June 1st, 2025
I am in the book of Mark in my daily Bible reading. This was the first Gospel written, and it was likely aimed at Gentile believers—people who didn’t grow up knowing the Law, the Prophets, or the promises of the Old Covenant. Many scholars believe Mark’s readers were enduring persecution, and you can feel it in the urgency of the story.
Mark moves fast. His favorite word seems to be “immediately.” He doesn’t linger long in one place. There’s a sense of movement, of action, of crisis and resolution. That makes sense for persecuted people—people on the run, people who don’t have the luxury of sitting still for too long.
Mark also takes time to explain Jewish customs that his readers wouldn’t know.
“For the Pharisees and all the Jews do not eat unless they wash their hands properly, holding to the tradition of the elders.” (Mark 7:3 ESV)
He translates Aramaic phrases that others might assume are understood.
“Taking her by the hand he said to her, ‘Talitha cumi,’ (which means, ‘Little girl, I say to you, arise.’)” (Mark 5:41–42 ESV)
He doesn’t want anyone to miss the point. He’s writing so that all nations—all people—can understand who Jesus is.
And when you look at how Mark presents Jesus, you see a clear emphasis on His suffering. He’s not just a powerful healer. He’s not just a wise teacher. He’s a suffering Savior. A Servant. A Man of Sorrows who was despised and rejected. And as Gentile Christians living under Roman oppression, I imagine Mark’s readers clung to that image. They needed to know that their Lord understood what it meant to suffer.
But here’s the line that stands out above all:
“And calling the crowd to him with his disciples, he said to them, ‘If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.’” (Mark 8:34 ESV)
If anyone. Not just Jews. Not just the strong. Not just the elite. Anyone.
Mark gives us Jesus, and he gives us the path to follow. That path involves suffering. It involves rejection. It involves taking up a cross.
But it also involves hope, because Mark ends with a risen Savior—one who defeated death and calls us to follow Him through the suffering, all the way into glory.
So the next time we open the Gospel of Mark, let’s do so with the ears of a persecuted Gentile believer. Let’s hear its urgency. Let’s hear its compassion. And let’s remember that the Servant of all is also the Savior of all.
I’m in the book of Mark in my daily Bible reading, and I found myself standing quietly in the Garden of Gethsemane, just a few feet behind Jesus. The air was heavy. The night was still. And the Son of God—troubled and overwhelmed—fell to the ground and began to pray.
“And he said, ‘Abba, Father, all things are possible for you. Remove this cup from me. Yet not what I will, but what you will.’” (Mark 14:36 ESV).
So much is packed into that single sentence. Jesus knew the will of God. He had foretold His death. He understood the prophecies. But even so, He still pleaded, asking His Father to remove the suffering ahead. He even acknowledged that the Father could do all things—He could stop it. He could send angels. He could change the story.
But Jesus surrendered.
“Yet not what I will, but what you will.”
He meant it.
“For I have come down from heaven, not to do my own will but the will of him who sent me.” (John 6:38 ESV).
We learn something incredible here: Jesus had a will of His own. It’s not sinful to want something different than what God asks of us. But Jesus shows us what it means to humbly align ourselves with God’s will—even when it costs us everything.
He chose to lay down His life.
“For this reason the Father loves me, because I lay down my life that I may take it up again.
No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have authority to lay it down, and I have authority to take it up again. This charge I have received from my Father.” (John 10:17–18 ESV).
When Peter tried to defend Him, Jesus reminded him that this wasn’t a trap He couldn’t escape. He wasn’t a victim. He was a willing servant.
“Then Jesus said to him, ‘Put your sword back into its place. For all who take the sword will perish by the sword.
Do you think that I cannot appeal to my Father, and he will at once send me more than twelve legions of angels?
But how then should the Scriptures be fulfilled, that it must be so?’” (Matthew 26:52–54 ESV).
Jesus could have walked away. But He didn’t. He chose obedience. He chose trust. He chose us.
And that’s the lesson for us today. It’s not wrong to have a will of our own. It’s not wrong to struggle with the path ahead. But the call of the disciple is the call to humility—to lay our will down and trust that God’s way, even when it’s hard, is always better.
When our will doesn’t match His, let’s echo Jesus’ words: “Not my will, but Yours be done.”
In the darkest night of His life, Jesus still trusted the Father.
We can too.
Let’s take our desires to God. Let’s speak honestly about what we want. But when we’re done pouring out our hearts, let’s place our trust in His hands. Because the One who loves us enough to die for us will never lead us wrong.
Interesting… I just noticed this:
“who says of Cyrus, ‘He is my shepherd, and he shall fulfill all my purpose’; saying of Jerusalem, ‘She shall be built,’ and of the temple, ‘Your foundation shall be laid.’” (Isaiah 44:28 ESV).
I have often used this verse to showcase God’s sovereignty. It’s truly amazing to think that God named a man—Cyrus—150 years before his birth and outlined exactly how He would use him.
But today, I saw something equally profound and yet entirely different. When Isaiah penned these prophetic words, the Temple was still standing strong in Jerusalem.
Historically, we know that the Jews believed the Temple of God was indestructible. After all, it was the dwelling place of Yahweh, the one true God. How could any nation possibly destroy His house?
Yet, right here in Isaiah’s prophecy, God reveals something astonishing:
“and of the temple, ‘Your foundation shall be laid.’”
Did you catch it? Before anyone could even imagine the Temple’s destruction, God was already speaking about its rebuilding. He was telling His people that something unimaginable was coming—their beloved Temple would fall, and their cherished Jerusalem would lie in ruins. But He didn’t stop there. He went further, naming Cyrus—the future king who would oversee their restoration—long before the disaster even struck.
Pause for a moment and consider this awe-inspiring reality. Our God sees what we cannot. He knows what lies beyond every unimaginable circumstance. What may shock and utterly shake our world never catches God off-guard. He already knows. He is already prepared.
Today, let’s simply pause in wonder and amazement at the depth and perfection of God’s foreknowledge. The One we serve is never surprised by the twists and turns of life. He is never overwhelmed by unexpected events. Instead, our God sees clearly into every tomorrow and orchestrates His perfect plans long before we even know we need them.
This truth invites our deepest trust. We can rest confidently in the hands of a God who knows everything—even those things we cannot begin to fathom.
Be amazed. Be in awe. Our God truly knows all things.
I am in 2 Samuel in my daily Bible reading. In chapter 9, we find one of the most moving pictures of grace in the Old Testament—an act that points us straight to the heart of King Jesus.
“And David said, ‘Is there still anyone left of the house of Saul, that I may show him kindness for Jonathan’s sake?’” (2 Samuel 9:1 ESV).
Think about that for a second. David, now the reigning king, doesn’t seek to destroy the last remnants of Saul’s household like most kings would have done. Instead, he seeks out Saul’s descendants to show kindness. Kindness, not vengeance.
That’s already surprising—but then it gets even better.
“And David said to him, ‘Do not fear, for I will show you kindness for the sake of your father Jonathan, and I will restore to you all the land of Saul your father, and you shall eat at my table always.’
And he paid homage and said, ‘What is your servant, that you should show regard for a dead dog such as I?’” (2 Samuel 9:7–8 ESV).
Did you catch that? David invites Mephibosheth—the grandson of his enemy—to eat at the king’s table always. Not just once. Always.
And Mephibosheth knew he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t come with pride or entitlement. He knew he had no claim. He saw himself as a “dead dog.” And still, David honored him and treated him as one of his own sons.
Doesn’t this sound familiar?
“I tell you, many will come from east and west and recline at table with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob in the kingdom of heaven,” (Matthew 8:11 ESV).
That’s us.
We were outsiders. Gentiles. Enemies. And yet King Jesus did not overlook us. He sought us. He restored us. And He gave us a seat at His table.
Always.
Not because we were strong or worthy. Not because we brought anything to impress Him. But because He is gracious. And it pleased Him to show us mercy.
So how do we treat that invitation? Do we show up with awe and gratitude? Or do we take our seat lightly, as if we belong there on our own merit?
May we never forget that we, too, were once “dead dogs.” But by His grace, we now eat with the King.
I’m pretty sure if God grants me to live to be 100, I’ll still die a work-in-progress.
I am in the book of Deuteronomy in my daily Bible reading.
The word “Deuteronomy” means “Second Law.” It’s not a new law but a retelling—a careful and thoughtful review of what God had already commanded His people. As I begin this final book written by Moses, I’m struck again by the quiet power of God’s providence in preparing him for the role he was given.
Moses didn’t just grow up among slaves. He was raised in Pharaoh’s house. He likely received an elite education—reading, writing, military tactics, governance, administration. All of it. Egypt was the superpower of the world in his day, and Moses was brought up as one of its own.
When we think about who wrote the first five books of the Bible—who shaped a legal and spiritual framework for an entire people—we often focus on Moses’ obedience. And rightly so. But it’s hard not to also see how God uniquely prepared him for this task from the very beginning. Of all the Israelites, Moses may have been the only one with the skill set to write something like this, to shape a new nation’s identity from scratch, and to lead them through the wilderness with wisdom and structure.
Could God have chosen someone else? Of course. The Spirit of God can work through anyone. He doesn’t require credentials to reveal His truth. But that’s part of what amazes me. God didn’t just use Moses. He formed him. He shaped him from birth. He took what the world would consider elite training and turned it toward His holy purposes.
What was once Egypt’s prince became Israel’s prophet.
What was once royal strength became wilderness humility.
What was once academic wisdom became divine revelation.
God molded Moses with His own hands to do something no other person has ever done—write the foundation of Scripture and establish the framework for a brand-new nation in a single generation.
It’s easy to look at Moses and think, “Well, of course he did something great.” But what we often overlook is that Moses’ greatness wasn’t in his pedigree—it was in his surrender.
He was a vessel.
A lump of clay in the Potter’s hands.
And if God could take a man who once ran away from Egypt in fear and shape him into the greatest lawgiver the world has ever seen, what might He be forming in us?
Truly, our God is an awesome God.
I am in the book of Deuteronomy in my daily Bible reading.
Moses is preparing to say goodbye. His time is almost up, and he knows it. What does he choose to do? He reminds the people of everything. The rebellion. The wandering. The countless moments when he stood in the gap, pleading with God not to destroy them. It’s a sobering, heartfelt farewell from a man who carried the burden of intercession as much as the burden of leadership.
God spoke to Moses like no one else—face-to-face, as a friend. And Moses spoke back. He questioned. He pleaded. He even pushed back at times. God welcomed it.
When Aaron and Miriam challenged Moses’ unique relationship with God, the Lord didn’t hesitate to set the record straight:
“With him I speak mouth to mouth, clearly, and not in riddles, and he beholds the form of the Lord. Why then were you not afraid to speak against my servant Moses?” (Numbers 12:8 ESV).
But that intimacy came with weight. When Moses failed to honor God before the people, he wasn’t let off the hook. He wasn’t allowed to enter the Promised Land. Not because God stopped loving him—but because God is still holy, even in friendship.
Today, we have something even more incredible.
Jesus said:
“No longer do I call you servants, for the servant does not know what his master is doing; but I have called you friends, for all that I have heard from my Father I have made known to you.” (John 15:15 ESV).
We are not just His followers. We are His friends. His family. His beloved. And just like Moses, we are invited into a face-to-face relationship with God through prayer, worship, and obedience. But we must never let friendship breed casualness.
He is still God.
We must ask ourselves—how do we speak to Him? How do we treat His name in our homes, our decisions, our conversations? Do we presume upon grace in ways that dismiss His holiness?
Let’s enjoy the privilege of intimacy with God—but carry it with reverence. Let’s be like Moses—faithful, bold, honest. But let’s not forget that even friendship with God demands honor.
Because when we bow our heads, we are not just talking to a friend—we are standing on holy ground.
In my daily Bible reading, I’m in the book of Deuteronomy. Sometimes we look back at the Law of Moses and think it was all about outward obedience, while the Law of Christ is about serving from the heart. But that contrast isn’t quite as sharp as we might assume.
God has always cared about the heart.
Just listen to what He says through Moses about helping the poor:
“If among you, one of your brothers should become poor, in any of your towns within your land that the LORD your God is giving you, you shall not harden your heart or shut your hand against your poor brother,
but you shall open your hand to him and lend him sufficient for his need, whatever it may be.” (Deuteronomy 15:7–8 ESV).
This wasn’t just about giving—it was about how they gave. God didn’t want their hands open and their hearts closed.
And then Moses puts an even finer point on it:
“Take care lest there be an unworthy thought in your heart and you say, ‘The seventh year, the year of release is near,’ and your eye look grudgingly on your poor brother, and you give him nothing, and he cry to the LORD against you, and you be guilty of sin.
You shall give to him freely, and your heart shall not be grudging when you give to him, because for this the LORD your God will bless you in all your work and in all that you undertake.” (Deuteronomy 15:9–10 ESV).
The command wasn’t just to give—it was to give freely, without a grudging spirit. This wasn’t law without love. It was law meant to be carried out with compassion.
Sometimes we forget that the Old Law was always meant to shape the heart, not just the behavior. And now, under the Law of Christ, we aren’t just told what to do—we’re shaped into the kind of people who do what is right because it flows from who we are in Him.
We help the poor, not because a checklist tells us to, but because we love our neighbor.
We dress in modesty and honor, not because a rule outlines how many inches of skin are acceptable, but because we want our conduct to reflect dignity and godliness.
We give, we serve, we love—not grudgingly, but freely—because that’s what it means to live as a citizen of Jesus’ Kingdom.
And way back in Deuteronomy, God began teaching us how to do this when He told us what to do and the heart we needed to have when we did it.
I am finishing up the book of Deuteronomy in my daily Bible reading.
The book ends with the reading of the curses on Mount Ebal and the blessings on Mount Gerizim. The contrast is unforgettable. The blessings are so marvelous that anyone on earth would long for them. They promise abundance, peace, and security.
“And the Lord will make you abound in prosperity, in the fruit of your womb and in the fruit of your livestock and in the fruit of your ground, within the land that the Lord swore to your fathers to give you.
The Lord will open to you his good treasury, the heavens, to give the rain to your land in its season and to bless all the work of your hands. And you shall lend to many nations, but you shall not borrow.” (Deuteronomy 28:11–12 ESV).
That’s what life with God looked like. His presence would be so strong among His people that nations would tremble. One Israelite would chase seven enemies away. Their homes would be filled. Their land would be blessed. They would be safe.
But the curses… they were just as intense in the opposite direction.
“You shall betroth a wife, but another man shall ravish her. You shall build a house, but you shall not dwell in it. You shall plant a vineyard, but you shall not enjoy its fruit.” (Deuteronomy 28:30 ESV).
“Your sons and your daughters shall be given to another people, while your eyes look on and fail with longing for them all day long, but you shall be helpless.” (Deuteronomy 28:32 ESV).
Instead of enemies fleeing from them, seven Israelites would flee from one foreigner. They would plant, but others would harvest. They would build, but others would occupy. Families would be torn apart. The curses describe devastation that feels like the closest thing to hell on earth.
But God didn’t speak these things to be cruel. The blessings and curses were never about a vindictive God—they’ve always been about truth. Our reality is this: all goodness flows from God. When He is present, so is peace. When He is absent, what’s left is misery, pain, and suffering.
This wasn’t just Israel’s story. It’s ours, too.
Little has changed. We still live in a world that tries to walk away from God, and the results look the same. Broken families. Shallow peace. Deep anxiety. Constant striving. This is what happens when we try to live without our Creator.
“But, as it is written,
“What no eye has seen, nor ear heard,
nor the heart of man imagined,
what God has prepared for those who love him” (1 Corinthians 2:9 ESV).
If the blessings in Deuteronomy were beautiful, imagine the ones Jesus is preparing for us now. He said:
“In my Father’s house are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you?
And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also.” (John 14:2–3 ESV).
But He also spoke of judgment. Of weeping. Of separation. Of outer darkness.
So we have to ask ourselves: will we ignore the blessings and the curses that our King Jesus spoke when He walked among us? Or will we kneel before Him, so that when He returns, we are ready to be with Him where He is?
This life is not random. It is our moment of decision. Do we want to live with Him forever? Or do we want to live for ourselves, apart from Him forever?
He will not force our hand. But He will honor our choice.
So the question remains:
Do we want the blessings?
Or the curses?
The choice is still ours to make—today.
Have you knelt before King Jesus today?
Treat others today the way you want Jesus to treat you tonight.
I am reading Leviticus in my daily Bible reading.
When I came to Leviticus 10:16–20, I found myself slowing down and rereading it. Moses was angry. Aaron had just lost two of his sons—burned up by the fire of the Lord for offering unauthorized fire. The weight of holiness and grief was thick in the air. And now Moses is confronting the two remaining sons, Eleazar and Ithamar, because they didn’t eat the sin offering like the law prescribed.
It sounds like a technicality, but in the sacrificial system, it mattered. The priests were supposed to eat part of the sin offering as a way of bearing the people’s sin and completing the ritual atonement. Not doing so would seem, on the surface, like a serious mistake—especially on a day when disobedience had already led to death.
But Aaron speaks.
And what he says changes everything:
“Behold, today they have offered their sin offering and their burnt offering before the Lord, and yet such things as these have happened to me! If I had eaten the sin offering today, would the Lord have approved?” (Leviticus 10:19 ESV).
He doesn’t offer excuses. He speaks from the deep place of grief and reverence. The offerings were done. The rituals completed. But to eat the sin offering, to symbolically bear the sin of the people, on the same day he’s still shaking from watching his sons consumed by the Lord’s fire—would that have been genuine? Would that have honored God?
He knew his heart wasn’t in the right place to finish the ritual.
And Moses—who had just rebuked them—backs off. Scripture says, “And when Moses heard that, he approved” (Leviticus 10:20 ESV).
This moment isn’t just about a burned goat. It’s about knowing God. About honoring His holiness not just with hands, but with the heart. Aaron was grieving, but he wasn’t careless. He showed a kind of spiritual discernment that we don’t often talk about: the wisdom to not go through the motions when your heart isn’t ready.
There are times when we, too, might find ourselves tempted to perform when we should be still.
To put on a face of faith when inside we’re cracked and trembling.
To serve while silently seething or hurting.
And in those moments, maybe what honors God most isn’t our ability to keep moving, but our willingness to pause and be honest before Him.
This passage reminded me that God is not impressed with hollow rituals. He’s not looking for us to check the boxes of religious activity while ignoring the condition of our hearts.
Aaron didn’t eat the sacrifice—not out of rebellion, but out of reverence. And God, through Moses’ softened response, honored that.
So today, if we’re carrying something heavy… if we’re mourning, wrestling, questioning… maybe the faithful thing isn’t to press forward in pretense, but to bring that weight honestly before God.
He knows. He sees. And He approves of reverent hearts more than perfect performances.
I am in the book of Leviticus in my daily Bible reading. In chapter 26, as the book comes to an end, God tells the people of all the wonderful things He will do for them if they obey.
Then God shifts to what He will do to them if they do not listen and obey Him. I’m not going to walk us through all the warnings and curses that follow, but I want us to notice how God introduces this warning:
“But if you will not listen to me and will not do all these commandments,
if you spurn my statutes, and if your soul abhors my rules, so that you will not do all my commandments, but break my covenant,
then I will do this to you: I will visit you with panic, with wasting disease and fever that consume the eyes and make the heart ache. And you shall sow your seed in vain, for your enemies shall eat it.” (Leviticus 26:14-16 ESV).
God doesn’t begin with consequences. He begins by naming the heart behind disobedience. This isn’t about an accidental stumble, a misunderstanding, or a moment of weakness. These are deliberate choices. Listen to how God describes them:
“Will not listen”
“Will not do”
“Spurn my statutes”
“Abhors my rules”
“Will not do all my commandments”
“Break my covenant”
Each of these phrases speaks to a willful rejection of God’s will. It’s not that these people didn’t know—they just didn’t care. And that’s a dangerous place to be.
God has always expected His people to listen and obey. He has always called us to walk in His ways, not perfectly, but sincerely. His grace is abundant, yes. But grace has never been a license to willfully turn our back on God. If we knowingly reject Him, we are also rejecting His grace.
Grace is for those who fall while walking with Him—not for those who choose to walk the other way.
So where is our heart today?
Are we drawing near to God, or are we:
Not listening?
Not doing?
Spurning?
Abhorring?
Breaking?
Let’s be a people who choose the path of faithfulness—not because we’ve earned God’s favor, but because we believe in His promises. Let’s be a people who seek first His kingdom and His righteousness.
Because turning away from that seeking isn’t just a stumble—it’s rebellion.
And God sees the difference.
I am reading Leviticus in my daily Bible reading.
When I came to Leviticus 10:16–20, I found myself slowing down and rereading it. Moses was angry. Aaron had just lost two of his sons—burned up by the fire of the Lord for offering unauthorized fire. The weight of holiness and grief was thick in the air. And now Moses is confronting the two remaining sons, Eleazar and Ithamar, because they didn’t eat the sin offering like the law prescribed.
It sounds like a technicality, but in the sacrificial system, it mattered. The priests were supposed to eat part of the sin offering as a way of bearing the people’s sin and completing the ritual atonement. Not doing so would seem, on the surface, like a serious mistake—especially on a day when disobedience had already led to death.
But Aaron speaks.
And what he says changes everything:
“Behold, today they have offered their sin offering and their burnt offering before the Lord, and yet such things as these have happened to me! If I had eaten the sin offering today, would the Lord have approved?” (Leviticus 10:19 ESV).
He doesn’t offer excuses. He speaks from the deep place of grief and reverence. The offerings were done. The rituals completed. But to eat the sin offering, to symbolically bear the sin of the people, on the same day he’s still shaking from watching his sons consumed by the Lord’s fire—would that have been genuine? Would that have honored God?
He knew his heart wasn’t in the right place to finish the ritual.
And Moses—who had just rebuked them—backs off. Scripture says,
“And when Moses heard that, he approved” (Leviticus 10:20 ESV).
This moment isn’t just about a burned goat. It’s about knowing God. About honoring His holiness not just with hands, but with the heart. Aaron was grieving, but he wasn’t careless. He showed a kind of spiritual discernment that we don’t often talk about: the wisdom to not go through the motions when your heart isn’t ready.
There are times when we, too, might find ourselves tempted to perform when we should be still.
To put on a face of faith when inside we’re cracked and trembling.
To serve while silently seething or hurting.
And in those moments, maybe what honors God most isn’t our ability to keep moving, but our willingness to pause and be honest before Him.
This passage reminded me that God is not impressed with hollow rituals. He’s not looking for us to check the boxes of religious activity while ignoring the condition of our hearts.
Aaron didn’t eat the sacrifice—not out of rebellion, but out of reverence. And God, through Moses’ softened response, honored that.
So today, if we’re carrying something heavy… if we’re mourning, wrestling, questioning… maybe the faithful thing isn’t to press forward in pretense, but to bring that weight honestly before God.
He knows. He sees. And He approves of reverent hearts more than perfect performances.
The day is coming when Jesus will either confess or deny us before His father. Have you confessed Jesus today?
I am in the book of 2 Kings in my daily Bible reading.
In Chapter 18, we read that the mighty empire of Assyria had already conquered the northern nation of Israel and now stood at the gates of Jerusalem. Sennacherib, king of Assyria, was ready to devour the next victim. The people of Judah were terrified, and King Hezekiah—godly though he was—felt the weight of that fear.
Assyria had been burning through the known world like wildfire. No nation could stop them. And now, here they were, mocking Judah’s faith and defying Judah’s God.
In a psychological operation meant to dismantle any hope left in the city, Sennacherib’s men mocked their trust in the Lord:
“But if you say to me, ‘We trust in the LORD our God,’ is it not he whose high places and altars Hezekiah has removed, saying to Judah and to Jerusalem, ‘You shall worship before this altar in Jerusalem’?
Come now, make a wager with my master the king of Assyria: I will give you two thousand horses, if you are able on your part to set riders on them.
How then can you repulse a single captain among the least of my master’s servants, when you trust in Egypt for chariots and for horsemen?
Moreover, is it without the LORD that I have come up against this place to destroy it? The LORD said to me, ‘Go up against this land and destroy it.’” (2 Kings 18:22-25 ESV).
They laughed at Judah’s weakness, scoffed at their allies, and twisted their theology. They claimed that tearing down the high places—something Hezekiah had done in obedience to Yahweh—was actually an offense against Him.
And then they offered a deal. A peace. A counterfeit kingdom.
“Do not listen to Hezekiah, for thus says the king of Assyria: ‘Make your peace with me and come out to me. Then each one of you will eat of his own vine, and each one of his own fig tree, and each one of you will drink the water of his own cistern
until I come and take you away to a land like your own land, a land of grain and wine, a land of bread and vineyards, a land of olive trees and honey, that you may live, and not die. And do not listen to Hezekiah when he misleads you by saying, “The LORD will deliver us.” (2 Kings 18:31-32 ESV).
Do you see what they did? They hijacked the very language of God’s promises—the land of vines, figs, grain, and honey. They painted Sennacherib as the one who could bless and curse. They dismissed Yahweh as just another powerless deity.
They put themselves in the place of God.
And the world still does this today. Modern voices speak loudly in our own language, appealing to our logic, our fear, and our comfort. They offer peace in exchange for surrender. They claim to hold the keys to blessing and threat alike. And many hearts melt in the face of their confidence.
But the story didn’t end with the loudest voice at the gate. It ended with the quiet move of the true King.
“And that night the angel of the LORD went out and struck down 185,000 in the camp of the Assyrians. And when people arose early in the morning, behold, these were all dead bodies.
Then Sennacherib king of Assyria departed and went home and lived at Nineveh.
And as he was worshiping in the house of Nisroch his god, Adrammelech and Sharezer, his sons, struck him down with the sword and escaped into the land of Ararat. And Esarhaddon his son reigned in his place.” (2 Kings 19:35-37 ESV).
Assyria learned the hard way that God was not like the gods of the nations.
We would do well to remember that, too.
Jesus is still King of kings and Lord of lords. All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to Him. And the world’s most powerful voices still mock His people. They still attempt to define morality, identity, value, and power without Him. They still promise blessing for compromise and curse for conviction.
But the day is coming when, like Sennacherib, all will know who truly reigns. Every knee will bow, and every tongue will confess. On that day, we will kneel before Him—either as His beloved child or as a conquered foe.
Let us not lose heart when the voices grow loud.
Let us not give in when the world speaks in our language and tries to make its offer sound sweet.
Let us bring our petitions before the Lord, trusting that He sees, He knows, and He will act in His time, for His glory.
And may we be found on His side—faithful, steadfast, and unwavering—when He does.