There is a certain charm to youthful passion—an energy that bursts forth with conviction, ready to do something “great for God.” But Scripture warns us that not all zeal is sanctified. Paul testified of Israel’s fervor: “They have a zeal for God, but not according to knowledge” (Romans 10:2). Zeal without understanding may look impressive, but it can be deeply misguided.

The birth of Christ is not merely a tender nativity story—it’s the thunderous fulfillment of God’s ancient promise. From the moment sin entered the world, God spoke of a coming Deliverer. Genesis 3:15, often called the protoevangelium, marks the first whisper of the gospel: that the seed of the woman would one day crush the serpent’s head. It was a declaration not just of justice, but of mercy—a promise that though man had fallen, God would redeem.

Today’s reflection compiled by Nick Harrison reminds me that walking closely with Christ—yielding to Him as our Life—is not without cost. Amy Carmichael warns us not to be surprised when we encounter suffering, especially when our service to the Lord is genuine and Spirit-dependent. The more purely our work rests on Him, the more it will be opposed. But this is not cause for alarm—it is cause for rejoicing.

When we read devotionals from saints like Amy Carmichael or T. Austin-Sparks, we’re often struck by their call to rejoice in suffering. But in the Western world—where religious freedom is largely protected and martyrdom seems far away—it’s fair to ask: What kind of suffering are they talking about? Is this still relevant? The answer is yes—deeply so. The suffering of the cross is not always external. Much of it is hidden in the soul. And for the abiding believer, that kind of suffering is very real.

E. Stanley Jones invites us to reconsider what it truly means to be baptized “into Christ.” He begins by challenging the common assumption that Paul was referring to water baptism in Galatians 3:27 when he wrote, “As many of you as were baptized into Christ have put on Christ.” While water baptism is a meaningful outward symbol, Jones points out that this cannot be the baptism that actually places us into Christ. After all, many have been baptized with water and yet show no evidence of union with Christ—Simon Magus being a notable example from Acts 8.

T. Austin-Sparks draws our attention to the everyday miracle of divine life—Christ’s resurrection life—sustaining us silently, yet powerfully, in a world that is hostile to spiritual vitality. We are not called to survive by extraordinary signs or sensational breakthroughs, but by the quiet transcendence of Christ’s indwelling life over spiritual death.

This curious account in Acts 20 shows us that even under the inspired teaching of the Apostle Paul, someone could drift off and fall asleep—literally. The believers had gathered on a Sunday, the day of Christ’s resurrection, for a communion service and extended time of teaching. In that upper room, full of lamps and low on oxygen, young Eutychus—likely tired from a long day’s work—couldn't keep himself awake. He fell from the window ledge, plunging to his death from the third story.

The words Jesus spoke in John 8 are a gateway into the abundant life He offers: “If you abide in My word… you shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.” Truth, then, is not merely information but a Person—Christ Himself—expressing His life through us as we remain in His word. Bob Hoekstra reminds us that the truth we are promised doesn’t leave us as we are; it frees us from every chain that once bound us in Adam—whether sin, fear, or even the shadow of death.

True consecration often begins with a deep, almost painful awareness that something more is needed—not externally, but within. This longing isn’t always tied to sin as rebellion, but to the recognition of spiritual lack: a thirst for purity, power, and real communion with God. Today’s devotional by A.B. Simpson describes how this holy dissatisfaction often arises during seasons of spiritual exposure—through sound teaching, godly examples, or trials that strip us of self-confidence.

Oswald Chambers encourages us to live from the steady awareness that our heavenly Father is always in control. For those indwelt by Christ’s Spirit, the disciple’s “default mindset” is trust—unshakable trust that God sees, knows, and is already working. Jesus doesn’t tell us to beg from a distant deity but invites us to relate to a loving Father who delights in giving good gifts.

The enemy is relentless in his attempt to unsettle believers with condemnation. He knows that if he can erode our sense of security in Christ, he can divert our focus, disturb our peace, and diminish our availability to God. But Romans 8:1 declares a greater reality—there is now no condemnation to those who are in Christ Jesus. That is not a tentative hope, but a settled truth.

Mary's response to the angel Gabriel wasn't a moment of passive surrender—it was a bold, costly yielding of her whole life. We often read her story with familiarity, but step into her sandals and the weight becomes staggering. She was a young, betrothed woman, now tasked with explaining the unexplainable: that she was pregnant, and God was the Father. The moral implications, the social fallout, the strained relationship with Joseph—none of it stopped her. Why? Because she trusted the voice of the Lord more than the voices of fear, logic, or societal consequence.

At the heart of today’s reflection by E. Stanley Jones is the liberating truth that Christ is not distant, institutionalized, or hidden behind human intermediaries. Through faith, we have immediate and unhindered access to Jesus Himself—and through Him, to the Father. Paul declares that the law once served as a custodian until Christ came, but now, in Him, we are full sons and daughters, with open access to the throne of grace.

Jessie Penn-Lewis reminds us that communion with God is maintained moment by moment—not through hypervigilant introspection or anxious correction of past failures, but through present, conscious dependence on Christ. We break fellowship when our minds are split between regrets of yesterday and uncertainties about tomorrow. The enemy knows this and lures us with both—replaying old wounds and provoking fears that haven’t even come to pass.

T. Austin-Sparks invites us to peer through an open window and behold something superior: Jesus Christ in one another. Quoting Paul’s charge in 2 Corinthians 5:16, he brings our attention to a vital shift in perspective—no longer evaluating others by mere human standards but learning to see one another through the Spirit.

The uproar in Ephesus wasn’t a disruption to Paul’s ministry—it was part of the lesson. Just when everything seemed to be moving forward, chaos erupted. A riot broke out that threatened not only Paul’s life but also the entire fledgling community of believers in the region. Luke doesn’t record Paul’s farewell speech, but Paul himself reflects on that terrifying episode in his second letter to the Corinthians: he had despaired of life itself. He thought it was over.

The Holy Spirit has never sought to draw attention to Himself. His role is beautifully self-effacing, pointing us instead to the risen Christ. Jesus said plainly that when the Spirit came, He would glorify the Son by taking what belongs to Christ and declaring it to us. That means the Spirit’s mission is not just to inform us, but to bring us into a deeper experience of what is already ours in Jesus.

The Song of Songs reveals a deeply intimate truth: we belong to Christ, and He belongs to us. This is not symbolic poetry alone—it reflects a covenantal reality between the risen Christ and those united with Him. When we rest in this mutual belonging, we realize that all Christ is has been made available to us, and all we are now finds meaning in Him.

Oswald Chambers reflects on the Apostle Paul’s deeply personal sense of indebtedness—not to people, but to Christ. From that overflowing gratitude and reverence came a life poured out in proclamation. Paul saw himself as one redeemed at a price, and from that purchase came both freedom and obligation—not as a burden, but as a sacred honor.

Today’s devotional from Miles Stanford speaks tenderly—but truthfully—about the bittersweet path of the redeemed. Rather than evidence of failure, trials are marks of grace. It’s not that we suffer because we aren’t redeemed; it’s because we are. The Father loves us enough to deal with what no longer belongs in us—the remnants of the crucified old man, the flesh, that still attempt to rule.