God told Rebekah before her sons were born that the older would serve the younger—yet in Genesis 25, Isaac loves Esau most. Nothing looks like it's heading where God said it would. When the path to God's promises feels unnecessarily tangled, can we still believe he's working?
Wouldn’t it be nice if everything we shouldn’t do just clearly didn’t look right? But we’re always drawn to the new and the shiny, just as the serpent in Genesis 3 makes the one tree God forbade look like the most beautiful in the garden—a delight to the eyes—and Eve takes of its fruit and eats.
The two weeks meant to end the crisis stretch into forty years, and the only question left is a weary “now what?” In Numbers 20 the whole congregation reaches that breaking point in the wilderness of Zin—no water, Miriam gone, and hearts already wishing they had simply perished sooner.
Why does it seem like we declare God’s victory, and yet it often doesn’t feel very victorious? When Christmas joy collides with year-end weariness and plans that never quite landed, Revelation 12 can help us better understand where that elusive victory really is.
We’ve all sensed it—a choice that seemed perfect in the moment, but leaves us listing further down the road. Matthew 7:24–27 presents two builders, two houses, nearly identical except for what lies beneath, and asks which foundation will hold when the rains come.
When a mess lands in our lap—whether it’s the fallen world’s doing or our own—the natural move is to grab control and start fixing, doubling down on whatever we think will work. In Genesis 28, two sons of the same broken family face that same moment, and the difference between how they respond reaches right into the choices we face today.
We are good at recognizing what is wrong—and remarkably bad at fixing it. Isaiah 1 warns that the strong become tinder and their work a spark, exposing every human effort we trust to make life secure and lasting. What hope does Easter offer when the things we build, the solutions we devise, and even our own strength end in ash?
We’re good at looking pure—saying the right things, following the right rules, putting on the kind of life that earns approving nods—and that’s precisely the trap Jesus names in Matthew 5:8 when he calls the pure *in heart* blessed, not the pure in appearance.
The decorations come down, the calendar turns, and Christmas recedes into memory—but Matthew 2 insists there’s something that doesn’t go out of season. And if the Gospel doesn’t go out of season, are we keeping ourselves focused on where it is pointing us?
