Today’s reflection from Miles Stanford draws a vital distinction between surrender born of striving and surrender drawn forth by the Spirit’s quiet work within. True surrender isn’t a transaction to gain blessing or power—it is a natural response to the beauty and sufficiency of Christ. When the Spirit prepares a heart, there is no striving or argument. The soul simply yields. Why? Because the motivation isn't self-improvement, spiritual success, or even service—it’s Christ Himself.

The name Emmanuel—God with us—is not a distant theological concept; it is our present and personal reality. The devotional reminds us that while Jesus was the name divinely given, Emmanuel is how humanity experiences Him: God dwelling in our midst.

Esther 9 captures a striking reversal in the Jewish story—what was intended as a day of their destruction becomes instead a day of deliverance. On the 13th of Adar, the enemies of the Jews had expected to overpower them. Instead, because of Mordecai’s elevated status and the favor of God, the Jews were empowered to defend themselves. Their enemies fell by the sword, and even Haman’s ten sons were executed. Esther, discerning the danger wasn’t fully gone, wisely requested a second day for the Jews in Susa to stand ready, which the king granted. This second day of defense ensured the security of the Jewish people within the capital.

Daniel 4 opens not with a warning, but with a testimony. King Nebuchadnezzar shares a public declaration of God’s greatness—but that testimony was birthed through personal humiliation. The chapter recounts a second dream that deeply unsettled him: a magnificent tree, visible to the ends of the earth, giving shade and food to all. But this tree was cut down by order of heaven, leaving only a stump with roots. As Daniel interpreted it, the tree was Nebuchadnezzar himself, and the dream was God’s advance notice that the king would be brought low—losing his reason and living like a beast—until he acknowledged that the Most High rules over all.

Psalm 12 laments the collapse of truth in society. The psalmist sees a world where no one speaks with integrity—flattery and deception dominate every conversation. People manipulate with their tongues, boasting in their ability to twist words for personal gain. This societal decay evokes images of Sodom and Elijah’s lonely cry, believing he was the last faithful one left. The psalm doesn't just observe this—it cries out for God to intervene.

E. Stanley Jones recounts an awe-inspiring outpouring of the Spirit in a remote African village, where revival swept through people with little to no prior exposure to Christianity. It was not an orchestrated event, but a spontaneous, Spirit-led awakening. Despite the simplicity of their surroundings—palm branch shelters, makeshift seats, and scant clothing—the hunger for God was deep and pure. The people rose early and gathered throughout the day to hear the Word, to repent, to seek Christ, and to proclaim what He had done.

Stephen’s martyrdom is a radiant testimony to the indwelling Christ’s life triumphing even in death. As stones flew and the crowd seethed, heaven opened—not for vengeance, but for welcome. Stephen, filled with the Spirit, saw Jesus standing—not seated—at the right hand of the Father, as if ready to receive him personally. This beautiful scene reminds us that for every believer, death is not a fearful plunge into the unknown but a passage met by Christ Himself. He welcomes His own not with judgment but with joy.

Too often, the Christian life is portrayed as an endless cycle of cutting away, of dying to self, of painful pruning. But the truth revealed in John 15:2 is far more hopeful. There is a purpose behind the pruning: fruitfulness. And once the dying is reckoned as done — once we accept by faith that we have been crucified with Christ — the call is no longer to dwell in death, but to walk in newness of life.

The light that first pierced the darkness of the formless earth at creation is the same light that now shines into the hearts of those who receive the gospel of Christ. Paul draws a remarkable connection between the first words God spoke — “Let there be light” — and the miracle of spiritual illumination that takes place when the gospel is received.

Oswald Chambers invites us into the quiet confidence of Romans 8, where love—not logic—defines our security. The apostle Paul doesn’t sugarcoat hardship. Trouble, famine, persecution, and even death are not abstract ideas, but vivid realities in a fallen world. And yet, Chambers echoes Paul’s triumphant cry: these agonies cannot sever us from the love of God in Christ Jesus.

Many believers—myself included—have found rich comfort in the idea that Christ prays through us. But is this just a poetic expression… or is it biblically sound?

Let’s take a moment in our Abiding Prayer series to look deeply and lovingly at this question—because clarity here brings peace. And peace is often what we need most when we wonder if our prayers are “working.”

Today’s devotional from Miles Stanford reminds me that prayer is not a one-sided plea but the sacred fellowship of hearts already united in Christ. True prayer, the kind that bears fruit and calms our inner uncertainties, flows out of a shared will — His will becoming mine. When I abide in Christ and walk in dependence upon the Holy Spirit, I don’t need to strain to find God’s will or question if I’m praying the right words. The Spirit of grace and supplication leads the conversation from within.

The human story began with God’s creative design, but generation after generation failed to respond to Him. By Genesis 11, mankind was united—not in faith—but in rebellion, constructing Babel to make a name for themselves apart from God. It was there that God made a pivotal shift. Rather than continuing to work through the corporate, fallen race of Adam, He turned to a single man: Abraham.

E. Stanley Jones draws our attention to the transformation that occurs when a person is truly in Christ. His narrative takes us to the heart of the Belgian Congo, where physical marks of tribal bondage and cultural limitations are replaced by dignity, wisdom, and grace through union with Christ. In a world that once branded a woman as unworthy because of her appearance and background, Christ brought about a legacy of redemption—seen most vividly in her son, who flourished in intellect, language, and compassion. He embodied the very enrichment that Christ brings to the whole person—mind, heart, spirit, and behavior.

Stephen’s final sermon in Acts 7 is not only the longest recorded message in the book of Acts, it is also the most piercing. He walks his hearers through their own history—not to condemn but to unveil their pattern of resisting God’s presence. And as he nears the end, he touches a nerve by confronting their misunderstanding about the temple. Though they revered it as the sacred house of God, Stephen reminds them that God never intended to dwell in buildings made with human hands. Isaiah had already declared that heaven is His throne and the earth His footstool. What could we build that would ever contain Him?

So many sincere believers are weary from trying to crucify themselves—to put off the old self through determined self-effort, as if holiness were something to be achieved by gritting our teeth. But the cross doesn’t invite us to help with our death. It declares that our death has already happened in Christ.

The apostle Paul draws our attention to the unseen battle raging for the souls of men and women. Satan, described as the "god of this age," works tirelessly to blind unbelieving minds to the radiant glory of Christ revealed in the gospel. This darkness is not neutral; it’s strategic, designed to conceal the light of Jesus, who is the very image of God.

Oswald Chambers invites us to reconsider what it means to be "useful" to God. Instead of trying hard to be consistent, spiritual, or helpful, Chambers calls us to concentrate on God Himself—just as the birds and flowers do by simply existing as He designed them. There’s no striving in their growth, no awareness of how effective they are; yet they powerfully testify to God’s handiwork by just being what they are.

Today’s reflection from Miles Stanford calls us to embrace the surprising paradox of growth: that true spiritual gain often begins with letting go. His devotional echoes Paul’s words in Philippians—where everything he once held dear and praiseworthy, even in religious zeal, became worthless compared to knowing Christ.

In this closing reflection on Matthew 1:1, Witness Lee draws out the immense significance of Jesus being called both the Son of David and the Son of Abraham. As the Son of David, He fulfills God’s promise to build a lasting temple—His church, the dwelling place of God. As the Son of Abraham, He fulfills the promise of blessing to all nations—not merely through lineage or geography, but through the gift of the Holy Spirit, the fullness of the Triune God, offered to both Jew and Gentile alike.