Today’s story compiled by Nick Harrison is tender and piercing. A mother, hungry for deeper holiness, poured herself into the Word, searching diligently for the secret to the Christian life. But in her pursuit of the sacred, she missed the sanctity in the small—a child’s need, a doll’s repair, the loving work of home. She brushed aside her daughter in her holy quest, only to discover that the very holiness she longed for had been waiting quietly on the hearthrug.

E. Stanley Jones draws our attention to the paradox of holy weakness—a surrender that disarms the powers of the world and reveals a strength they cannot comprehend. Christ was crucified in weakness, yet that very weakness unveiled the unstoppable power of God. In the yielding of the Son, we saw not defeat, but divine triumph. This is the essence of being “weak in Him”—not powerless, but surrendered to a power not our own.

Today’s reading from T. Austin-Sparks reminds us that there’s an unmistakable dividing line in our spiritual journey. The moment we let the patterns of the old creation express itself—whether it’s an old line of thought, a familiar reaction in the flesh, or simply trying to serve God from natural strength—we hit a spiritual wall. It may feel like confusion, frustration, or even spiritual dryness, but at the core is this truth: we cannot carry anything from the habits of the old man into the life of the new.

Today’s passage brings us to a surprising contrast in the early church. Paul, who so fiercely opposed circumcising Titus, willingly circumcises Timothy. To some, it might seem like Paul contradicted himself—but the beauty is in the deeper principle. With Titus, Paul drew a bold line in the sand: salvation is by grace, not through rituals. But with Timothy, Paul wasn’t conceding to legalism; he was loving the people Timothy would serve. The aim wasn’t compromise—it was clarity. Paul was living out the freedom of the gospel by becoming all things to all people so that Christ might be known.

In the closing chapter of Exodus, we witness something breathtaking: the completion of God's earthly dwelling place and the descent of His glory. Moses had followed every command. He had done what the Lord required. And yet, in the moment the tabernacle was completed, something unexpected happened—Moses could not enter. The cloud of God's presence filled the sanctuary so completely that even the leader of Israel had to stand outside. It was no longer a space to manage or oversee—it now belonged to God alone.

Today’s reflection from Bob Hoekstra brings us back to a familiar story—the fiery furnace—but not just for its dramatic deliverance. What stands out more deeply is what it tells us about God’s ability. Not only is He able to deliver in the most intense moments of crisis (as with Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-Nego), but He is also able to keep us from stumbling in the quieter, longer, wearier stretches of our journey, as Jude reminds us.

Oswald Chambers reminds us today that the life of a disciple isn’t easy—but it is good. The noble path Jesus calls us to is narrow, not because He wants us to strain and strive in our own effort, but because He knows how easily we drift toward what is easy and comfortable. Noble things are rarely easy, but when we trust the indwelling Spirit of Christ, the path—though narrow—is filled with His joy, His courage, and His strength already given.

The world talks about peace, sings about peace, marches for peace—but it cannot possess peace, because true peace doesn’t dwell in Adam’s fallen life. As long as the self-willed, self-centered life inherited from the first man persists, the heart will remain a battleground. But the Cross was not just a symbol of death; it was the end of the Adam life for all who are in Christ. And with that old tyrant dethroned, peace finally finds a home in the believer.

Today’s devotional from Witness Lee explores the power and clarity that comes from calling on the name of the Lord Jesus—not silently, but audibly and from the heart. The Greek term epikaleo implies crying out upon His name. This is not just internal belief, but vocal expression, deeply linked to the Spirit’s outpouring and God's intended response to the gospel. The idea here is simple but vital: vocalizing the name of Jesus brings tangible experience of salvation and joy.

When God’s promises seem delayed, human reasoning often rushes in with its own plan. Sarai, weary from ten years of waiting, decides to fulfill God’s word through a culturally acceptable but spiritually misguided route: surrogacy through her Egyptian slave, Hagar. Abram agrees, and Hagar conceives. Yet instead of joy, the household is torn apart by pride, jealousy, and mistreatment. Sarai blames Abram, abuses Hagar, and Hagar flees into the wilderness—alone, rejected, and pregnant.

Hosea 8 is a sober declaration of judgment against the northern kingdom of Israel for violating the covenant. Though the people claimed to know God, they substituted His truth with man-made idols and false security. The chapter opens with an image of a trumpet blast—a call to arms against Israel’s rebellion. Like an eagle swooping down, judgment is swift and certain because the people, despite outward appearances, have rejected God’s law.

Psalm 28 opens with David crying out with urgency, not because he doubts God’s goodness, but because he dreads silence. To David, divine silence feels like being dragged into “the pit”—a symbol of separation, darkness, and judgment. His lifted hands aren’t mere gestures; they represent his dependence on God’s presence in the Most Holy Place.

Today’s devotional from Nick Harrison delivers a strong but grace-filled reminder: the world doesn’t need to see more of us—it needs to see Christ in us. There’s a sobering contrast in this reading between two types of messengers. One speaks of Jesus while still living out of self—advertising one thing while exhibiting another. The other has yielded so completely that Christ becomes visible in every interaction, every word, every step. That’s what it means to “let your light shine before men,” not so we receive applause, but so the Father is glorified.

Today’s reflection from E. Stanley Jones dives into Paul’s “thorn in the flesh”—not as a punishment or a failure of faith, but as a gracious safeguard against spiritual pride. Jones helps us see that Paul’s physical weakness (most likely a serious eye condition according to Jones) wasn’t a barrier to fruitful ministry—it was an invitation into a deeper fellowship with Christ and a guardrail that kept him centered in the message of grace, not mysticism.

The words of Jesus—“Before Abraham was, I AM”—are more than a theological declaration. They are an invitation into the immediacy and sufficiency of Christ’s presence. T. Austin-Sparks reminds us that the Lord has a remarkable way of answering the cry of the human heart with Himself. When we ache for resurrection, vitality, clarity, or movement, Jesus doesn’t merely give us a solution—He is the solution. "I AM the resurrection and the life," He says, not in the future, not conditionally, but in this moment, wherever we are.

Today’s reading from Ray Stedman brings us face-to-face with something we rarely discuss in the Christian life: sharp disagreements between sincere believers. Paul and Barnabas—both faithful, both Spirit-led—reach an impasse over whether John Mark should accompany them again after his prior departure. It wasn't a petty quarrel. Paul focused on the mission; Barnabas focused on the man. Both perspectives were grounded in discernment, yet the tone of their parting suggests the disagreement was sharper than it needed to be.

There is something striking about how power is only effective when it is focused, enclosed, and directed. A loose spray of gunpowder simply flashes and fizzles; but when it's enclosed in a shell, it moves with purpose. A wire carrying electricity must be insulated to do its job. In much the same way, Simpson teaches that our spiritual vitality—our capacity to carry the life of Christ—is amplified when we’re enclosed by His covenant, His love, and His calling.

God’s promises are never limited by human inability. Where man sees roadblocks, God sees the unfolding of His own plan. The difference between His promises and ours isn’t merely scale—it’s substance. We often hesitate to trust human words because we’ve learned through disappointment that people’s abilities don’t always match their intentions. But God's ability is always in perfect harmony with His promises, and He is never hindered by what seems impossible to us.

Oswald Chambers reminds us that when God gives a vision, He’s not asking us to fulfill it by effort or ambition. He’s inviting us into a process—often long, often slow—where He forms the vessel that will one day carry what He’s shown us. That vision may come with a flash of clarity, but the shaping? That happens in the valleys. In the quiet. In what can feel like the crushing.

We often brace ourselves against affliction as though it were a thief, come to rob us of peace and joy. But today’s devotional from Miles Stanford reminds us that affliction—when received from the hand of our Father—is one of His most precise instruments of love. It loosens our grip on what was once gain and opens our hands to the treasure of Jesus Christ.