In the earliest days of the church, being a follower of Jesus wasn’t marked by a fish on your tunic or a discreet gathering—it was known by a sound. The believers called on the name of the Lord out loud. Their worship was vocal, open, and unmistakable. When Saul received permission to arrest believers, the criteria was simple: find those who called audibly on Jesus’ name. That’s how deeply this practice was embedded into their identity.

Today’s reading Nick Harrison reminds us that divine strength doesn’t just come alongside our weakness—it fills the very gap where our strength ends. In fact, God's power is perfected—not merely shown—in the context of our emptiness. That changes everything. Rather than resist our limitations, we can embrace them as the sacred space in which God’s grace operates most fully.

Paul speaks of a man in Christ—surely himself—who was caught up into the third heaven. And yet he shares this vision with deep reluctance, almost apologetically. Why? Because he knew that true spiritual maturity doesn’t boast in spiritual experiences or extraordinary moments. He sensed he was departing from the central emphasis of Christ, who never drew attention to Himself through spectacular visions or mysticism. Jesus walked in full clarity and communion with the Father, never straying into the performative or the sensational.

Today’s devotional from T. Austin-Sparks is a grace-soaked reminder of the paradox many believers experience—how easily we forget to actually believe what we already believe. Austin-Sparks acknowledges the very real discouragement we face when we look at ourselves and find lack, failure, or frustration. He confesses, “I believe in the finished work of Christ, yet sometimes I am just as miserable about myself as any man could be.” This is not hypocrisy; it’s a spiritual disconnect between head-level belief and heart-level rest.

The early church in Antioch was thriving—a diverse body of Gentile believers rejoicing in their newfound life in Christ. They had been rescued from darkness, idolatry, and despair, not by law or ritual, but by grace alone. But then, a subtle storm arrived disguised in pious robes. Some visitors from Judea began to add qualifications to salvation: “Unless you are circumcised, you cannot be saved.”

Today’s passage opens a striking image from the Song of Songs: a garden locked, a spring enclosed, a fountain sealed. This is not an image of barrenness or neglect, but of intentional care and intimacy. It speaks to the divine work of God within us—where He doesn’t simply leave us to ourselves, but cultivates, tends, and reshapes the very soil of our souls. In Christ, we are not wild wastelands needing reform. We are a garden—a place of His delight, closed off from the noise of the world and reserved for His presence alone.

We often dwell on God’s promises, holding tightly to the truth that He has spoken goodness over our lives. But the power of a promise is only as strong as the ability of the One who makes it. That’s why today’s devotional points us not only to what God has promised—but to who He is. He is the Creator of heaven and earth, the One who spoke galaxies into existence with nothing more than His word. So when He says something, it isn’t just a hopeful wish—it’s a divine certainty.

Oswald Chambers reminds us that God is not an afterthought to be added once we’ve worked out our plans—He’s the very foundation of our reasoning. So often we unconsciously treat “spiritual life” as its own category while reserving practical decisions—finances, relationships, future planning—for our own management. But this fragmented thinking only leads to worry. God invites us to bring Him into every detail—not just for guidance, but because He is our peace, our wisdom, our provision.

The cross was never meant to be a symbol we revere from a distance. It’s not just about what happened outside Jerusalem two thousand years ago—it’s about what’s happening right now, in us, as the Holy Spirit applies that finished work moment by moment. When Jesus said to take up our cross daily, He wasn’t calling us to self-effort or performance—but to identification. His cross didn’t just forgive us; it also brought an end to the old man. And now, by faith, we live not by patching up the flesh, but by yielding to the life of the risen Christ within.

The early church wasn’t known for cathedrals or clever slogans—it was known for calling on the name of the Lord. In a world of religious systems and spiritual striving, this simple practice marked believers as those who genuinely belonged to Christ. It was more than a whisper in prayer—it was the natural overflow of hearts full of Christ, continually breathing out His name in awe, dependence, and communion.

E. Stanley Jones offers a timely correction to a subtle danger for those of us who walk in the rich awareness of being in Christ. While our identity in Christ lifts us above the sway of the world’s opinions, it does not free us from responsibility to live honorably before others. In fact, because we are in Christ, we are called to reflect His character not just in private devotion, but in public witness.

Some believers who truly desire to follow the Holy Spirit’s leading can become tormented by unclear impressions, mistaking vague nudges or uncertain promptings as divine directives. Torrey offers a word of freedom to such burdened hearts: God does not guide through confusion. He is light, and in Him is no darkness. The fog is not from Him.

There’s a quiet but tragic irony in the Christian life: we can accumulate knowledge about Jesus without ever truly living from Him. T. Austin-Sparks gently exposes the subtle difference between learning about Christ and encountering Christ. The first can be amassed through sermons, books, conferences, and notes in our margins. The second? That happens in the quiet heart-space where the Holy Spirit breathes life into the written Word and Christ becomes our daily bread—not just our topic of study.

When Paul preached to people with no knowledge of Scripture—no church background, no understanding of the gospel—he didn’t begin by quoting Bible verses. Instead, he began with what they did know: the rhythms of rain, the satisfaction of harvest, and the joy of shared meals. He pointed to the natural world and said, “This is evidence. You’ve already seen God, whether you’ve realized it or not.”

Song of Songs 4:8 invites us to rise with the Beloved, to step away from the lurking dangers below and join Him in the heights. A.B. Simpson takes this poetic call and directs our hearts to its spiritual reality: when we view life from above, we gain clarity. The paths that once seemed twisted with uncertainty unfold before us with purpose. Prayer and faith do not remove the challenges—but they lift us into the vantage point of Christ in us.

From the beginning, God’s plan was global. What began as a promise to the house of Israel was never meant to stay enclosed within ethnic or national boundaries. Isaiah’s prophecies made this abundantly clear: the Servant of the Lord—Messiah—was not just to restore Israel but to become salvation for the Gentiles, a light reaching the ends of the earth. What grace, that God would not be content with saving only a few! His heart overflowed toward every tribe, tongue, and nation.

Oswald Chambers challenges a familiar enemy—worry—and exposes it as more than a mere habit; it is a misplaced faith. When we fret, we subtly dethrone God and enthrone our own calculations. We are tempted to believe that anxiety is a mark of responsibility or realism. But Chambers dismantles that notion: anxiety is not a virtue but a violation of trust.

Some believers spend years exhausting themselves trying to live the Christian life by effort, sincerity, and willpower—striving to subdue the flesh and perform their way into victory. But all that strain leads to only one result: weariness. And that’s precisely where the Lord is waiting—not to condemn the exhaustion, but to meet us in it with the invitation to enter His rest.

Calling on the name of the Lord isn’t a novel concept that originated in Acts—it’s been part of the life of faith from the earliest generations. From Enosh to David, from Isaiah to Jonah, even Gentiles recognized that those who belonged to the living God were marked by this practice: they cried out to Him with sincerity, need, and joy. It wasn’t religious noise. It was relational nearness.

Paul's letter to Titus unfolds in chapter 2 as a beautifully ordered picture of how the church—God’s household—is meant to live out sound doctrine through everyday relationships. Rather than leaning into abstract theology, Paul roots truth in practical rhythms: older men living with dignity and faith, older women mentoring younger women in the patterns of home life and purity, and young men called to self-control. Titus himself is urged to model what he preaches, not only through words, but in integrity and dignity of life. Paul’s emphasis is not limited to church behavior—it reaches into the workplace too, where even those in servitude are exhorted to reflect Christ in obedience and honesty.