Have you ever stopped to consider what drives your decisions, your desires, or even your daydreams? What do you love most deeply? These loves—or affections—are at the center of who we are. They shape our thoughts, influence our actions, and ultimately reveal the state of our hearts.

The Bible often speaks of affections as central to our relationship with God. In Colossians 3:2, Paul exhorts believers: “Set your affections on things above, not on things on the earth” (KJV). This is more than a call to think about heaven—it’s an invitation to align our desires and loyalties with Christ. But how does this transformation happen, and what does it look like in the framework of the exchanged life, where Christ lives in and through us?

The Christian life often brings seasons of suffering, yet these trials are not meaningless. Instead, they are divinely purposed to lead us into deeper intimacy with Christ, refine our character, and teach us the joy of abiding in Him. As today’s Abide Above online devotional by Miles J. Stanford beautifully illustrates, suffering is not simply something to endure—it is a pathway to transformation when surrendered to the Lord.

This morning's Abide Above devotional invites us into the dual gift of freedom found in Christ. As Romans 4:5 reminds us, faith is counted for righteousness—not by works, but by believing in the One who justifies the ungodly. This is the essence of the first gift: freedom from the penalty of sin.

But there’s more. Many of us embrace this first offer, gratefully resting in the forgiveness of sins through Jesus. Yet, the second gift—freedom from the power of sin—often feels elusive. It’s a gift many hesitate to unwrap, believing they must somehow strive or assist in their sanctification.

One of the most well-known teachings of Jesus is His metaphor of the vine and branches in John 15. In this passage, Jesus emphasizes the importance of abiding in Him, promising that those who remain in Him will “bear much fruit.” But what exactly is the fruit Jesus is referring to? Is it measurable accomplishments, such as ministry success or bringing others to faith? Or is it something deeper, more personal, and ultimately eternal?

The question of whether humans have free will has long been debated by philosophers, scientists, and theologians. Recently, some neuroscientific studies, particularly the famous Benjamin Libet experiments, have added fuel to the fire, suggesting that our decisions might be determined by subconscious brain activity before we’re even aware of them. For some, this is evidence that free will is nothing more than an illusion—a comforting narrative we tell ourselves to feel in control.

In Jeremiah 29, we find an extraordinary moment in history. God, through the prophet Jeremiah, tells His people—those exiled in Babylon—to make themselves at home. This must have been a shocking message for those who longed to return to Jerusalem. Yet, God’s words were clear:

“Build houses and settle down; plant gardens and eat what they produce. Marry and have sons and daughters... Also, seek the peace and prosperity of the city to which I have carried you into exile. Pray to the Lord for it, because if it prospers, you too will prosper” (Jeremiah 29:5–7).

I can only imagine how disorienting this must have been. For many of us, life can feel like exile too. We often find ourselves in places or circumstances we wouldn’t have chosen. Yet God’s call remains: Be present. Build. Pray.

Have you ever made big plans for God, only to find out He has an even greater plan for you? That’s what happens in 1 Chronicles 17. David, overwhelmed with gratitude for God’s goodness, decides to build a temple—a house—for the Lord. But through the prophet Nathan, God tells David something astonishing: it is not David who will build God a house; rather, God will build David a house.

And not just any house. This house, this dynasty, will stretch into eternity. God promises David that one of his descendants will sit on the throne forever. This covenant with David isn’t just about ancient Israel; it’s a cornerstone of God’s redemptive plan for humanity, culminating in Jesus Christ.

When Jesus said, “If anyone desires to come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow Me”(Luke 9:23), He extended an invitation that would transform every aspect of our lives. It’s a call to a relationship, not just a set of rules. As I reflect on what it means to follow Him, I see how essential it is to walk in daily humility and dependence on our Good Shepherd.

When I first read Jesus’ words, “If anyone desires to come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow Me” (Luke 9:23), I was struck by their weight. Following Jesus wasn’t just about belief—it was about surrender, humility, and a willingness to let go of my old self. At first, I wrestled with what this meant practically. Did “taking up my cross” mean adding burdens or hardships? Or was it about something deeper—something profoundly freeing?

When Jesus called people to follow Him, He wasn’t inviting them to a casual acquaintance or a part-time commitment. He was asking for their entire lives. “Follow Me,” He said. Those two words changed the lives of fishermen, tax collectors, and many others—and they continue to call us today. But what does it really mean to follow Jesus?

Have you ever had one of those days where every task feels insurmountable? I’ve had plenty of those moments where I was painfully reminded of my own limitations. Whether it’s trying to handle a challenging situation at work, guide someone spiritually, or even just keep my thoughts aligned with God’s truth, it doesn’t take much to realize how inadequate I am on my own. But here’s the amazing part: those very moments of inadequacy are an invitation to live by God’s sufficiency and promises.

Have you ever felt like you’re trying to run on an empty tank? I have. For years, I thought the Christian life was about mustering up my own strength to live for God—only to find myself frustrated and exhausted. But then I discovered something life-changing: God doesn’t ask us to live by our strength. He invites us to live by His.

This truth comes alive when we reflect on what it means to relate rightly to "the God of all grace" (1 Peter 5:10). As we grow in knowing Him, His grace flows into our lives in powerful ways. Two of these ways are living by the Spirit and living by resurrection power.

Have you ever wondered what it really means to live in God’s grace? Not just to read about it, talk about it, or even believe in it—but to truly experience it, moment by moment, in your everyday life?

I’ve wrestled with this question many times. It’s so easy to focus on what I need to do—be more patient, try harder, love better. But time and again, I’ve discovered that true transformation doesn’t come from striving; it comes from staying close to the God of all grace.

The vision in Jeremiah 24 has always struck me as both strange and surprisingly relatable. Two baskets of figs—one filled with good fruit, the other with bad. It seems like such an ordinary image for God to use, and yet, through it, He delivers a message that upends everything we think about how and where He works in our lives.

Have you ever longed for something constant in a world that seems to shift beneath your feet? Life is full of change—relationships ebb and flow, seasons come and go, and even we ourselves are not the same person we were a year ago. But in the midst of this flux stands one unshakable truth: God is immutable.

Have you ever come to the raw, unfiltered realization that there is absolutely nothing in your flesh—not one solitary thing—that deserves anything but the judgment of God? It sounds harsh at first, doesn’t it? Yet, this truth is one of the most liberating realizations we can ever come to as believers.

In Jeremiah 23, we encounter a sobering yet hope-filled prophecy. God, through Jeremiah, confronts the failure of Israel’s leaders—both civil and religious—while pointing us to the ultimate fulfillment of His promises through the coming Messiah. These verses are a reminder of God’s faithfulness to His covenant and His grace in providing us with the true Shepherd, Jesus Christ.

What would it feel like to have someone you deeply admire—someone powerful, holy, and perfect—call you their friend? It's humbling, maybe even overwhelming. And yet, in one of the most extraordinary passages of Scripture, Jesus tells His disciples:

“You are my friends if you do what I command. I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master’s business. Instead, I have called you friends, for everything that I learned from my Father I have made known to you.” (John 15:14-15)

These words are both staggering and deeply comforting. Jesus—God incarnate, our Lord, and King—has every right to command us as servants. Yet, here He calls His disciples His friends. He isn’t dismissing His lordship, but He is drawing them closer, inviting them into something intimate, something relational.

Have you ever felt trapped by something you worked so hard to build? Maybe it was a career, a relationship, or even just a sense of accomplishment. At some point, what started as a dream to create security or meaning ended up feeling like a prison. Peter Gabriel’s "The Tower That Ate People" captures this reality so vividly. The relentless "brick by brick" construction in the song speaks to the ways we try to fortify ourselves against life’s uncertainties—only to discover that the very towers we build to protect us end up consuming us.

Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide” has been a soundtrack for life’s pivotal moments for decades. It’s raw, it’s vulnerable, and it speaks to something deep within us—the fear of change, the weight of self-reflection, and the longing for something stable in a world that feels anything but.

When I hear “Landslide,” it resonates with my own journey. I’ve been there—afraid of change, building my life around things that couldn’t sustain me when the inevitable landslides of life came. For years, I relied on my own efforts, my accomplishments, my relationships—only to find myself crumbling when those things shifted under me.

But here’s the beautiful truth I’ve learned: when life feels like a landslide, Christ is the Rock that holds us steady.