In 1 Kings 18, we read of one of the greatest victories ever recorded in the story of God’s people. Elijah, the lone prophet of Yahweh, stands boldly against 450 prophets of Baal on Mount Carmel. The terms were simple: the God who answers by fire—He is the true God of Israel.
And fire fell.
The people were stunned. They fell on their faces and declared, “The Lord, He is God.” And for a moment, Israel’s heart seemed to return to Yahweh. The false prophets were put to death. God had shown Himself mighty.
But not everyone rejoiced.
Ahab, the king of Israel, ran to tell his wife Jezebel what had happened. She was not only a foreign queen—she was a fierce devotee of Baal. And she wasn’t about to let Elijah go unpunished.
“Ahab told Jezebel all that Elijah had done, and how he had killed all the prophets with the sword.
Then Jezebel sent a messenger to Elijah, saying, ‘So may the gods do to me and more also, if I do not make your life as the life of one of them by this time tomorrow.’
Then he was afraid, and he arose and ran for his life and came to Beersheba, which belongs to Judah, and left his servant there.” (1 Kings 19:1–3 ESV).
Fresh off a mountain-top miracle, Elijah plunges into the valley of fear. Jezebel wanted him dead, and he knew she was more than capable. So he runs. And in that moment, we see something we might not expect from a man of such great faith.
He drops into depression.
And did you notice what he did first? He left his servant behind.
Why? The Bible doesn’t tell us. But we can wonder.
Was it because he wanted to be alone?
Was it to protect his servant from danger?
Or could it be that his servant had simply had enough—and chose to walk away?
Whatever the reason, Elijah is now alone. And it weighs on him.
What’s telling is this: later, he doesn’t go back for that servant. Instead, God provides another—Elisha—who proves to be the very picture of faithfulness.
“Now when the LORD was about to take Elijah up to heaven by a whirlwind, Elijah and Elisha were on their way from Gilgal.
And Elijah said to Elisha, ‘Please stay here, for the LORD has sent me as far as Bethel.’ But Elisha said, ‘As the LORD lives, and as you yourself live, I will not leave you.’ So they went down to Bethel.” (2 Kings 2:1–2 ESV).
Elisha refused to leave Elijah’s side, even when prompted to. That kind of companionship matters deeply when we’re at our lowest.
But before Elisha ever entered the story, Elijah reached a breaking point.
“But he himself went a day’s journey into the wilderness and came and sat down under a broom tree. And he asked that he might die, saying, ‘It is enough; now, O LORD, take away my life, for I am no better than my fathers.’” (1 Kings 19:4 ESV).
That’s the voice of a man who feels completely spent. It’s the cry of a heart that sees no way forward. And maybe we’ve been there. Maybe we’ve sat under our own broom tree—numb, tired, alone.
Some of us might have even whispered similar words: Just take my life, Lord.
But here’s the beauty of this story: God doesn’t rebuke Elijah for feeling this way. He doesn’t bark orders or question his loyalty. Instead, God meets Elijah right where he is.
He doesn’t speak through the wind, or the earthquake, or the fire.
“And after the earthquake a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire. And after the fire the sound of a low whisper.
And when Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his cloak and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave. And behold, there came a voice to him and said, ‘What are you doing here, Elijah?’” (1 Kings 19:12–13 ESV).
God came gently.
In a whisper.
And from there, He began to restore His servant. Not with lectures—but with presence. With purpose. With provision.
And one of the very first things God gave Elijah?
“So he departed from there and found Elisha the son of Shaphat… Elijah passed by him and cast his cloak upon him.” (1 Kings 19:19 ESV).
A companion.
A new servant.
A reminder: You are not alone anymore.
That’s the kind of God we serve.
He knows our pain—even when we don’t have the words to explain it.
He understands our fear—even when we try to hide it.
And He knows exactly what we need—even before we do.
Sometimes He meets us in the fire. Sometimes in the whisper. But always—always—with love.
And when we are ready to walk again, even if our steps are slow and shaky, He walks with us.
Let’s hold onto that hope.
If you’ve found yourself under the broom tree lately, please remember: it’s not your final resting place.
God still has purpose for you.
He’s not done.
And when your work is complete, when your stewardship is fulfilled, He’ll carry you home in His own chariot of fire. Until then, we cast every care and every anxious thought at the feet of King Jesus—because He truly does care for us.
I am in Isaiah in my daily Bible reading. Assyria was on a roll. Nation after nation had fallen, including the northern kingdom of Israel, which they led into captivity nearly two decades earlier. So when they showed up at Jerusalem’s doorstep, they didn’t see a city—they saw a formality. Another conquest. Another feather in the cap of the empire.
And in their minds, Yahweh had already lost.
That’s what made the Rabshakeh’s words so chilling. He stood before the walls of Jerusalem and belittled the God of Heaven with stunning arrogance:
“Beware lest Hezekiah mislead you by saying, ‘The LORD will deliver us.’ Has any of the gods of the nations delivered his land out of the hand of the king of Assyria?
Where are the gods of Hamath and Arpad? Where are the gods of Sepharvaim? Have they delivered Samaria out of my hand?
Who among all the gods of these lands have delivered their lands out of my hand, that the LORD should deliver Jerusalem out of my hand?” (Isaiah 36:18–20 ESV).
To the Rabshakeh, Yahweh was just another name in a long line of defeated gods. But we know the rest of the story, don’t we? The angel of the Lord struck down 186,000 Assyrian soldiers in one night. And Sennacherib, the king of Assyria, who once claimed power over all nations, was removed from his throne—silenced in the very temple of the god he trusted.
But let’s not skip past the Rabshakeh too quickly.
We still encounter his kind today. Not always in person—sometimes in comment threads, interviews, classrooms, or headlines. We hear their voices on podcasts and social media feeds. The tone hasn’t changed. It’s mocking. Dismissive. Designed to shake our confidence and make us question everything we know about the God we serve.
They call our faith foolish. They mock our hope. They sneer at the idea that God would step in and save anyone.
Paul knew this spirit well, and he reminded the early church:
“For the word of the cross is folly to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.” (1 Corinthians 1:18 ESV).
“For since, in the wisdom of God, the world did not know God through wisdom, it pleased God through the folly of what we preach to save those who believe.” (1 Corinthians 1:21 ESV).
It’s not just that the world doesn’t understand the message—it’s that God chose a message the world couldn’t understand unless their hearts were willing.
That’s why the Rabshakeh didn’t get it. And that’s why our critics today won’t either—unless their hearts are softened.
But take courage. Because just as Yahweh proved faithful in Jerusalem, He will prove faithful again. The voices that mock may be loud, but they are not eternal. And the God we trust does not tremble at the sound of their threats.
Let’s keep preaching Christ. Let’s keep trusting His Word. And let’s remember—when the Rabshakeh roars, Heaven is still in control.
No matter how far we travel, God is always just as near.
I am in Isaiah in my daily Bible reading. Why does God go to such great lengths to call us back?
Isaiah gives us a front-row seat to one of the most remarkable displays of divine patience and relentless love in all of Scripture. Again and again, we hear God pleading with His people to turn from their idols—gods of their own making—and return to Him. He declares that there is no one like Him. None beside Him. None who can compare.
And still, He pleads.
Sure, He loves us.
Sure, He is longsuffering toward us.
Sure, He is quick to forgive and quick to forget our iniquities.
But why?
Why does He keep reaching out, even when we slap His hand away?
It’s because of who we are—and what we were made for. We are not just any part of creation. We were created in His image. That matters. That carries deep significance in the heart of God. He designed us to rule over His creation with Him. That was the original plan. That is our created purpose. And He adopted us as sons and daughters. That is how He sees us.
There is something stunning in this:
You never see God going to these lengths for angels.
This is something He reserves for us—and us alone.
“For surely it is not angels that he helps, but he helps the offspring of Abraham.” (Hebrews 2:16 ESV).
Isaiah spends chapter after chapter reminding us of God’s sovereignty, humanity’s rebellion, and God’s tender desire to restore what has been broken. He calls us to repentance not to shame us—but to redeem us. To bring us back into the relationship that once was. To walk with us again, just as He did in Eden.
And Isaiah, more than most, gives us a glimpse of how this would come to pass. A Child would be born. A Son would be given. The Wonderful Counselor. Mighty God. Everlasting Father. Prince of Peace. God Himself would step into the brokenness of His creation and do what we could never do for ourselves.
What kind of God does that?
One who is rich in mercy.
One who finds joy not in punishment, but in restoration.
One who is not content to let sin write the final chapter of our story.
The truth is, God has nothing to gain from our redemption. He doesn’t need us to complete Him. But He wants us. He longs to walk with His creation again. He loves us too much to give up on us, and He went to the cross to prove it.
This is who we are: sons and daughters of God, made in His image, called to reign with Him over all creation in due time.
This is our birthright.
And yet… many still turn away.
Many despise the very thing God is trying to restore. Many walk away from the only Source of life, choosing brokenness over healing, autonomy over sonship, darkness over light.
But still, He calls.
We now live under the rule of King Jesus—the very King Isaiah prophesied. And the invitation to live under His reign is open to all—Jew and Gentile alike. He is the only Way, the only Truth, the only Life. No one comes to the Father except through Him.
So let’s give our hearts, our faith, and our full allegiance to this great King.
Let’s live like people who know who we are.
Let’s walk like those who understand the value of what we’ve been given.
Let’s not despise our birthright.
Let’s not reject the One who gave everything to bring us home.
This is the message of Isaiah.
Love keeps standing, even when it’s weary. It doesn’t walk away when things get heavy. That’s the kind of love God shows—and the kind He calls us to give.
You’re not chasing victory—you’re walking with the Victor.
I am wrapping up the book of Isaiah in my daily Bible reading. What a way to end a prophetic book! It’s a promise of paradise to come; communion with God. It points to Jesus and what He has in store for us.
“The nations shall see your righteousness, and all the kings your glory, and you shall be called by a new name that the mouth of the LORD will give.” (Isaiah 62:2 ESV).
In chapter 65, Isaiah writes:
“For behold, I create new heavens and a new earth, and the former things shall not be remembered or come into mind.” (Isaiah 65:17 ESV).
And who can forget this vision:
“The wolf and the lamb shall graze together; the lion shall eat straw like the ox, and dust shall be the serpent’s food. They shall not hurt or destroy in all my holy mountain,” says the LORD.” (Isaiah 65:25 ESV).
This is what we were created for—a world made new, where peace reigns and God walks with His people. Isaiah doesn’t just give us a glimpse of the future—he reminds us of who we are and what we were always meant to be.
But before this paradise comes a judgment. Those who refuse to kneel before God will not be forced into His presence. He calls us, He pleads with us—but He will not drag us into communion against our will.
We were made in His image. That means we were made for relationship, made to reflect His nature, made for more than the brokenness of this world. And God is deeply invested in helping us return to that design.
This is our calling. This is our birthright. If only we would listen to the pleading voice of our Creator.
A couple of days ago, a friend of mine asked a few of us to comment on a Facebook post that pointed out something I’d never noticed before. When Jesus told the disciples that one of them would betray Him, they each responded by asking, “Is it I, Lord?”—except Judas. He said, “Is it I, Rabbi?”
They all called Jesus Lord—except Judas. It’s a small detail, but it got me thinking. And here’s what I wrote in response:
Judas is a puzzling character to me. He saw the miracles, performed them himself, yet he wasn’t fully committed to Jesus as his Lord. Where Peter denied Jesus out of fear, Judas did it from greed. That’s a sign of a cold heart. John tells us in John 12:6 that he was a thief from the beginning and stole from the common moneybag. While we don’t know everything about his heart, I feel comfortable believing there is enough evidence that he had free will, was an evil man who never fully submitted to Jesus as Lord, but regretted what he did when he betrayed an innocent good man. Jesus gave this thief everything he needed to put away his selfish ways and embrace the Savior, but Judas lived for Judas. I hadn’t noticed that he called Jesus Rabbi when the others called him Lord. It’s interesting to consider and it fits his character in my opinion. But we’re speculating at best… Which I’ve been known to do myself on occasions.
In The Sovereignty of God, I wrestle with the tension between Judas’s free will and the Old Testament prophecies that foretold his betrayal. If Scripture says it was going to happen, did Judas really have a choice? Or was he a pawn, scripted into the story with no way out?
These are not easy waters to navigate. A casual answer here can quietly unravel a bigger truth—either about free will or God’s sovereign hand. That’s why speculation, while useful in stretching our thinking, must always stay in its place. It should sharpen our understanding, not replace Scripture itself.
Let’s be clear: applying Scripture to our own walk is good. In fact, it’s vital. But applying it to others as law—especially when it’s rooted in speculation or inference—can be dangerous. When we elevate our opinions to the level of God’s truth, we trade the authority of Christ for the authority of self.
Let us always be willing to share what we’re learning—but let’s be humble enough to say, “This is what I think,” rather than, “This is what you must do.”
Because Jesus didn’t call us to worship our conclusions. He called us to worship Him.
“This people honors me with their lips, but their heart is far from me;
in vain do they worship me, teaching as doctrines the commandments of men.” (Matthew 15:8-9 ESV).
I live to be known by the One who matters most, in the moment that matters most.
I am in the book of Jeremiah in my daily Bible reading.
Jeremiah served God during one of the darkest chapters in Judah’s history. The northern kingdom of Israel had already been carried away into captivity, and Judah had followed the same path of unfaithfulness. The nation had traded its covenant with God for broken idols and empty rituals.
The Lord’s indictment was piercing:
“for my people have committed two evils: they have forsaken me, the fountain of living waters, and hewed out cisterns for themselves, broken cisterns that can hold no water.” (Jeremiah 2:13 ESV).
Into this crumbling kingdom, God sent Jeremiah. He was young. Inexperienced. Unpolished. And yet, he had been handpicked by God before he ever drew a breath.
“Now the word of the LORD came to me, saying,
‘Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you; I appointed you a prophet to the nations.’
Then I said, ‘Ah, Lord GOD! Behold, I do not know how to speak, for I am only a youth.’
But the LORD said to me, ‘Do not say, “I am only a youth”; for to all to whom I send you, you shall go, and whatever I command you, you shall speak.’” (Jeremiah 1:4–7 ESV).
Jeremiah’s story reminds us that being chosen doesn’t mean being shielded from pain. Over the next few chapters, we will walk with a prophet who was beaten, imprisoned, mocked, and overwhelmed. We’ll watch him try to quit, only to find that the Word of God would not let him go.
“If I say, ‘I will not mention him, or speak any more in his name,’ there is in my heart as it were a burning fire shut up in my bones, and I am weary with holding it in, and I cannot.” (Jeremiah 20:9 ESV).
He spoke—and suffered. But in the end, it was not Jeremiah who was judged. It was the kings and leaders who hardened their hearts and rejected the Word of the Lord. While their power crumbled and their dynasty fell, Jeremiah remained. Scarred, but standing.
Paul says it just as clearly:
“Indeed, all who desire to live a godly life in Christ Jesus will be persecuted,” (2 Timothy 3:12 ESV).
We may want our faithfulness to be rewarded with ease. But Jeremiah shows us that the path of obedience often runs uphill. And yet—it is a path God walks with us. He sees. He remembers. And in the end, it will be Jesus who welcomes us home:
“Well done, good and faithful servant. You have been faithful over a little; I will set you over much. Enter into the joy of your master.” (Matthew 25:21 ESV).
So let’s walk the road with Jeremiah. Let’s let the Word of God burn in our bones. Let’s refuse to let the world silence our voice.
Because faithfulness doesn’t always lead to comfort—but it always leads us home.
I am in the book of Jeremiah in my daily Bible reading.
God is preparing to bring judgment—not just on Judah, but on all the nations. Why? Because the people had abandoned any semblance of righteousness. Every man did what was right in his own eyes. Evil hearts ruled the day. And worst of all, there was no thought given to the God who deserves all glory and honor.
“There is none like you, O LORD; you are great, and your name is great in might.
Who would not fear you, O King of the nations? For this is your due; for among all the wise ones of the nations and in all their kingdoms there is none like you.” (Jeremiah 10:6–7 ESV).
That line stays with us: This is your due.
God deserves our reverence. He deserves our obedience. But how often do we withhold both? How often do we follow our own plans, our own instincts, and our own reasoning—and then expect God to bless it afterward?
The truth is, God has never been vague about what He wants. He didn’t hide His expectations. To Israel, He gave a law. And to the Gentiles, He still made His way known:
“For when Gentiles, who do not have the law, by nature do what the law requires, they are a law to themselves, even though they do not have the law.
They show that the work of the law is written on their hearts, while their conscience also bears witness, and their conflicting thoughts accuse or even excuse them” (Romans 2:14–15 ESV).
God doesn’t hide from us. But we often hide from Him.
And so judgment comes. Through Jeremiah, God announces a reckoning that will sweep over the nations. Babylon, Egypt, Judah—none are spared. But woven into these heavy pronouncements, we find something remarkable in Jeremiah’s own confession:
“I know, O LORD, that the way of man is not in himself, that it is not in man who walks to direct his steps.
Correct me, O LORD, but in justice; not in your anger, lest you bring me to nothing.” (Jeremiah 10:23–24 ESV).
That’s the moment of clarity. Jeremiah isn’t just warning others—he’s recognizing that left to his own wisdom, even he will get lost. He knows that he doesn’t know. And in humility, he invites the Lord to correct him—not harshly, but justly. That’s the heart God desires.
How different that is from what God says of the leaders of the people:
“For the shepherds are stupid and do not inquire of the LORD; therefore they have not prospered, and all their flock is scattered.” (Jeremiah 10:21 ESV).
Let that word land. Stupid.
Not because they lacked intelligence—but because they lacked inquiry. They didn’t ask God. They didn’t seek His way. And as a result, everything fell apart.
So we have a choice. Will we be stubborn like Judah, self-reliant like Egypt, or arrogant like Babylon? Or will we, like Jeremiah, confess that we don’t know the way—and ask God to lead us?
May we not be stupid shepherds.
May we be humble enough to ask, wise enough to listen, and faithful enough to follow the voice of our Shepherd.
Because the day of judgment will come again. And when it does, whose steps will we be walking in?