Abraham’s journey up Mount Moriah stands as one of Scripture’s most intimate portrayals of trust. The Grace and Truth Study Bible notes remind us that God had already proven His faithfulness to Abraham in countless ways, yet this moment—the call to offer Isaac—would press his faith to its deepest place. The same God who promised a son now appeared to threaten the very promise itself. From the outside, it could seem cruel. But through the lens of grace, we see something else altogether: God inviting His friend into the kind of trust that transcends sight.

The book of Joel opens with a scene of devastation. The prophet witnesses a locust plague so severe that even the oldest among the people cannot recall anything like it. The land lies stripped and barren. The crops, vineyards, and fruit trees are gone, leaving both man and beast in sorrow. Worship itself has halted because there is no grain or wine to offer. Joel’s call is urgent and universal—everyone, from drunkards to priests, farmers to elders, must lament and return to the Lord with their whole heart.

The book of Joel opens in the middle of disaster. Judah has been hit by a locust plague so consuming that the land is stripped bare. Crops gone. Joy gone. Even worship is shaken. Joel looks at that ruin and says, This is not random. This is not meaningless. God is speaking.

David’s world had turned against him. Men who once dined at his table were now in the witness box, twisting words, forging motives, and rewriting truth. Psalm 35 opens with the heart of a man who has been wronged both in the court of law and in the court of public opinion. Yet, amid the noise of accusation, David lifts his eyes to the only true Advocate—his God who both sees and defends.

The purest expression of holiness is love. Not the sentimental love that ebbs and flows with circumstance, but the very life of God poured into the human heart. True Christian maturity is not measured by flawless behavior or unbroken record, but by the steady expression of divine love from within. To love as Jesus loves is not an achievement of willpower but the result of His indwelling presence.

In the mid-1700s, John Wesley sought to describe the heart of one completely devoted to God.
He called it “The Character of a Methodist,” though he clarified that this was not a description of sect or denomination, but of the true Christian—one whose heart is aflame with divine love.

Wesley’s longing was not for perfectionism or human flawlessness, but for perfect love—a heart wholly yielded to God.
This post presents two renderings of that vision: first, a modern English adaptation of Wesley’s tract, preserving his original passion; second, a Christ-centered reinterpretation from an abiding-life perspective, where every attribute flows not from self-effort but from Christ expressing His life through the believer.

Ephesians 5:1–2 (“Therefore be imitators of God, as beloved children, and walk in love…”) is often read as a summons to copy divine behavior. Read closely, however, the text grounds the imperative in prior redemptive realities and a Spirit-charged ontology: believers are already God’s children, already re-created in God’s likeness, and already indwelt by the Spirit. On that basis, “imitation” functions as manifestation—the expression of divine life through yielded humanity—rather than independent mimicry. This essay defends that reading by tracking the command through (1) grammar and immediate context, (2) the broader literary architecture of Ephesians, (3) coherence with Pauline theology, and (4) caveats that keep the interpretation honest and pastorally careful. Throughout, we’ll use the heuristic Result → Means → Mechanism.

Abraham trusted not in outcomes but in the living God who spoke to him. His confidence rested on the character of the One who called him, not on the clarity of the path before him. When God told him to leave everything familiar, Abraham went out with nothing but the promise of God’s presence. That is what made him a friend of God—he believed that the Lord Himself was enough.

God’s will is not a distant mystery we must chase. It is the very heartbeat of Jesus made alive within us. Chambers reminds us that sanctification is not something we achieve or even request endlessly; it is the settled reality of Christ living His holy life in and through the believer. The real question, then, is not whether God will sanctify us, but whether we will yield to what He has already accomplished in His Son.

The heart of today’s reading is simple and freeing. Chambers points out how easy it is to mistake constant activity for spiritual life. The world celebrates bustle and output. Jesus points us to a kingdom that is within, quiet, and real. When the inner life is neglected, even busy ministry turns hollow. When the inner life is tended, simple obedience carries the weight of heaven.

Oswald Chambers points us back to a simple center. Those early believers went out for the sake of the Name. Not for reputation. Not to collect results. For Jesus. Chambers reminds us that love for the Lord shows up as love for people. Feed my sheep is not a task list. It is the Lord sharing His own care through us as we abide in Him.

There are seasons when the Father allows the winds to rise, not to break us but to loosen our grip on self-dependence. Faith, as Miles Stanford reminds us, begins when self-dependence ends. The Father uses sorrow, failure, and disappointment to teach us to rest in His sufficiency. It is there, in what appears to be defeat, that our faith becomes living and practical.

When I read Miles Stanford’s reflection on the ministry of life, I’m reminded how easy it is for believers to linger between the nursery and the workshop, still craving the comfort of spiritual milk rather than the maturity that comes through trust. Stanford’s words invite us beyond performance or visible results into the quiet shaping of our inner life by the Spirit of Jesus. He reminds us that God’s goal is not our giftedness but our yieldedness. The Father longs for us to become what we share, not merely to repeat what we have learned.

To rest in the Father’s love is to lose sight of ourselves. The old tendency is to measure humility by how lowly we think of our own worth. Yet true humility does not come from rehearsing our failures. It comes from gazing upon Jesus until we forget to look at ourselves at all. J. N. Darby reminds us that it is not by thinking about our sins that we are humbled, but by beholding the excellencies of our Lord. When our hearts are filled with His goodness, there is no room for the self-life to linger in self-condemnation.

Some words from Jesus cut straight through our clever workarounds. The Pharisees had polished explanations for why they could sidestep caring for their parents, yet the Lord said their traditions emptied God’s command of its authority. The passage in Matthew 15:3-6 is not a lecture about manners. It is a call back under God’s government where honoring father and mother is not optional, it is woven into the way of the kingdom.

The Pharisees accused Jesus’ disciples of transgressing the traditions of their elders, yet the Lord exposed something far deeper. They had exchanged God’s living Word for human systems that felt safe and respectable. Jesus reminded them that when tradition replaces obedience to God’s voice, the heart grows dull. It was not the washing of hands that concerned Him, but the washing of hearts. The Word of God always confronts what we use to replace Him, even when those replacements appear noble. Witness Lee’s reflection helps us remember that the life of faith is not about preserving customs but yielding to the living Christ who speaks within. The call is not to cling to the familiar but to return to the freshness of God’s Word, where His Spirit teaches, corrects, and gives life.

When Jesus called Peter to step out of the boat and walk toward Him, Peter acted on a single word—“Come.” For a brief moment, faith triumphed over circumstance. The waves beneath his feet were no longer his support; the Lord’s word was. But as soon as Peter shifted his attention to the wind, the visible world grew larger than the voice that had called him, and he began to sink.

Prayer, as Oswald Chambers reminds us, is not a prelude to divine work; it is the work itself. Jesus said, “They will do even greater things than these, because I am going to the Father” (John 14:12). Many of us read those words and imagine great outward acts, yet Chambers gently redirects our vision inward to the hidden labor of prayer—the unseen cooperation of a believer resting in the life of the risen Lord.

The feeding of the five thousand is more than a story of compassion; it is a revelation of the abundant life of Jesus expressed through willing vessels. Witness Lee reminds us that the twelve baskets of leftover fragments were not an accident but a sign of divine sufficiency. The disciples began with little, only five loaves and two fish, yet what was placed into the Lord’s hands became more than enough. When Jesus blesses and breaks what we bring, the outcome always surpasses the offering.