Now the Lord said to Abram, “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you. And I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing. I will bless those who bless you, and him who dishonors you I will curse, and in you all the families of the earth shall be blessed.” Gen. 12:1-3

Gracious and sovereign Father, we’re so thankful there’s a throne in heaven with Someone sitting on it. There’s no chaos around you. We’re so grateful you don’t scratch your head each morning wondering what to try next. There’s no consternation in you. We’re so glad you are author and narrator, director and hero, the beginning and end of an unfolding story of redemption—a narrative of reconciliation and restoration.  Your ways are perfect and your timing is Swiss. There’s no second-guessing by you. You major in actualities, not probabilities… Hallelujah!

Though many other stories compete for our hearts, days, energy, and resources—including those we would write for ourselves, we remember yours at the start of our day.  These few verses from Genesis are like a great preview of coming attractions; a storyboard of wonder; the plotline of hope. We praise you for making incredible promises to an unsuspecting pagan, Abram—promises you alone can keep. Indeed, from beginning to end your story is a tale of sovereign grace and irrepressible generosity.

Father, thank you for the promise of the land. How could Abram have possibly imagined what was ahead as he packed his bags for the unknown? It began in the Garden of Eden, continued in the land of Israel, and will culminate in the new heaven and new earth. Place and space matter to you. You’ve promised to redeem and restore your entire fallen world, not just one part of it—not just souls, but the cosmos as well. We praise you for your inviolate plans and great strength.

Thank you for the promise of the seed. From this one unsuspecting man Abram, you created a great nation as the birthing canal of the Messiah—the Lord Jesus. You promised the seed of the woman would crush the head of the serpent (Gen. 3:15), and you didn’t lie. Jesus came into the world to destroy the work of the devil, and he has triumphed—the Lamb of God has routed the lord of darkness. Hallelujah! His cross and resurrection guarantee that, just like Abraham, we are counted righteous in your sight by faith (Gen. 15:6; Rom 4). An even louder Hallelujah, we shout! We praise you for the everlasting gospel of your saving grace.

Thank you for the promise of the blessing. Father, it’s always been your plan to redeem a family from every family on the earth. It was never just about Israel, just like it’s never just about me. Indeed, you made Abram (Abraham) the father of many nations. All of history is bound up with your commitment to redeem your people “from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages” (Rev. 7:9). We praise you for your magnanimous heart and measureless generosity.

Father, thank you for making us characters in and carriers of your great story of redemption. We choose not to fritter our lives away on little soap operas of private drama and self-fulfillment. How boring, how empty. So let us live and so let us love as to make much of Jesus. So very Amen we pray, in Jesus’ powerful and praiseworthy name.

     Accordingly, although I am bold enough in Christ to command you to do what is required, yet for love’s sake I prefer to appeal to you—I, Paul, an old man and now a prisoner also for Christ Jesus—I appeal to you for my child Onesimus, whose father I became in my imprisonment. (Formerly he was useless to you, but now he is indeed useful to you and to me.) Philemon 8-11

Dear Lord Jesus, what great stories these few verses tell—how one man’s “useless” slave became another man’s beloved son; an imprisoned apostle loves as the freest of all men; redemption trumps anger; failure gives way to faith. Stories like this make the gospel beautiful and believable. I see myself as both Onesimus and Philemon, and I want to love more like Paul.

Jesus, I’m a lot like Onesimus. I’m a rebel. I’m a runner. I want freedom on my terms. I thank you for not giving up on me—for coming after me when I was running away from you as fast as I could, just like Onesimus ran from Philemon.

Overtly and covertly, I did everything I could to avoid you and ignore you. But you came after me; you found me; you bound me to your heart through the cords of the gospel, and slowly but surely, you’re changing me. The journey from slavery to sonship hasn’t always been easy. Sometimes I feel like it’s three steps forward and two steps backwards.

Jesus, I also know what it’s like to be Philemon. I’ve been failed and I’ve been hurt. I’ve been betrayed and suffered loss. I’ve been used and played for a fool. But forgive me for labeling anyone as useless. There is simply no such thing as a worthless, useless image bearer of God. Help me forgive those who have harmed me, intentionally or otherwise. May your beauty trump my bitterness—your redemption rout my resentment.

Jesus, I want to love like Paul. Paul saw something in Onesimus that Philemon didn’t see. Jesus, you saw something in me that no one else saw. Please give me your gospel eyes to see what you see in others—especially in people who disappoint me or bail on me.

Who have I branded “useless,” with either my actual words or unspoken words? Who have I written off? Who have I renamed “failure,” “worthless,” “you’ll never amount to anything,” “you’re never to be trusted again”? Whose failure stories do I love to retell as a way of paying them back? Have mercy on me, Lord.

I know you’re calling me to be wise, but I also know you’re calling me to love others as you love me. Many times and certain people, I simply do not want to love with gospel love. Forgive me and free me. For none of us is beyond the need of your grace and none of us is beyond the reach of your grace. Jesus, give me a much bigger heart. So very Amen I pray, in your chain-breaking slave-freeing name.

     ”Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!” ”Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!” Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to Jesus, “Teacher, rebuke your disciples!” “I tell you,” he replied, “if they keep quiet, the stones will cry out.” As he approached Jerusalem and saw the city, he wept over it and said, “If you, even you, had only known on this day what would bring you peace.” Luke 19:38-42

Lord Jesus, the ache within our hearts for peace is unrelenting. Let me get specific: the ache within my heart is unrelenting. Though I already rest in you-plus-nothing for my forgiveness and righteousness, I still get sucker-punched by the tantalizing temptation that peace, or at least more peace, can be found in something or someone else. I wish I only pouted and whined when this restlessness kicks it. But unfortunately I reach for empty nothings; I run to broken cisterns; I open the door to wandering peddlers promising pseudo relief.

Some days, Jesus, I’m like Esau. My peace-pangs take over, and in the moment, I’ll gladly settle for a bowl of hot porridge over the hope of a future banquet. The provision of a snack in hand blinds my eye, deafens my ear, and dulls my taste buds to the sumptuous fare of the wedding feast of the Lamb—the day when my longing and demanding heart will be fully set free to delight in you.

Some days, Jesus, I get lost in the world of “if only.” If only there were no tensions in any of my relationships, I’d be a happy man. If only the phone wouldn’t ring again, demanding a little more of me than I have to offer, I’d be fine. If only I lived somewhere else, worked with different people, had a different body, had more money, had fewer hassles, had a different spouse, had never been deeply wounded, were twenty years younger . . . if only, if only, if only. If “the road to hell is paved with good intentions,” then, surely, the road to misery is paved with “if onlys”.

But right now I hear you saying to me, “If you, even you, had only known on this day what would bring you peace” (Luke 19:42). Indeed, Jesus, you alone, this day and every day, are the Prince of Peace. Only in union with you—only in communion with you do I find the true and sufficient peace for which I long.

I join the chorus of those who cry out, “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!” (Luke 19:38), for you, Jesus, are the king of glory and grace. I also cry out, “Bless is the king who is coming again—the One who will finish making all things new—including me!”

“Maranatha!” Even so, Lord Jesus, please come quickly; hasten that Day; accelerate the moment of our release, completion and perfection. Until then continue to free us from the illusion and delusion that peace can be found anywhere else but in you. So very Amen we pray in your faithful and loving name.

Jesus wept. John 11:35

Dear Lord Jesus, this may be the shortest verse in the Bible, but it’s immeasurably long in terms of comfort and encouragement.  Your hot, compassionate tears, shed outside of Lazarus’s tomb, are one of the greatest showers that has ever fallen upon the face of the earth. You wept a waterfall of mercy and grace; a river of kindness and peace; a torrent of tenderness and strength.

You knew that within a matter of moments, your friend would breathe again. You knew he’d walk again. You knew you’d enjoy Lazarus’ company very soon. And yet you wept so full-heartedly, as you allowed yourself to feel the implications of his death. Those privileged to see your sacred fury and great sadness, offered profound commentary, “See how he loved him!” (John 11:36).

Jesus, we’re so glad you are such a tenderhearted Savior. Many of us will soon face the death of a loved one. Some of us have recently buried a friend, a parent, a spouse, or most painfully, a child. Others of us are coming upon the painful anniversary of great loss. Thank you for validating the pain, the emptiness, the confusion, the great sadness we feel.

At times, like Lazarus’ sister, we cry, “Lord, if only you’d been there”, and you don’t wince, roll your eyes or shame us. You never glibly say to us with impatience, “Get over it.” Rather you say with great understanding, “Come to me all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matt. 11:28).

Because no one hates death more than you. No one. Perhaps some of your tears outside of Lazarus’s tomb were offered knowing he’d have to go through the whole rotten dying process again—such is your hatred of death. No one feels its horrid implications more profoundly. No one grieves its ugly violation more deeply. No one is more looking forward to the day of “no more death” (Rev. 21:4) than you. And no one has done more to put death to death, than you.

Today we rest our sobered and saddened hearts on your shoulder, with the peace and comfort that comes from knowing you as “the resurrection and the life” (John 11:25). The last enemy will soon be a long gone enemy (1 Cor. 15:26). And because of your resurrection, we sing in advance of our resurrection, “O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?” (1 Cor. 15:55). How we praise you! How we exalt you! How we rest our heavy hearts in your loving hands! So very Amen we pray, in your grave-robbing name. Amen.

     ”In your anger do not sin”: Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry, and do not give the devil a foothold. Eph. 4:26-27

Dear Lord Jesus, anger, sinning, devilish activity and footholds, I’m way too familiar with all four. I can think of certain door-to-door salespeople I wish I’d never given a “foothold” across the threshold of my front door. One minute into feigned niceness and well crafted “pitch,” and I’m ready to usher them on their way. Oh, that I’d be that wise when the devil approaches my heart and home.

Of course, if the dark one knocked on my front door in a red jumpsuit with a three-pronged pitchfork in hand, I’d have no problem turning him away. Unfortunately, he usually creeps in from the basement of tiredness and self-righteousness, or the back door of pent-up irritation and resentment. I can’t and won’t blame my anger on him. He’s the parasitic pariah who exploits anger for his evil machinations.

Jesus, help me understand and steward the emotion of anger. It’s always been a confusing feeling to me—one causing fear, shame and ambivalence. In this Scripture, you’re not telling us never to be angry, but to be careful not to sin when we do feel angry. Grant me big grace for this one, Lord.

I’ve been on the receiving end of destructive anger and demonic rage, and I don’t wish such a crushing of the spirit or implosion of the heart on anyone.  Though I’m not typically loud and large with my anger, I certainly own and grieve the ways my anger has brought just as much hurt to people I love. A slow radioactive leak of fury can be just as damaging, in time, as a fury bomb.

Jesus, help me be angry at the right time, for the right reasons, in the right way. Give me a holy passion for justice. Help me become a courageous warrior of the heart and advocate for the marginalized and oppressed. Help me turn over tables to your glory, and not merely throw tantrums for my pouting.

Melt the icebergs of tension and stress in my heart and body. Change my rigidity into playfulness. Redirect the energy I waste trying to feed and keep my control idol propped up. Slay the beast in me that assumes the right not to be interrupted or inconvenienced. May I be much more committed to pre-sunset resolves and reconciliations, than giving my anger a warm bottle tucking it in for a good night’s sleep.

Right now, Lord Jesus, I throw open every door and window of my heart. Come in and establish multiple footholds of mercy, grace, and compassion. I abandon myself to your beauty and bounty today. So very Amen I pray in your peerless and priceless name.

     The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom. He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint. Isa. 40:28-31

Gracious Father, this was one of the first Scriptures I memorized as a young believer, yet reading it today is like finding a new treasure in an old field; fresh cut flowers in the corner of a dusty attic; a cool fountain of grace in a dry desert of brokenness. That’s one of the things I most love about your Word. It’s never antiquated, redundant or irrelevant, but always timely, trustworthy and faith-building. You’re the God who speaks in specifics and without stuttering. You’re the Father who knows what we need even before we ask, and who provide before we ask.

This passage from Isaiah is underlined multiple times in my favorite Bible, and for good reason. It reminds me that you’re not like me (Hallelujah!), in so many ways. You never get tired or weary. I do and I am. Accepting limitations, finiteness, and weakness has never been one of my strengths. But I must. Since youths grow tired and weary and young men stumble and fall, why do I think I’m exempt from “running on empty” and hitting a wall?

Father, I’m not asking to soar like an eagle, as fun as that might be; and I’m not seeking to run like a marathoner, though I’d love to. Just walking upright with a renewed heart, a steady gait, and a replenished energy will be enough.

My hope is in you, loving Father, merciful Abba—the God who brings refreshment into the wilderness; the generous Lord, who promises sufficient grace for every day and each exigency; the Almighty God who makes mountains dance and trees clap their hands.

Right now I look to you for all the spiritual, emotional, mental, and physical strength I’ll need to live out the implications of the gospel just today. I’m not depleted, though heading there, but I have no doubts about your great compassion for me in Jesus. Give me deep sleep and refreshing naps. Make fresh fruit be as appealing as carrot cake and fudge pie. Don’t let me talk myself out of exercise.

Because Jesus embraced the ultimate weakness and weariness of the cross, I’m confident of your burden-bearing love. I may be weary in my servanthood, but I’m thriving in my sonship. Nothing can separate me from your love; not unreasonable people, nor unlimited needs, nor unfinished tasks. So very Amen I pray, in Jesus’ tender and triumphant name. Amen.

     As you come to him, a living stone rejected by men but in the sight of God chosen and precious, you yourselves like living stones are being built up as a spiritual house, to be a holy priesthood, to offer spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ. For it stands in Scripture: “Behold, I am laying in Zion a stone, a cornerstone chosen and precious, and whoever believes in him will not be put to shame.” 1 Pet. 2:4-6

Heavenly Father, I used to think that “coming to Jesus” was a phrase whose meaning is exhausted when we first trust your Son to be our Savior—that magnificent merciful moment of crossing over from death to life, from the kingdom of darkness into the kingdom of the Son you love.  For sure, that is the most glorious and essential “come-to-Jesus-meeting” we’ll ever have. How I praise you for showing me how much I needed the gospel, and for giving me the faith to trust Jesus-plus-nothing for my salvation.

But it’s obvious to me now that the whole Christian life is about coming to Jesus. The day we stop coming to Jesus is the day we no longer need grace. We need Jesus today as much as the first day he entered our lives. In fact, we’ll never exhaust our need for what he alone can give. Even as we enjoy life in the new heaven and new earth, we’ll forever discover more and more reasons to give Jesus the worship, adoration, and praise of which he alone is worthy. Father, we arise and come to your beloved Son right now…

Indeed, Lord Jesus, you are the life-giving living Stone for your beloved people; the precious cornerstone of the living temple called the body of Christ; the rock of refuge that’s higher than I am (Ps. 61:2-3); the rock from which God gave water in the wilderness in Moses’ day (1 Cor. 10:1-4). You are the honey-giving rock of whom Asaph spoke (Ps. 81:16), and you are Daniel’s stone, cut from a mountain by the hands of God, which will become an everlasting kingdom of redemption and restoration (Dan. 2:36-45).

Lord Jesus, we exalt you and delight in you. The more precious you become to us, the more we watch our shame melt away. The more we treasure you, the more our other “treasures” become like empty-nothings, fool’s gold, and broken cisterns. The quicker and more often we come to you, the more we realize that it’s you who is always coming to us first. We can’t outdo you at anything except sinning.

Jesus, we come to you right now—we come bringing our thirst to the fountain of your fullness; we bring our misery to the commissary of your kindness; we bring our weakness to the endless supply of your strength; we bring our brokenness to the infirmary of your infinite mercies; we bring our weariness to the oasis of your refreshing affection. We come to you right now, Lord, for enough gospel manna to meet the demands of this one day. So very Amen, we pray in your precious and shame-freeing name.

     Many followed him [Jesus], and he healed them all and ordered them not to make him known. This was to fulfill what was spoken by the prophet Isaiah: “Behold, my servant whom I have chosen, my beloved with whom my soul is well pleased. I will put my Spirit upon him, and he will proclaim justice to the Gentiles. He will not quarrel or cry aloud, nor will anyone hear his voice in the streets; a bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not quench, until he brings justice to victory; And in his name the Gentiles will hope.” Matt. 12:15-21

Dear Lord Jesus, I’m greatly moved today as I ponder your compassionate heart for the broken and suffering. Surely there’s no Savior like you: entering, not running from our chaos; taking, not despising our shame; shouldering, not ignoring our burdens. “Bruised reeds” and “smoldering wicks” love your appearing. Justice will be fully victorious because you have been the willing Sufferer.

For sure, most gloriously sure, your sufferings as our sin-bearer are over, done, complete! As the Lamb of God, you offered yourself once and for all upon the cross. No additional sacrifice for our sin remains to be offered—none. I no longer fear being judged by God for my sin, for you were judged in our place. Your perfect love continues to drive away all fear of punishment, anxiety about Judgment Day, and uncertainty about eternity. I boast and rest in your sufferings for me, Lord Jesus, and I also shout several hearty, “Hallelujahs!”

But I also cry out, “Help me, Lord Jesus—free me, lead me.” Take me with you into the sufferings of friends and family; further into the groans of my own heart, deeper into the injustices and brokenness of my community.

Like most, I have an aversion to pain and suffering. Like many, I’d love the Christian life to be an antidote for all discomfort and distress. Like some, I get overwhelmed and overtaxed by the sufferings of others.

Here’s our peace, our consolation, our ballast, Jesus: you’re not calling us to suffer for you but to suffer with you, and that makes all the difference in the world. We’re called into the fellowship of your sufferings, not into the isolation of our sufferings. Your tear-wiping hand comes to us and reaches through us.

You’ll never lead us into hard places where you’re not present. You’ll never ask us to do anything all by ourselves. You’ll never leave us or forsake us, Jesus. You’ll never give us more than we can endure. You’ll never give us less than sufficient grace.

You will lead justice to victory, and in your name all the nations will put their hope. You are beloved of the Father and we are beloved of you. What privilege, joy and comfort. So very Amen we pray, in your kind and compassionate name.

     Because God wanted to make the unchanging nature of his purpose very clear to the heirs of what was promised, he confirmed it with an oath. God did this so that, by two unchangeable things in which it is impossible for God to lie, we who have fled to take hold of the hope set before us may be greatly encouraged. We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure. Hebrews 6:17-19

     Heavenly Father, stunned, awe-filled, and grateful is what I feel as I pray through this Scripture today. I know it’s euphemistic and cliché; colloquial and provincial, dated and nowhere to be found in erudite tomes of theological discourse, but you “rock”. There is no other “god” like you—singularly worthy of my heart’s adoration, affection, and allegiance. Though the “Michal’s” of the world might object (2 Samuel 6), I would gladly dance before you today like King David, dressed in the righteousness of Jesus alone.

Should the idol factory of my heart work overtime, in my wildest, most self-centered days, I could not even begin to imagine or fabricate a god as good, generous and loving as you. All my idols are “empty nothings,” miserable mirages, tottering temples of wood, hay and stubble—mute, blind and impotent (Isa 44:9-20). You alone are the fullness of everything I need, much more than I want, and eternally beyond all I could ever deserve.

You have made promises you alone can keep—promises of redemption, reconciliation and restoration. You neither exaggerate nor lie. You are the God of all hope who fills us to overflowing with hope, not hype—living hope, leaping hope, laughing hope (Romans 15:13; I Peter 1:3). The anchor of our guilt and shame has been severed from its tether, and sent into the bottomless ocean of your grace. We are now anchored to hope—firmly, securely. No matter the how rough the sea, high the waves or threatening the sea beasts, we are anchored to hope—and hope does not disappoint (Romans 5:5).

Through Jesus, everything broken will become unbroken. All things made bad by sin will be made new by grace. Systemic evil will be trumped and replaced with systemic beauty—never to be sullied again.

The curse will not just be lifted, it will be crushed and sent eternally packing (Revelation 22:3). The despair of the fall will be run off and overrun by the delights of the new heaven and new earth. We will never again hurt one another or be hurt by one another. Tongues of gossip and gangrene will be transformed into tongues of wonder and worship. We will as lovely and as loving as Jesus (1 John 3:1-1). That cannot happen one day too soon.

Father, by the power of the gospel, “out” and flush out our whinings, gripes and complainings. As heirs of eternity, it’s so unbefitting that we should live as paupers in praise. So very Amen we pray, in Jesus’ triumphant and transforming name.

The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit. Ps. 34:18

Jesus, your mercy is measureless; your patience is limitless; your grace is boundless. None is more bighearted towards the brokenhearted than you. We begin, enter and will end this day enveloped in your love and guided by your hand. Everywhere we look, we will find you there. There’s no dark, hard, crushing place you are not present. Continue to open the eyes of our hearts.

When we look into the deep well of the Word, we see your commitment to set us free from our imprisonment to sin and death, guilt and shame, and to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor. In the gospel we see and we savor lavish love, irrepressible power, and living hope. You are constantly singing these words over us: “There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus” (Rom. 8:1). You see in us what we’ve yet to see, and we have peace.

When we look at places like Haiti, Calcutta, and Darfur, we see your footprint, hand and heart; because you came to preach good news to the poor—not just good news concerning spiritual poverty but also the good news of a kingdom which provides food for the hungry, clean water for the thirsty, shelter for the homeless, advocacy for the marginalized, family for the orphan.

When we look at systemic evil in the world—human trafficking, the idolatry of greed, an ideology of terror, the pornography industry, to name a few—we’re so thankful that you’ve also come to proclaim the day of vengeance of our God. No one is a greater champion of justice than you, Lord Jesus. One day, all the pillaging weeds of unrighteousness will be replaced with mighty oaks of righteousness—”a planting of the Lord for the display of his splendor” (Isa. 61:3). We see weeds, you see garden.

Today, Lord Jesus, this very morning, we’re especially thankful that you’re close to the brokenhearted and that you save those who are crushed in spirit. Help us see you in the valley of death’s shadow; in the wilderness of wails; in heartland of heartache. Today we pray for parents who will bury their babies; friends who will receive painful life-altering news; brothers and sisters in Christ beginning to deal with very old wounds with very present power; neighbors to whom you feel distant and cruel.

Some stories and moments make us wonder, “Why, O Lord?” and “How long, O Lord?” Thank you for not despising our weakness and weariness. But of course you wouldn’t, for no one was broken in heart and body like you, no one was crushed in spirit like you, and you did it all for us, Lord Jesus.

Anywhere you are we need not fear going. Because you are near, we don’t have to be afraid of drawing near to our friends in crisis. Give us heart, words and tears to love to your glory. O for the Day when we will forever be done with a spirit of despair and will only wear the garment of praise. So very Amen we pray, in your kindhearted, ever-present name.