin is irrational.

“Why will you die…? Turn and live!” (Ezekiel 18:31-32).

Logic cannot regenerate the heart—but it can remove excuses. The Gospel does not fear questions because it survives answers. When rightly understood, Christianity is not only beautiful—it is coherent. The Cross is not absurd; it is necessary. Grace is not careless; it is costly. Salvation is not arbitrary; it is righteous.

Heaven has made its argument.

BDD

THE GOSPEL IN LITERATURE — SHAKESPEARE’S KING LEAR

Shakespeare understood what Scripture declares plainly: sight is not the same as seeing, and authority is not the same as wisdom. Nowhere is this more painfully clear than in King Lear—a tragedy not merely about age, power, or family, but about blindness of heart and the long road back to truth.

Lear begins with a crown on his head and folly in his soul. He demands declarations of love, not because he longs to give it, but because he needs to secure it. The daughters who flatter him are rewarded; the daughter who loves him truly is cast out. Cordelia refuses to perform affection—and loses everything. Lear mistakes eloquence for loyalty, words for truth. The Bible warns us of this very deception: “Man looks at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart” (1 Samuel 16:7).

Sin often begins not in cruelty, but in confusion.

Lear’s descent is slow and severe. Stripped of power, mocked by those he trusted, and driven into the storm, he finally begins to learn what kingship never taught him. Suffering becomes his teacher. The storm outside mirrors the chaos within, and for the first time Lear sees the poor, the broken, the forgotten. “Is it not to share your bread with the hungry…?” (Isaiah 58:7). Pain opens his eyes where privilege never could.

The Gospel works this way too. God often removes the false supports we lean on so that grace may finally reach us. “Before I was afflicted I went astray, but now I keep Your word” (Psalm 119:67). Lear loses everything—and in losing it, gains truth.

Cordelia stands at the center of the play like a quiet gospel reflection. She loves without bargaining, suffers without complaint, and returns not to triumph, but to serve. When she finally meets her broken father again, there is no revenge in her voice—only mercy. Lear kneels before the daughter he wronged, and says, “Pray you now, forget and forgive.” Scripture breathes the same air: “Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God in Christ forgave you” (Ephesians 4:32).

This is where the Gospel glimmers most brightly—in undeserved forgiveness.

Lear’s redemption does not come through restored power, but through restored relationship. He is not saved by reclaiming his throne, but by being reconciled to his child. The Gospel insists on this same reversal. “God resists the proud, but gives grace to the humble” (James 4:6). Lear must be unkinged before he can be healed.

The tragedy of King Lear does not lie in suffering alone, but in how late clarity comes. Shakespeare refuses to give us a tidy ending. Redemption is real—but the scars remain. And yet, this too points us toward Christ. The Gospel does not promise a painless world; it promises a faithful God. “Through many tribulations we must enter the kingdom of God” (Acts 14:22).

Shakespeare gives us no resurrection scene—but Scripture does. What Lear longs for but cannot secure, Christ accomplishes fully. In Jesus, love does not wait until the storm has passed; it enters the storm to rescue the lost. Where Lear learns too late, Christ redeems in time.

King Lear endures because it tells the truth: power blinds, pride isolates, suffering clarifies, and love—real love—costs everything. It is not the Gospel, but it aches for it. And that ache is itself a witness.

The Gospel answers Shakespeare’s question with a promise: the blindness can be healed, the exile can end, the father can be restored, and the kingdom can be received—not by demand, but by grace.

BDD

RACISM MUST GO — THE GOSPEL WILL NOT SHARE THE HEART

Racism is not merely a social failure; it is a theological one. It is not first a problem of education, economics, or environment—it is a denial of what God has said about humanity. And because it contradicts the Gospel at its core, racism must go.

The Bible opens with a truth so simple it leaves no room for hierarchy: “So God created man in His own image; in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them” (Genesis 1:27). The image of God is not distributed by skin tone, language, or geography. It is bestowed by creation. To despise another human being is to insult the Artist whose image they bear.

Racism thrives where pride is tolerated. It whispers that some lives matter more, that some cultures are closer to God, that some histories excuse contempt. Yet the Gospel dismantles every ladder we try to climb. “There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is neither male nor female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus” (Galatians 3:28). Paul does not say distinctions vanish—he says distinctions no longer determine worth, access, or standing before God.

The Cross makes racism impossible to justify.

At Calvary, all ground is level. Every sinner approaches God the same way—empty-handed, undeserving, and dependent on grace. “For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:23). Racism survives only where people forget they needed mercy just as desperately as everyone else.

Jesus did not merely teach inclusion; He embodied it. He crossed ethnic lines with Samaritans, touched the unclean, welcomed outsiders, and told stories where the hero looked nothing like the religious elite.

His kingdom does not expand by resemblance—it expands by redemption. “For He Himself is our peace, who has made both one, and has broken down the middle wall of separation” (Ephesians 2:14).

Racism rebuilds walls Christ died to tear down.

The early church understood this tension well. When prejudice threatened fellowship, the apostles did not minimize it—they confronted it. Peter had to be corrected publicly when fear and favoritism crept into his behavior (Galatians 2:11–14). Unity was not optional; it was gospel-shaped obedience.

Heaven itself settles the matter. John’s vision leaves no room for ethnic superiority: “A great multitude which no one could number, of all nations, tribes, peoples, and tongues, standing before the throne and before the Lamb” (Revelation 7:9). God’s redeemed family is gloriously diverse—and eternally united. Anyone uncomfortable with that vision has not yet aligned their heart with heaven.

Racism must go because love has come. “He who does not love does not know God, for God is love” (1 John 4:8). Love is not vague sentiment—it is action, humility, listening, repentance, and honor. Love refuses caricatures. Love rejects inherited bitterness. Love sees Christ reflected in faces that do not look like our own.

The church must not mirror the world’s divisions; it must model the kingdom’s reconciliation. Silence in the face of racial sin is not neutrality—it is permission. The Gospel calls us higher, deeper, and closer.

Racism must go—not because it is unfashionable, but because it is unchristian.

Not because culture demands it, but because Christ does.

Not because we are better, but because grace has made us new.

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Lord Jesus, Search my heart and expose every trace of pride, prejudice, or partiality; teach me to love as You have loved, to see Your image in every face, and to live now what heaven will one day display in full. Amen.

BDD

NOT UNDER MOSES — ALIVE IN CHRIST

There is a freedom many believers confess with their lips, yet hesitate to embrace with their hearts:

You are not under the Law of Moses—not in any sense at all.

Not partially.

Not symbolically.

Not as a moral safety net.

Not as a hidden standard whispering condemnation when grace feels too generous.

The Law was given at Sinai to a nation still learning who God was; grace was given at Calvary to a world being made new. Scripture does not blur that line—it draws it boldly. “You are not under law but under grace” (Romans 6:14). Paul does not qualify the statement, soften it, or hedge it. He declares it.

The Law was never designed to give life. It could command, but not create; expose sin, but not erase it. “For if there had been a law given which could have given life, truly righteousness would have been by the law” (Galatians 3:21). The Law could diagnose the disease, but it could not heal the patient.

Its purpose was temporary—holy, just, and good—yet never final. “The law was our tutor to bring us to Christ” (Galatians 3:24). And once Christ arrived, the tutor’s work was complete. “After faith has come, we are no longer under a tutor” (Galatians 3:25). Graduation day had arrived; to return would not be humility—it would be regression.

The danger is not honoring the Law’s goodness, but attempting to live under its authority. The Law is not divisible. To place yourself beneath one command is to stand beneath them all. “Whoever shall keep the whole law, and yet stumble in one point, he is guilty of all” (James 2:10). That is why Paul speaks with such severity: “You have become estranged from Christ, you who attempt to be justified by law; you have fallen from grace” (Galatians 5:4). Mixing covenants does not strengthen holiness—it dissolves assurance.

This does not lead to lawlessness; it leads to life. The New Covenant does not lower God’s standard—it fulfills it in a Person. “Christ is the end of the law for righteousness to everyone who believes” (Romans 10:4). Not the end as in destruction, but the end as in destination. Everything the Law pointed toward finds its completion in Him.

Christian obedience does not flow from stone tablets, but from a living Savior. God no longer writes commands on cold rock; He writes His will on warm hearts. “I will put My laws in their minds, and write them on their hearts” (Hebrews 8:10). This is not Moses revised—it is Christ alive within.

When the New Testament calls us to holiness, it does not send us back to Sinai; it draws us forward to Jesus. “As I have loved you, that you also love one another” (John 13:34). Love is not the Law repackaged—it is the fruit of the Spirit (Galatians 5:22–23), and “against such there is no law.”

The Law could restrain behavior; grace transforms the heart. The Law could point to righteousness; Christ is our righteousness. To live under Moses after coming to Jesus is to choose shadow over substance, distance over nearness, effort over rest.

You are not under the Law of Moses.

• Not ceremonially.

• Not covenantally.

• Not morally.

• Not secretly.

You are under grace—alive in Christ, led by the Spirit, and free indeed (John 8:36).

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Heavenly Father, Keep me from returning to shadows when I have been given the substance; teach me to rest fully in the finished work of my Savior, to walk by the Spirit, and to live freely as one truly under grace. Amen.

BDD

THE GOSPEL IN FILM — A CHRISTMAS CAROL (1984)

Few stories expose the human heart with such precision as A Christmas Carol. In the 1984 adaptation, George C. Scott gives us a Scrooge who is not merely cranky or misunderstood, but spiritually frozen—careful with coins, careless with souls. He is a man who has learned how to survive without love, and mistook that survival for wisdom.

Dickens understood something the gospel states plainly: sin is not only rebellion—it is contraction. The heart closes in on itself.

Scrooge does not begin the story as a monster; he begins as a man who has learned to protect himself at all costs. Love, to him, is inefficient. Mercy is wasteful. Generosity is foolish. Yet the Word of God tells us, “He who loves silver will not be satisfied with silver” (Ecclesiastes 5:10). Scrooge’s poverty is not financial—it is relational.

The ghosts who visit him do not come to flatter or condemn, but to reveal. Christmas Past exposes the wounds Scrooge buried long ago—the losses, disappointments, and quiet griefs that hardened his soul.

The Gospel does this too. Before grace heals us, truth must uncover us. “Search me, O God, and know my heart” (Psalm 139:23). Repentance always begins with remembrance.

Christmas Present pulls back the curtain on the cost of Scrooge’s coldness. We see Tiny Tim—fragile and hopeful and beloved—and we hear words that sound far beyond Dickens: “God bless us, every one.”

It is impossible not to think of Jesus’ words, “As you did it to one of the least of these My brethren, you did it to Me” (Matthew 25:40). The Gospel insists that love for God is proven in love for people—and neglect is never neutral.

Then comes Christmas Yet to Come—the most terrifying mercy of all. The Spirit does not speak, because the future does not need explanation; it only needs to be seen.

A lonely grave.

A forgotten man.

A life spent and wasted.

This is not fear meant to paralyze, but fear meant to awaken.

The Bible calls it “the goodness of God that leads you to repentance” (Romans 2:4). Judgment, rightly understood, is not God delighting in punishment—but God warning us while there is still time.

And there is still time.

Scrooge’s transformation is sudden, but not shallow. He wakes up alive—truly alive. Joy spills out of him, generosity flows from him, and love returns to him as if it had only been waiting for permission.

He does not merely resolve to do better; he becomes new.

The Gospel calls this rebirth. “If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new” (2 Corinthians 5:17).

Christmas, at its heart, is not about nostalgia or sentiment—it is about invasion. God enters time to rescue what was lost.

Scrooge is not saved by effort, but by revelation. And so are we. When we finally see what matters—when eternity presses in on the present—love is no longer optional.

Dickens gives us a parable; Scripture gives us a Savior. The story resonates because it borrows gospel light. A hardened heart can still thaw. A wasted life can still sing. A man bound by fear and greed can still learn the freedom of love.

And that, perhaps, is why A Christmas Carol endures. It reminds us that Christmas is not for the comfortable, but for the changeable; not for the righteous, but for the repentant.

Christ did not come to congratulate Scrooges—He came to redeem them.

BDD

FEAR NOT: THE CHRISTMAS WORD THAT CHASES AWAY THE DARK

Fear is older than Bethlehem.

It did not begin in a manger—it began in a garden.

The first time fear is named in Scripture, it is spoken by a fallen man hiding among the trees: “I heard Your voice in the garden, and I was afraid” (Genesis 3:10). Fear entered the human story the moment trust was broken. Before sin, there was no need to hide; before guilt, there was no dread of God. Fear is not native to creation—it is a trespasser.

That is why the message of Christmas is not Try harder or Be better; it is Fear not.

When heaven breaks its long silence, it does so with a word aimed straight at the human heart. An angel stands before a trembling priest, and says, “Do not be afraid” (Luke 1:13). Another appears to a young virgin, and says, “Do not be afraid, Mary” (Luke 1:30). Then, on a cold Judean night, the sky itself fills with glory, and the shepherds are “greatly afraid”—and the angel says, “Do not be afraid, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy” (Luke 2:10).

Christmas begins with fear—but it does not end there.

It is often noted that the Bible gives us a “fear not” for every day of the year; whether counted precisely or not, the trend is unmistakable. God speaks against fear again and again because fear is the native language of fallen humanity—and faith must be learned.

The Bible does not deny fear’s presence; it denies fear’s authority.

Consider the chorus of God’s Word:

• “Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God” (Isaiah 41:10).

• “The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?” (Psalm 27:1).

• “When I am afraid, I will trust in You” (Psalm 56:3).

• “God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind” (2 Timothy 1:7).

• “There is no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear” (1 John 4:18).

• “Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul” (Matthew 10:28).

Fear is not always sinful—but it is always revealing. It shows us what we believe God to be like, and what we believe the future to hold.

This is why Revelation speaks so soberly about fear. “But the cowardly, unbelieving…shall have their part in the lake which burns with fire” (Revelation 21:8). Fear is not condemned there as a momentary emotion, but as a settled posture of unbelief. The word cowardly describes those who shrink back from truth, who refuse the light, who choose self-preservation over surrender. It is not fear as a feeling that damns—but fear as a lord.

Christmas confronts that lord.

The Child in the manger is God stepping into our terror without flinching. He does not shout “Fear not” from a distance; He whispers it from inside the human condition. He takes on flesh that can tremble, lungs that can gasp, a heart that will one day beat hard in Gethsemane. Yet even there, fear does not rule Him—faith does.

And because He entered our fear, fear no longer gets the final word.

The angels did not say Fear not because nothing frightening would ever happen. They said it because “there is born to you this day…a Savior” (Luke 2:11). Fear loses its grip not when danger disappears, but when God draws near.

So Christmas teaches us to name our fear—and then lay it down. Fear of the future. Fear of loss. Fear of judgment. Fear of being known. Fear that whispers God cannot be trusted.

Into all of it, heaven still speaks: Fear not.

Not because the world is safe—but because Christ has come.

Not because death is gone—but because death will be defeated.

Not because we are strong—but because Emmanuel is with us.

And when fear rises again—as it surely will—we return to the manger, and remember that the God who came once will come again, saying “Fear not” to His people.

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Lord Jesus, You entered a fearful world with peace in Your hands; teach my heart to trust where it trembles, to believe where it hides, and to rest in Your nearness. Cast out every fear that competes with faith, and let Your perfect love rule my days—today, and every day. Amen.

BDD

HE WON’T GO AWAY

You can ignore Jesus—but He will not go away.

History itself refuses to cooperate with indifference. Jesus of Nazareth did not drift onto the scene like a myth, nor fade out like a legend. He entered the world in real time, under real rulers, in a real place.

Luke anchors His life to the reign of Caesar Augustus and the governorship of Quirinius (Luke 2:1-2). Later, the cross is fixed firmly in history beneath Pontius Pilate (Luke 3:1; Matthew 27:2). Christianity does not begin with an idea, but with an event.

Even those who rejected Him could not deny that He lived. Tacitus, the Roman historian, records His execution. Josephus, the Jewish historian, acknowledges His influence and following. The Talmud speaks of Him—hostile, yes, but confirming His existence all the same. Attempts to dismiss Jesus never erase Him; they only circle back to Him again. He will not go away.

And He did not merely exist. He spoke with an authority that startled fishermen, unsettled scholars, and enraged rulers. He forgave sins outright (Mark 2:5-7). He claimed authority over the Sabbath (Mark 2:28). He spoke of God as His Father in a way that implied equality (John 5:18). He accepted worship without correction (Matthew 14:33). These are not the claims of a harmless moral teacher. They are astonishing claims—claims that demand either rejection or surrender.

What is striking is that time has not softened them. Two thousand years have passed, empires have risen and collapsed, philosophies have bloomed and withered, and still His words press in on the conscience. “Heaven and earth will pass away, but My words will by no means pass away” (Matthew 24:35). The world keeps proving Him right.

Many have tried to silence Him by redefining Him—teacher, mystic, revolutionary, poet of love. But Jesus resists reduction. He stands in the Gospels as He always has: merciful and uncompromising; gentle and unyielding; humble, yet claiming cosmic authority. He speaks as one who does not seek permission. And that, more than anything, is why He unsettles us still.

The resurrection only sharpens the problem. A crucified man should stay buried. Rome was good at executions. Crosses were final. Yet the tomb was empty, the witnesses multiplied, and frightened disciples became fearless proclaimers.

Something happened that refuses to be explained away. “This Jesus God has raised up, of which we are all witnesses” (Acts 2:32). Deny it if one must—but it will not go away.

And perhaps that is the mercy in it. A Jesus who fades would be no help to us. A Christ who dissolves into metaphor could not save. We need a Savior who steps into history, bears witness to truth, carries sin into death, and emerges victorious. We need a Jesus who keeps confronting us—calling, pressing, inviting.

You can ignore Him for a season. You can postpone the question. You can push Him to the margins of culture and conscience. But He remains—written into history, proclaimed in Scripture, alive by the power of God. He still asks the same question He once asked His disciples: “Who do you say that I am?” (Matthew 16:15).

He won’t go away—because truth doesn’t.

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Lord Jesus, You stand in history and before our hearts. Give us eyes to see You as You are and courage to respond honestly to Your claims. Draw us not into argument alone, but into truth, repentance, and life. Amen.

BDD