christianity

When God’s Promises Meet the World’s Pain

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There are days when reading Scripture does not bring comfort—it brings confrontation.

Psalm 85 speaks of restoration and peace. Exodus 3 tells of God hearing the cries of enslaved people. Hebrews 11 celebrates faith that endures. John 14 offers the assurance that Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life. And yet, when I hold these texts next to the reality of history and the world we inhabit, my heart aches with questions.

Four hundred and fifty years of slavery in Egypt.
The Trail of Tears and the violence inflicted on Native peoples.
The enslavement of African Americans and the long shadow it still casts.
A world still riddled with oppression, abuse, and injustice.

How do we trust God when evil seems so persistent and suffering so prolonged?

Scripture does not silence this question. It gives it language.

A Cry That Refuses to Be Quiet – Psalm 85

Psalm 85 is a prayer born from trauma, not comfort. The psalmist remembers God’s past faithfulness but stands in the present ache of unfinished healing:

“Will you not revive us again,
that your people may rejoice in you?” (Psalm 85:6)

This is not denial. It is lament. The psalm does not declare that justice has fully arrived; it dares to hope that it will. The promise that “steadfast love and faithfulness will meet; righteousness and peace will kiss” (v. 10) is not yet a description—it is a vision.

When confronted with injustice, our first faithful response is not explanation, but lament. To grieve wrongs done to others is to refuse to normalize them.

A God Who Sees, Hears, and Knows – Exodus 3

The story of Moses unsettles me. God’s people suffered under Egyptian slavery for generations before deliverance came. God says to Moses:

“I have surely seen the affliction of my people… I have heard their cry… I know their sufferings.” (Exodus 3:7)

God does not minimize the pain or justify the delay. Instead, God reveals something costly: divine compassion is real, but divine action often comes through human obedience.

God’s response to injustice is not only power—it is calling. “So come, I will send you” (v. 10). This means that faith is not passive. When we cry out to God about evil, we must be prepared for God to ask where we are willing to stand, speak, and risk.

Faith That Refuses Complicity – Hebrews 11

Hebrews 11 reframes faith in uncomfortable ways. Moses is praised not for miracles, but for choice:

“He chose to share the oppression of God’s people rather than enjoy the fleeting pleasures of sin.” (Hebrews 11:25)

Faith here is not escape from suffering—it is refusal to benefit from injustice. This chapter acknowledges that many faithful people did not see justice fully realized in their lifetimes. Faith is not rewarded with ease; it is sustained by hope.

When we witness injustice today, faith calls us to examine where we benefit from systems that harm others—and to choose solidarity instead of comfort.

Jesus Does Not Explain Evil—He Enters It – John 14

When Jesus says, “I am the way, the truth, and the life” (John 14:6), he is not offering a tidy answer to suffering. He is offering himself.

Jesus does not remain distant from oppression. He lives under empire, speaks truth to power, and is executed by injustice. When he says, “Whoever has seen me has seen the Father” (v. 9), he reveals a God who does not watch suffering from afar but bears it.

Trusting God does not mean trusting that evil is acceptable. It means trusting that God is present in resistance, in grief, in costly love, and in the slow work of redemption.

How Then Shall We Respond?

These Scriptures guide us toward faithful responses in a broken world:

1. Lament without apology.
Grief is not faithlessness. It is love refusing to be indifferent.

2. Refuse to justify injustice.
Evil does not become good because it is old, legal, or widespread.

3. Choose costly solidarity.
Like Moses, faith often means stepping away from privilege to stand with the oppressed.

4. Trust God’s presence more than quick outcomes.
Justice may be slow, but God is never absent.

5. Follow Jesus in truth and love.
Jesus is the way—not around suffering, but through it.

A Hope That Still Speaks

I do not trust God because the world is just. I trust God because God sees injustice clearly, condemns it consistently, and promises it will not have the final word.

Faith does not erase the pain of history or the wounds of the present. It keeps us from surrendering to despair. It calls us to live as witnesses to a better kingdom—one where righteousness and peace will finally meet.

Until that day, we pray. We speak. We act. And we walk the way of Christ, believing that love is stronger than cruelty, and that God is still at work—even when the work is unfinished.

Finding Our Place: One Home, One Shepherd

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There is a longing that runs through the human heart—the desire to belong, to find a place where we are known, safe, and at rest. Scripture names this longing and gently redirects it. From the wilderness of Jacob to the promise of a better country, from God’s rain of provision to the voice of the Good Shepherd, we are reminded that home is not something we build alone. It is something God gives.

God Creates Home in the Wilderness

Psalm 68 portrays God as the One who moves with His people and provides for them along the way:

“Father of orphans and protector of widows is God in his holy habitation. God gives the desolate a home to live in; he leads out the prisoners to prosperity” (Psalm 68:5–6).

The psalm speaks of rain falling on a weary land:

“Rain in abundance, O God, you showered abroad; you restored your heritage when it languished” (Psalm 68:9).

This rain is not accidental—it is provision. God does not wait for the land to become fertile before blessing it. He sends rain first. In the same way, God does not wait for us to become settled or strong before making a place for us. He creates home for the poor, the lonely, and the displaced.

Bethel: When God Meets Us on the Road

Jacob discovers this truth in Genesis 28. He is far from home, fleeing family conflict, sleeping under the open sky. Yet it is there that God speaks:

“Know that I am with you and will keep you wherever you go” (Genesis 28:15).

When Jacob awakens, he says,

“Surely the LORD is in this place—and I did not know it!” (Genesis 28:16).

He names the place Bethel, meaning “house of God.” What looked like a nowhere place becomes a sacred place because God is present. Jacob learns that God’s house is not confined to buildings; it is wherever God chooses to dwell with His people.

A Better Country

Hebrews 11 reflects on people like Jacob and reminds us that they never fully settled:

“They confessed that they were strangers and foreigners on the earth” (Hebrews 11:13).

They lived by promise, not possession:

“They desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God” (Hebrews 11:16).

This does not mean the world is meaningless, but that our deepest sense of home lies beyond it. We live faithfully here while longing for something more—a belonging that cannot be shaken.

Jesus, the Gate, and the Good Shepherd

In John 10, Jesus brings clarity to this longing:

“I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture” (John 10:9).

Jesus is not only the guide; He is the way into safety and life. As the Good Shepherd, He knows His sheep and lays down His life for them (John 10:11).

Then Jesus says something startling:

“I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice. So there will be one flock, one shepherd” (John 10:16).

Who Are the “Other Sheep”?

In Jesus’ immediate context, the “fold” represents Israel. The “other sheep” are the Gentiles—those outside the religious, cultural, and ethnic boundaries of God’s people. But the meaning stretches even further.

Jesus is declaring that God’s home is larger than human boundaries. His flock includes those who have been excluded, overlooked, or told they do not belong. Entry into God’s people is not determined by heritage or conformity, but by listening to the Shepherd’s voice.

This fulfills God’s ancient promise:

“In you all the families of the earth shall be blessed” (Genesis 12:3).

One Flock, One Shepherd

The goal is not many separate fields, but one flock united in Christ. Not uniformity, but unity. Not exclusion, but gathering.

For us today, this means:

  • We find our place not by fitting in, but by following Jesus.
  • We are invited into a home that stretches beyond borders and labels.
  • We are called to reflect the Shepherd’s heart by making room for others.

Living Between Here and Home

Like Jacob, we often find ourselves in between—between certainty and promise, between longing and fulfillment. Yet Scripture assures us that God walks with us, sends rain for our journey, and leads us toward a better country.

Until then, we live as people who belong—to the Shepherd, to one another, and to the hope of a home still being revealed.

“The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want” (Psalm 23:1).

And that, even now, is enough.

Walking in the Light Without Condemnation

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A Devotional Reflection on John 8:12–19

In John 8:12–19, Jesus stands in the temple and makes a breathtaking claim: “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life.” Almost immediately, the Pharisees challenge Him. They question His authority, His testimony, His legitimacy. It is in this tense exchange that Jesus says something surprising: “You judge by human standards; I judge no one.”

At first glance, this statement can feel confusing. Jesus speaks elsewhere about judgment, truth, and accountability. So what does He mean here—and what does it mean for us today?

Judging by Human Standards

The Pharisees were experts in religious law. Their judgments were rooted in rules, technicalities, and appearances. They evaluated Jesus according to what they could measure and control: proper procedure, acceptable credentials, and conformity to tradition. Their judgment was not primarily about seeking truth; it was about preserving authority and certainty.

Human judgment often works this way. We size people up quickly. We sort, label, and dismiss. We judge motives we cannot see and hearts we do not know. Even when we believe we are defending truth, our judgments are frequently shaped by fear, pride, or the need to be right.

Jesus names this plainly: “You judge by human standards.” Human judgment is limited. It sees only the surface. It often lacks mercy.

“I Judge No One”

When Jesus says, “I judge no one,” He is not denying moral truth or responsibility. Rather, He is revealing the purpose of His coming. Jesus did not enter the world as a prosecutor but as light. He did not come first to condemn but to reveal, to heal, and to save.

Earlier in John’s Gospel we hear these words: “God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him” (John 3:17). Jesus’ presence exposes reality—not through accusation, but through illumination. Light does not shout. It simply shines. And when it shines, everything is revealed as it truly is.

This revealing itself becomes judgment—not because Jesus is condemning, but because truth always uncovers what has been hidden.

Light That Reveals and Restores

Jesus goes on to say that if He were to judge, His judgment would be true, because it is in perfect unity with the Father. Divine judgment is not impulsive or cruel. It is truthful, restorative, and rooted in love. It aims not to destroy but to bring life.

That matters deeply for our world today.

We live in a culture saturated with judgment. Social media, politics, religion, and even family conversations are filled with condemnation and quick conclusions. We are trained to react rather than reflect, to judge rather than understand. Too often, we mirror the Pharisees without realizing it—confident in our rightness, certain in our categories, blind to our own limitations.

Jesus offers a different way.

Living as People of the Light

To follow Jesus is not to abandon discernment or truth. It is to change our posture. We are called to live as people of the light—not as judges, but as witnesses. Not as enforcers, but as reflectors of God’s presence.

The church is not meant to be a courtroom; it is meant to be a lighthouse.

When we walk in the light of Christ:

  • We choose humility over superiority.
  • We seek restoration rather than punishment.
  • We trust God with judgment and take responsibility for love.
  • We allow truth to be revealed without violence or shame.

Light does its work quietly but powerfully. It reveals what needs healing. It invites transformation. It gives life.

A Prayerful Invitation

As we reflect on Jesus’ words, we might ask ourselves:

  • Where am I judging by human standards?
  • Whom have I reduced to a label instead of seeing as a beloved child of God?
  • How can I shine Christ’s light in a way that heals rather than harms?

Jesus does not ask us to fix the world by condemning it. He asks us to follow Him—to walk in His light, to trust His truth, and to let love do what judgment never can.

“Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life.”
May we walk in that light today—and let it shine through us.

Shelter, Light, and Mercy: What These Scriptures Teach Us About God Today

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Reading the Scriptures is like doing a crossword puzzle. We have clues of how those who lived before us viewed God. We are to take these clues and relate them to our world and times. I read the Scriptures in the Daily Office each morning. What I share here is what the Holy Spirit shares with me as I read and meditate.

We live in a time when many people are exhausted—emotionally, spiritually, and socially. Anxiety is constant, judgment is loud, and compassion often feels scarce. Into this reality, today’s Scriptures offer not a single definition of God, but a living portrait, revealed through shelter, presence, mercy, and trust.

In Isaiah 25:1–9, God is named as “a refuge to the needy in their distress, a shelter from the rainstorm, and a shade from the heat.” This is not abstract theology. It is survival language. Isaiah speaks to people battered by injustice and uncertainty, reminding them that God does not stand above suffering but meets people within it. For our day, this image challenges us to stop asking where God is in the storm and instead to recognize that God is often what keeps us standing in the storm.

Psalm 20 echoes this assurance in communal prayer. The psalmist declares that some trust in chariots and horses—symbols of military and political power—but God’s people trust in the name of the Lord. In a world that places hope in wealth, weapons, and dominance, Psalm 20 reminds us that God’s strength does not mirror human power. God’s help arrives through faithfulness, solidarity, and divine presence, not force.

The vision in Revelation 1:19–20 shifts the focus from comfort to confidence. John, exiled and vulnerable, sees the risen Christ walking among the lampstands—the churches. This image tells us that God is not absent from fragile communities or persecuted believers. God is present, watchful, and sustaining light in the darkness. Even when institutions shake and the future feels uncertain, Christ remains among the people, holding them in care.

Then John 7:53–8:11 brings us face to face with how God’s power is lived out on the ground. Jesus refuses to weaponize the law against a woman used as a trap by religious leaders. Instead of condemnation, he offers dignity, truth, and a path forward. This passage speaks directly to a culture quick to shame and slow to forgive. God’s holiness, Jesus shows us, is expressed not through humiliation but through restoration.

Taken together, these texts reveal a God who is shelter without softness, authority without cruelty, and mercy without denial of truth. God protects the vulnerable, stands present with struggling communities, resists self-righteous violence, and calls people to trust something deeper than power or fear.

For our day, this means faith is not about defending God, but reflecting God—being refuge for the weary, light in confusion, mercy in judgment, and hope when the world insists on despair. The God revealed in these Scriptures is still at work, inviting us not only to believe, but to embody what divine love looks like now.

Sin as rule-breaking

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Sin as rule-breaking, defines sin primarily as disobedience to God’s laws or commandments. The focus is placed on violating prescribed rules rather than on the deeper condition of the human heart and humanity’s relationship with God. In the Gospels, Jesus repeatedly challenges this way of understanding sin.

In Mark 3:1–6, Jesus is criticized for healing a man on the Sabbath, an act seen by religious leaders as a violation of sacred law. In Luke 11:37–41, Jesus and His disciples are condemned for not washing their hands before a meal—not a matter of hygiene as understood today, but a failure to observe ceremonial purity regulations. In John 8:3–11, religious authorities bring before Jesus a woman caught in adultery, testing whether He will uphold the law’s demand that she be stoned. Jesus refuses to reduce justice to rule enforcement and instead exposes the shared sinfulness of all present, declaring that only one without sin may cast the first stone.

When sin is viewed primarily as rule-breaking, God is often perceived chiefly as a lawgiver and judge. The emphasis shifts to authority, obedience, and punishment, with holiness expressed through enforcement rather than compassion and mercy. This way of thinking has caused deep pastoral harm. For example, a young couple returned to church after the stillbirth of their child and were asked, “What sin did you commit to cause this?” In that same church, on Mother’s Day, roses were distributed to every mother except the woman who had given birth to a stillborn child. In another congregation, a woman was removed from the choir because she had borne a child out of wedlock many years earlier. In yet another case, a deacon opposed offering financial assistance to a family member because she did not attend church and was not living as a Christian “should.” Sadly, these are not isolated stories.

Scripture consistently warns against interpreting suffering as direct punishment for personal sin. Jesus explicitly rejects this logic in John 9:1–3, when He says that a man’s blindness was not caused by his sin or that of his parents. In Luke 13:1–5, Jesus denies that those who suffered tragic deaths were worse sinners than others. The book of Job stands as a powerful witness against the assumption that suffering can be explained by moral failure (Job 1–2; 42:7).

Sin understood solely as rule-breaking sees humanity primarily as lawbreakers and emphasizes individual actions. Moral failure is cataloged according to what is permitted and what is forbidden. In contrast, the broader witness of Christian theology understands sin as a condition of alienation from God, a distortion of God’s good creation, and a brokenness that affects individuals, communities, and systems (Genesis 3; Romans 3:23; Romans 8:20–22). From this perspective, sinful actions are symptoms of a deeper disorder rather than the root problem itself.

When sin is reduced to rule-breaking, faith can devolve into moral policing—monitoring behavior rather than nurturing repentance, healing, and transformation. This mindset appears in cultural slogans such as “Keep Christ in Christmas,” in efforts to impose religious symbols through law, and in claims that natural disasters—such as hurricanes striking New Orleans—are acts of divine judgment for perceived moral failings. Such interpretations ignore the biblical call to humility, compassion, and lament (Micah 6:8; Matthew 9:13; James 2:13).

The gospel calls the church not to enforce holiness through condemnation, but to participate in God’s work of reconciliation, restoration, and love (2 Corinthians 5:18–19; Colossians 1:19–20).

Power reimagined: From Domination to Devotion.

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Power is one of the most misunderstood and misused forces in our world. We see it daily—in politics, wealth, influence, military strength, and social dominance. Power is often defined as the ability to control outcomes, silence opposition, or secure advantage. Yet when we turn to Scripture, we discover a radically different vision of power—one that confronts our assumptions and invites us into a transformed way of living.

Psalm 2, Isaiah 49:13–23, and Matthew 18:1–14 each speak about power, but they do so from distinct angles. Together, they reveal that God’s power is not exercised through fear or coercion, but through faithfulness, compassion, and care for the least.

Psalm 2: Power That Exposes False Authority

Psalm 2 opens with a striking image: nations raging, rulers conspiring, and powers of the world attempting to throw off God’s authority. It is a portrait that feels uncannily familiar. Human power, when detached from humility, tends to resist accountability. It seeks autonomy without responsibility and control without justice.

Yet the psalm does not respond with panic. God is not threatened by the noise of empire. Instead, God’s sovereignty exposes the fragility of power built on pride and fear. The psalm reminds us that authority rooted in domination is ultimately unstable. True power belongs not to those who shout the loudest or hoard the most, but to the One who governs with righteousness and calls leaders to serve with wisdom and reverence.

In our day, Psalm 2 challenges both leaders and citizens. It asks us where we place our trust and whom we believe ultimately holds the future. It warns against confusing force with legitimacy and reminds us that power without justice is already unraveling.

Isaiah 49: Power That Remembers the Forgotten

Isaiah 49 shifts the conversation. Here, power is not expressed through conquest but through consolation. God speaks to a people who feel abandoned and asks a tender question: “Can a woman forget her nursing child?” Even if that were possible, God declares, “I will not forget you.”

This is power as faithfulness. God’s strength is revealed in memory, in presence, in the refusal to abandon the vulnerable. The passage envisions a world turned upside down—where kings become caregivers and queens serve as nurturers. Power bows low. Authority is redefined as responsibility for the weak.

In our world, where refugees are dismissed, the elderly are neglected, and the marginalized are treated as expendable, this vision is deeply countercultural. Isaiah insists that God’s power is measured not by dominance but by devotion to those society overlooks. Any system that forgets the suffering has misunderstood power at its core.

Matthew 18: Power in Smallness and Care

Jesus brings the conversation to its sharpest point in Matthew 18. When the disciples ask who is greatest, Jesus does not offer a strategy for success. He places a child among them and says that greatness looks like humility, dependence, and trust.

More than that, Jesus issues a stark warning: harming or neglecting “the little ones” is a grave offense. Power that exploits or ignores the vulnerable stands under judgment. Then comes the parable of the lost sheep—a shepherd leaving ninety-nine to seek the one who is lost. This is not efficient power. It is not practical power. It is personal, attentive, and relentless love.

In our day, this teaching confronts cultures that value productivity over people and numbers over names. Jesus reveals a power that stops for the one, listens to the small voice, and refuses to write anyone off as insignificant.

Power for Our Time

Together, these Scriptures call us to examine how we understand and exercise power. They ask difficult questions:

  • Do we equate power with control or with care?
  • Do we admire strength that dominates, or strength that protects?
  • Do our institutions reflect God’s concern for the least, or human hunger for status?

God’s power does not crush rebellion with brute force, forget suffering in the name of progress, or measure worth by influence. God’s power restores, remembers, and rescues.

For us today, following Christ means resisting the temptation to grasp power as the world defines it. Instead, we are invited to practice power through humility, advocacy, compassion, and faithful love—especially toward those with the least voice.

In a world obsessed with being first, God calls us to notice the child, seek the lost sheep, and remember the forgotten. This is the power that endures. This is the power that heals. And this is the power to which we are called.

Loving What God Loves, Hating What God Hates

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Psalm 97 is a song of joy and awe. Yet tucked inside this praise is a verse that can trouble modern readers

“The Lord loves those who hate evil;
he preserves the lives of his saints
and delivers them from the hand of the wicked.” (Psalm 97:10)

At first hearing, this can sound conditional—almost as if God’s love depends on our moral purity. But when read alongside the broader witness of Scripture, Psalm 97:10 is not about exclusion; it is about alignment.

Love That Refuses What Destroys

In the biblical imagination, evil is never merely personal wrongdoing. Evil is whatever distorts God’s good creation—violence, injustice, exploitation, deceit, and idolatry. To “hate evil” is not to hate people, but to refuse participation in what destroys life and community.

God’s love, then, is not passive or sentimental. It is protective and faithful. God loves those who stand against evil because they are standing with God’s own desire for wholeness and justice. Psalm 97 reminds us that divine love is inseparable from God’s commitment to preserve life and oppose what threatens it.

Wisdom at the Heart of Creation

Proverbs 8 deepens this vision by introducing us to Wisdom, poetically portrayed as present with God from the very beginning:

“When he established the heavens, I was there…
rejoicing before him always.” (Proverbs 8:27, 30)

Wisdom is not an afterthought or a moral add-on. Wisdom is woven into the fabric of creation itself. To live wisely is to live in harmony with how God has made the world to flourish.

Christians have long heard echoes of Jesus in this passage. The Gospel of John proclaims Christ as the eternal Word through whom all things came into being. While Proverbs 8 does not yet articulate Trinitarian theology, it prepares us to recognize that God’s love, order, and creative purpose are eternal.

Evil, then, is not simply “breaking rules.” It is living against the grain of Wisdom. To hate evil is to cherish the life-giving design God has placed at the heart of the world.

Love Given Flesh and Feet

John 13 brings all of this into the intimacy of human relationship. On the night before his death, Jesus tells his disciples:

“Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.
By this everyone will know that you are my disciples.” (John 13:34–35)

Here, love is no longer abstract. It has a face, hands, and feet. Jesus has just washed his disciples’ feet—including the feet of the one who will betray him. This is not love that ignores evil. Jesus names betrayal, injustice, and violence clearly. But he confronts evil without surrendering to hatred.

This is the fulfillment of Psalm 97, not its contradiction. Jesus shows us how to hate evil without hating people. He resists evil not by destroying his enemies, but by refusing to become what evil demands.

One Love, One Story

Taken together, these Scriptures tell a single story:

  • Psalm 97 proclaims a God whose love opposes what destroys life.
  • Proverbs 8 reveals that this love is rooted in the very structure of creation.
  • John 13 shows us that this love is lived out through self-giving relationship.

To love as God loves is to stand against injustice, violence, and lies while remaining committed to compassion, mercy, and humility. It is to refuse both cruelty and indifference.

A Prayer for Our Day

God of wisdom and love,
Teach us to love what you love
and to resist what destroys your good creation.
Give us courage to hate evil without losing compassion,
and grace to love one another as Christ has loved us.
Shape our lives by your wisdom
and mark us as your disciples by our love.
Amen.

Christmas Confession: Turning Our Hearts Back to God

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Christmas is the celebration of the birth of Jesus—Emmanuel, God with us. Yet the incarnation is not only something we remember; it is a truth that confronts us. God came near in Jesus to heal, to reconcile, and to call humanity back to God’s ways. On this holy day, joy and hope must also make room for honesty and repentance.

I pray daily to live into the heart of the faith expressed in Micah 6:8: to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God. Jesus makes that calling unmistakably clear in Matthew 25:31–46, where he identifies himself with the hungry, the stranger, the sick, and the imprisoned. Mark 12:29–31 centers everything on love—love of God and love of neighbor. And Paul, in Galatians 5:22–23, reminds us that the Spirit’s presence is seen not in power or dominance, but in love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.

Measured by these Scriptures, we cannot pretend that all is well.

America’s history carries deep wounds that still ache today. The Trail of Tears, chattel slavery, segregation, and the ongoing suffering of refugees and immigrants are not footnotes of the past; they are living realities whose consequences persist. These are not merely political issues—they are spiritual ones. They reveal how often fear has replaced love, power has replaced humility, and silence has replaced compassion.

This is why 2 Chronicles 7:14 speaks so powerfully to our moment:

“If my people who are called by my name humble themselves, pray, seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, forgive their sin, and heal their land.”

Notice where healing begins—not with blaming others, but with God’s people. Confession is not about self-condemnation; it is about truth-telling. To confess is to stop justifying harm, to stop spiritualizing injustice, and to acknowledge where we, individually and collectively, have failed to love our neighbors as ourselves.

Confession requires humility—admitting that we have benefited from unjust systems, remained silent when voices needed defending, and chosen comfort over costly love. It calls us to pray not for God to bless our nation as it is, but to transform it into what it should be. It invites us to seek God’s face, not God’s endorsement.

Christmas tells us that God entered the world vulnerable and poor, born among the marginalized, later fleeing violence as a refugee. If we claim to follow Christ, then confession must lead us to repentance—real turning. Turning toward justice. Turning toward welcome. Turning toward mercy. Turning toward the fruit of the Spirit that reshapes both hearts and societies.

On this Christmas Day, confession is a holy gift. It clears the way for healing. It opens space for God to do a new thing among us. The Christ who is born today still calls us to be his body in the world—humble, honest, and brave enough to repent, so that love may finally have the last word.

Prayer

God of mercy and truth,
We confess that we have not loved as you have loved us.
We have turned away from suffering, remained silent in the face of injustice,
and chosen fear instead of compassion.
Humble our hearts.
Open our eyes.
Turn us from our sinful ways,
that you may heal our land and renew your people.
As we celebrate the birth of Jesus,
give us the courage to follow him—
doing justice, loving kindness, and walking humbly with you.
Amen.

Beloved, Let Us Love: A Christmas Eve Devotional on 1 John 4:7–16

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On Christmas Eve, we gather at the edge of mystery. The lights glow softly, familiar carols stir memory and hope, and we hear again the astonishing claim of the Christian faith: God is love. Not love as sentiment or slogan, but love made flesh—born into the world in Jesus. Few passages name this truth more simply or more boldly than 1 John 4:7–16.

“Beloved, let us love one another, because love is from God.”
John does not begin with a command but with an identity. We are beloved—already loved before we do anything right or wrong. Love does not originate in us; it flows from God. That means Christian love is not something we manufacture by effort or willpower. It is something we receive and then pass on.

At Christmas, we celebrate that God’s love did not remain distant or abstract. “God’s love was revealed among us in this way: God sent his only Son into the world so that we might live through him.” Love took on skin and breath. Love cried in a manger. Love entered the vulnerability of human life—not to condemn it, but to heal it.

This is crucial for our time. We live in a world saturated with fear, division, and loud certainty. Love is often reduced to agreement or affection for those who think like us. But John insists that real love is defined by God’s action, not our preferences. “In this is love, not that we loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the atoning sacrifice for our sins.” Love begins with God’s initiative, God’s mercy, God’s self-giving.

That means love is not earned. It is not deserved. It is given.

On Christmas Eve, this truth confronts both our pride and our shame. For those who feel self-sufficient, it reminds us that we are saved not by our goodness but by God’s grace. For those who feel unworthy, it proclaims that God’s love has already moved toward us—before we cleaned ourselves up, before we had it all figured out.

John then turns the light toward us: “Beloved, since God loved us so much, we also ought to love one another.” This is not a moral burden laid on tired shoulders. It is an invitation to live out what is already true. If God’s love abides in us, it will take shape in our relationships—in patience, forgiveness, compassion, and courage.

Notice what John does not say. He does not say we must agree with one another on everything. He does not say love is easy or sentimental. He does not say love avoids conflict. He says love is the evidence of God’s presence. “No one has ever seen God; if we love one another, God lives in us, and his love is perfected in us.”

In other words, the invisible God becomes visible through love. The world sees God not primarily through our arguments or institutions, but through lives shaped by Christlike love.

This is especially meaningful on Christmas Eve. The child in the manger cannot speak yet, cannot teach yet, cannot perform miracles yet. But God has already spoken clearly: This is what love looks like. Vulnerable. Near. Given for others.

John goes even further: “God is love, and those who abide in love abide in God, and God abides in them.” To abide is to remain, to dwell, to make a home. On this holy night, we remember that God has chosen to make a home with us—and invites us to make our home in love.

As we stand on the threshold of Christmas, 1 John 4 calls us back to the heart of the faith. Not fear, but love. Not exclusion, but abiding. Not proving ourselves, but receiving grace and sharing it freely.

So tonight, as candles are lit and prayers are whispered, may we rest in this truth:
We are loved. God is love. And because of Christmas, that love has come to dwell among us.

May that love shape our words, soften our judgments, heal our divisions, and guide us into the coming year—beloved, loving, and abiding in God.

When the King Comes Without a Sword

The Curious PilgrimLeave a comment

A Devotional Reflection for 2026

The Bible does not shy away from strong images: kings on thrones, battles fought, enemies defeated, weapons raised. Psalm 45 sings of a royal warrior; Isaiah speaks of a highway through the wilderness; Revelation announces a coming Judge; Zechariah’s song in Luke 1 celebrates deliverance from enemies. To modern ears—especially in a world weary of violence—these images can feel unsettling, even at odds with the Jesus who teaches us to love our enemies and lay down our lives.

Yet these Scriptures are not glorifying violence. They are speaking into fear.

Power Reimagined

Psalm 45 presents a king whose glory is bound to truth, humility, and righteousness. His “victory” is not conquest for its own sake, but the establishment of justice. This is already a clue that biblical power is not raw force, but moral authority. In a world where leadership in 2026 is often defined by domination, manipulation, or outrage, Scripture reminds us that true kingship serves the vulnerable and restores what has been broken.

Isaiah 35 expands this vision even further. There is no battle scene here—only deserts blooming, the blind seeing, the lame leaping, and the fearful finding courage. God’s reign does not arrive with scorched earth but with healing. The “highway” through the wilderness is not a road for armies, but a path home for the wounded and the lost.

From Enemies to Fear

Zechariah’s song in Luke 1 speaks of being “saved from our enemies,” but as his prophecy unfolds, it becomes clear that the deeper enemy is not another nation or army—it is fear itself. The promise is that we might serve God “without fear, in holiness and righteousness.” The salvation announced at the dawn of Jesus’ life is not revenge, but freedom: freedom from sin, from shame, from living small and guarded lives.

This is crucial for our time. In 2026, fear remains one of the most powerful forces shaping politics, relationships, and even faith communities. Scripture’s strong language about deliverance is not an endorsement of violence; it is God’s answer to a world held hostage by fear.

The Last Word Is Invitation

Revelation 22 brings the Bible’s story to its close, not with a battlefield, but with an invitation: “Come.” The One who is coming brings justice, yes—but also healing, mercy, and life. The final image is not a weapon, but water freely given. Grace is the last word.

The King of Revelation does not conquer by killing; He conquers by enduring the cross and rising from the grave. Judgment is not opposed to love—it is love’s refusal to let cruelty, lies, and death have the final say.

What This Means for Us in 2026

These Scriptures call us to rethink power, strength, and victory. God’s reign does not mirror the violence of the world; it redeems it. We are invited to lay down our own weapons—our bitterness, our need to be right, our fear of the other—and walk the holy highway of healing and trust.

In a fractured and anxious world, the Church’s calling is not to wield power like the nations do, but to witness to a different kind of King: one whose crown is compassion, whose authority flows from love, and whose victory is life for all who thirst.

The Spirit and the Bride still say, “Come.”
And in 2026, that invitation matters more than ever.