Have you ever felt like you’re trying to run on an empty tank? I have. For years, I thought the Christian life was about mustering up my own strength to live for God—only to find myself frustrated and exhausted. But then I discovered something life-changing: God doesn’t ask us to live by our strength. He invites us to live by His.

This truth comes alive when we reflect on what it means to relate rightly to "the God of all grace" (1 Peter 5:10). As we grow in knowing Him, His grace flows into our lives in powerful ways. Two of these ways are living by the Spirit and living by resurrection power.

Have you ever wondered what it really means to live in God’s grace? Not just to read about it, talk about it, or even believe in it—but to truly experience it, moment by moment, in your everyday life?

I’ve wrestled with this question many times. It’s so easy to focus on what I need to do—be more patient, try harder, love better. But time and again, I’ve discovered that true transformation doesn’t come from striving; it comes from staying close to the God of all grace.

The vision in Jeremiah 24 has always struck me as both strange and surprisingly relatable. Two baskets of figs—one filled with good fruit, the other with bad. It seems like such an ordinary image for God to use, and yet, through it, He delivers a message that upends everything we think about how and where He works in our lives.

Have you ever longed for something constant in a world that seems to shift beneath your feet? Life is full of change—relationships ebb and flow, seasons come and go, and even we ourselves are not the same person we were a year ago. But in the midst of this flux stands one unshakable truth: God is immutable.

Have you ever come to the raw, unfiltered realization that there is absolutely nothing in your flesh—not one solitary thing—that deserves anything but the judgment of God? It sounds harsh at first, doesn’t it? Yet, this truth is one of the most liberating realizations we can ever come to as believers.

In Jeremiah 23, we encounter a sobering yet hope-filled prophecy. God, through Jeremiah, confronts the failure of Israel’s leaders—both civil and religious—while pointing us to the ultimate fulfillment of His promises through the coming Messiah. These verses are a reminder of God’s faithfulness to His covenant and His grace in providing us with the true Shepherd, Jesus Christ.

What would it feel like to have someone you deeply admire—someone powerful, holy, and perfect—call you their friend? It's humbling, maybe even overwhelming. And yet, in one of the most extraordinary passages of Scripture, Jesus tells His disciples:

“You are my friends if you do what I command. I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master’s business. Instead, I have called you friends, for everything that I learned from my Father I have made known to you.” (John 15:14-15)

These words are both staggering and deeply comforting. Jesus—God incarnate, our Lord, and King—has every right to command us as servants. Yet, here He calls His disciples His friends. He isn’t dismissing His lordship, but He is drawing them closer, inviting them into something intimate, something relational.

Have you ever felt trapped by something you worked so hard to build? Maybe it was a career, a relationship, or even just a sense of accomplishment. At some point, what started as a dream to create security or meaning ended up feeling like a prison. Peter Gabriel’s "The Tower That Ate People" captures this reality so vividly. The relentless "brick by brick" construction in the song speaks to the ways we try to fortify ourselves against life’s uncertainties—only to discover that the very towers we build to protect us end up consuming us.

Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide” has been a soundtrack for life’s pivotal moments for decades. It’s raw, it’s vulnerable, and it speaks to something deep within us—the fear of change, the weight of self-reflection, and the longing for something stable in a world that feels anything but.

When I hear “Landslide,” it resonates with my own journey. I’ve been there—afraid of change, building my life around things that couldn’t sustain me when the inevitable landslides of life came. For years, I relied on my own efforts, my accomplishments, my relationships—only to find myself crumbling when those things shifted under me.

But here’s the beautiful truth I’ve learned: when life feels like a landslide, Christ is the Rock that holds us steady.

Have you ever resonated with the deep longing expressed in U2’s iconic song “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For”? It’s a powerful anthem of human desire—searching, striving, and yearning for something more. Bono’s lyrics are raw and honest, capturing the experience of seeking fulfillment but not quite finding it. For many of us, it feels like the theme song of our lives.

What is it that we’re looking for? Love? Purpose? Freedom? Healing? This song acknowledges the struggle, but it also hints at the answer. The gospel shines through the cracks of this searching anthem, pointing us to the One who is the fulfillment of every longing.

Have you ever felt like life is an endless journey, full of searching and striving for answers that seem just out of reach? Led Zeppelin’s "Over the Hills and Far Away" beautifully captures the human experience of longing—longing for love, meaning, and freedom. The lyrics explore themes of searching, reflecting, and striving, but ultimately leave the listener with unanswered questions. From a Christ-centered perspective, this longing isn’t something to fear—it’s a signpost, pointing us to the One who is our true fulfillment.

For many believers, the Ten Commandments stand as the pinnacle of godly living—a set of rules to strive toward in order to please God and live a righteous life. This view seems noble, even biblical, but when we dig deeper into Scripture, we find something far more liberating.

Have you ever stood in awe of a night sky, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the stars and galaxies? Even our universe, vast as it is, pales in comparison to the infinitude of God. It’s an attribute so immense that our finite minds can scarcely grasp it, yet it is a truth that anchors our hearts and shapes our lives.

For years, I thought I understood God—but it wasn’t until I tried to comprehend His infinitude that my understanding was shattered. The box I had created for Him was blown to smithereens as I realized that He is not just infinite in presence but in every one of His attributes—love, mercy, wisdom, and power. It hit me: My God is far bigger than I ever imagined.

Have you ever found yourself saying, “This time will be different. I’ll do better. I won’t mess up again,” only to fall into the same old patterns? Maybe it’s anger, impatience, or a struggle that keeps coming back, no matter how hard you try to resist it.

If that resonates with you, you’re not alone. For years, I thought the key to overcoming sin was simply trying harder. I memorized verses, made promises to myself, and tried to follow every step of “how-to” plans. But instead of finding freedom, I found frustration.

That’s because change doesn’t come from our effort. It comes from living out the life Christ has already given us. The key isn’t in striving harder but in abiding deeper. Let’s explore how this truth can transform the way you think about overcoming sin.

One of the most thought-provoking objections to Christianity is the claim that it’s “too perfect” at addressing humanity’s existential struggles. It answers the deepest questions of life—meaning, morality, suffering, and eternity—with precision and hope. But some skeptics suggest that this is evidence not of divine revelation but of human invention. They argue that Christianity was created to soothe human fears and explain the mysteries of existence, rather than being the revealed truth of God.

Have you ever found yourself exhausted from trying to muster up enough faith? Maybe you’ve read God’s promises and thought, "I should believe this more. I need to trust harder." But no matter how hard you try, it feels like your faith just isn’t enough to match the vastness of what God promises or the depth of what you need.

For over 20 years, I tried to drum up my own faith, striving in my own strength to meet life’s challenges. But no matter how hard I tried, my efforts always came up short. It wasn’t until I exchanged my life in Adam for the victorious life of Christ that I began to understand true freedom.

Have you ever felt the tension between the fleeting nature of time and the deep, unshakable longing for something eternal? Maybe it hits you in quiet moments—when you watch a sunset, hold a newborn, or stand at the graveside of a loved one. In those moments, something within us seems to whisper: "Surely this isn’t all there is."

A.W. Tozer, in Chapter 7 of The Knowledge of the Holy, reminds us why this longing exists: we were made for eternity. The ache for permanence, the thirst for meaning—it’s not an illusion or a flaw. It’s a mark of God’s image within us, an echo of eternity placed in our hearts (Ecclesiastes 3:11).

Let’s sit with this truth today: God is eternal. He stands outside of time, unbound by beginnings and endings. In a world that constantly changes, His eternity is our anchor, our home, and our hope.

The process of guiding someone into the exchanged life—where they discover their new identity in Christ and begin to walk in His indwelling life—is a deeply transformative journey. It’s amazing to witness someone grasp the truth that their old self has been crucified with Christ and that they now live as a new creation, drawing from His life as their source.

But what happens after this guiding process? The exchanged life journey isn’t meant to be an end in itself. It’s a starting point—a foundational step that equips believers to live in victory and freedom. The next phase of growth involves plugging into their local church, engaging in discipleship, and walking out their new life in community.

Have you ever found yourself in a situation where nothing seems to be going your way? Maybe your plans are unraveling, circumstances feel out of control, and the familiar reaction of your flesh kicks in—frustration, fear, or even doubt. You’re not alone. I’ve noticed this tendency in myself too. When life doesn’t cooperate with my expectations, my flesh resists.

Have you ever wondered if you’re overanalyzing your spiritual walk? I know I have. It’s so easy to slip into a pattern of constantly evaluating ourselves: Am I growing? Am I producing the right fruit? Is Christ’s life shining through me? While it might seem wise to ask these questions, I’ve often found that excessive self-focus can leave me feeling discouraged and drained rather than joyful and refreshed in the Lord.

But here’s the question I’ve been wrestling with: Is self-analysis really the key to spiritual growth, or is there a better way?