Ezekiel 35 speaks directly to Edom—represented here as Mount Seir—bringing a word of judgment against their age-old hostility toward Israel. This is not the first time Edom appears in Ezekiel's prophecy. Back in chapter 25, they were already condemned for their violence against Judah. But here the judgment deepens. Edom’s hatred was not random; it was rooted in a long-standing rivalry between the descendants of Jacob and Esau. What stings even more is that Edom didn’t just stand by while Judah fell—they sought to benefit from Israel’s loss. They rejoiced in her ruin, and worse, they spoke arrogantly and contemptuously about God’s people. The Lord took these words personally.

Elihu’s final words to Job bring the conversation to a powerful and awe-inspiring crescendo. He invites Job to pause and truly listen—to stop speaking and simply consider the majesty of God displayed in the storm. Elihu's questions aren’t meant to shame Job but to invite wonder. They draw Job's eyes upward from the ashes of suffering to the grandeur of God’s handiwork—lightning, thunder, wind, and snow. He’s not trying to explain why Job suffers but is reminding him who God is.

E. Stanley Jones challenges a common misconception about spiritual strength. He addresses the way some church environments, while well-meaning, actually disempower believers by over-regulating their lives—telling them what to do, what to think, even what to read—without nurturing spiritual discernment or intimacy with Christ. In doing so, these churches unintentionally create obedient but spiritually weak individuals.

In this entry, Ray Stedman draws from Leviticus 8:1–4 to illustrate the essential nature of priesthood—not as a human invention but a divine appointment established by God. The priesthood was not born out of a committee or council, but out of God’s explicit command and design for His people. Stedman highlights six distinct elements of priesthood …

Solomon’s proverb isn’t poetic fluff—it’s a prescription. Joy isn’t merely the byproduct of health; it can be the agent that restores it. In Days of Heaven, Simpson reminds us that joy is more than a mood—it’s a means. When medicine falls short and strength has waned, joy can still lift the weary soul and even bring vitality to the body.

In today’s entry, Bob Hoekstra draws our hearts deeper into the staggering intimacy offered through the new covenant: Christ in us, and we in Him. This isn’t about mere proximity to Jesus, as though He walks beside us like a friend who comes and goes. No, it’s about union—shared life, shared being. Christ Himself becomes our source of spiritual nourishment, just as food sustains physical life.

Oswald Chambers invites us to consider that the resurrection of Jesus didn’t just restore life to His body—it inaugurated a brand-new kind of life altogether. The risen Christ entered into a life that had never before existed: one now glorified, victorious, and shared with us. He is not simply our example of what new life might look like—He is that new life.

Today’s reflection from Abide Above brings a much-needed reorientation of what it means to walk in triumph. The world tends to define victory as the removal of hardship, the fixing of what’s wrong, or the return of circumstances to ease. But this devotional points us higher—to a triumph that isn’t rooted in outward change but in inward transformation.

In this devotional, the writer reflects on the enduring power of gospel tracts as a tool for evangelism. While our voices may tire and our schedules may limit our availability, the written word—especially in the form of a well-crafted tract—can travel beyond our constraints. Tracts are not bound by time or place; they can land in a hand or on a sidewalk and still fulfill their mission. The writer shares a vivid example of a man who, needing padding for a shoe, unknowingly stepped into eternity when he discovered the message contained in a discarded tract. The focus isn’t merely on the method but on the faithfulness of God to use whatever means we commit to Him—even something as small and seemingly insignificant as a printed page.

The opening of Ephesians is a triumphant declaration of God’s eternal plan, flowing out from His loving initiative, not our merit. Paul reminds the saints—those set apart in Christ—that all spiritual blessings come through our union with Him. From before creation, the Father chose us in love, destined us to adoption, and willed that we reflect the holiness of His Son. His goal wasn’t merely to forgive us but to form us into Christ’s likeness for the praise of His glorious grace.

John 6 is a chapter of sweeping theological and redemptive themes, woven together through a tapestry of signs, conversations, and claims that reveal Jesus not just as a provider of physical needs but as the true Bread from heaven who gives eternal life. The Passover backdrop evokes images of deliverance from Egypt, manna from heaven, and water from the rock—all pointing to Jesus as the fulfillment of those ancient shadows.

The introduction to Ephesians lays a deep and rich foundation for understanding our identity in Christ, the unity of believers, and the call to holiness that flows from who we are, not what we do. Paul writes this letter from prison, not as a man discouraged by chains but as one enthralled by the freedom found in Christ. From this place of confinement, he speaks about union, unity, and upright living with more clarity and authority than many from the heights of their freedom.

E. Stanley Jones invites us to reflect deeply on a truth that is often passed over with little thought—Christ not only places us in Himself, but He also places Himself in us. We can understand the beauty of abiding in Him. After all, He is holy, divine, the source of life, the place we were made to dwell. It makes sense that we would be drawn to Him. But the deeper mystery is this: that He chooses to dwell in us.

Ray Stedman draws our attention to an often-overlooked instruction in Leviticus 7:15 about the peace offering. When someone brought a thanksgiving offering, the meat was to be consumed on the same day—no leftovers allowed. If any was left for the third day, it had to be destroyed. That might seem like a strange dietary rule, but it reflects something deeper: God was communicating a truth about immediacy and dependence.

When the Spirit begins renewing our minds and guiding our steps, one of the first areas we experience tension is in relationships — especially when we feel the pull to say yes to every request, or guilt when we feel led to say no.

Sometimes the hardest decisions in life aren’t between right and wrong — they’re between two good things. A job that offers more opportunity or one that brings more peace? A conversation that might heal or one that might stir conflict? A decision to stay or to move forward?

Conflict is unavoidable — even among those who love Jesus. But how we respond to it reveals whether we are functioning from the old life in Adam or from our new life in Christ.

So far, we’ve traced the journey inward — the nearness of the Father, the voice of the Spirit, the renewing of our minds. But here’s where the fruit begins to blossom: our relationships change too. Not because we try harder to love, but because we begin to love from overflow, not obligation.

Once we begin to discern the Spirit’s voice and trust His nearness, we soon realize something else happening within us — our thoughts begin to shift. That’s not accidental. That’s transformation.

After understanding that we are welcomed into intimate fellowship with the Father through Christ and that the Spirit makes that relationship experientially real, the next question often arises: How can I know when it’s the Spirit speaking to me?