Ezra’s first-person account in chapter 8 reads like a personal journal of a spiritual leader entrusted with something deeply sacred. As Ezra gathers those willing to return from Babylon to Jerusalem, we see not just a logistical expedition but a journey of faith, community, and consecration. The list of names, though easily overlooked, reminds us that God moves through actual people—each with a name, story, and calling. These were not random travelers; they were twelve family groups, echoing Israel’s tribal identity, and some had deep ancestral significance—including a descendant of David, a subtle thread pointing to God’s enduring covenant.

God gave Ezekiel a series of messages to pronounce judgment on the surrounding nations—and in this chapter, Egypt takes center stage. Egypt, with its long and complex history with Israel, is now exposed for its pride and unreliability. The Lord reminds His people that Egypt was never a trustworthy ally. Despite their mighty river, military pride, and royal arrogance—embodied in Pharaoh’s absurd self-declaration that he created the Nile—the truth is clear: Egypt is not God. Their support was a broken reed. Judah’s trust in Pharaoh was misdirected, and God uses this to reveal an age-old lesson: only the Lord is worthy of our dependence.

In Job 31, we hear the voice of a man standing before God with a clear conscience—not claiming to be sinless, but to be sincere. This is Job’s final defense. He has suffered unimaginably, been misjudged by friends, and now he reviews his life not with bitterness but with boldness.

E. Stanley Jones brings us to linger on the truth that being “in Christ” is not just a beautiful phrase—it is the deepest reality for every believer. It’s not a metaphor, not a lofty spiritual ideal, not a poetic way of speaking—it’s fact. Just as being in a country brings one under its laws, atmosphere, and identity, so being in Christ brings one into alignment with His Spirit, His attitudes, His authority, and His resources.

Ray Stedman’s devotional invites us into a beautiful paradox—one that seems like a contradiction at first glance, but becomes a portrait of abiding life in Christ once properly understood. In Philippians 3, Paul compares the Christian life to a race: something fast-paced, filled with obstacles and forward motion. But just a few verses later, he urges us in chapter 4:1 to “stand firm.” How can we do both—run and stand?

Today’s devotional points us to the beauty of holiness—true holiness. Simpson draws a distinction between a bare, hardened kind of piety and the radiant, Spirit-filled life that reflects the loveliness of Christ. He cautions against a type of sanctification that feels like a skeleton—harsh and rigid—devoid of the warmth and life that real holiness brings. There is a difference between what is merely “just” and what is “lovely and of good report.”

In today’s reflection, Bob Hoekstra continues to explore how the resurrection of Christ affects our present walk, not just our future hope. He points out that Paul’s desire in Philippians 3:10–11 wasn’t simply to participate in the future resurrection of the body—something already secured by faith—but to know Christ so deeply that His resurrection life would be experientially expressed in the here and now.

Oswald Chambers is pointing to a vital but often overlooked truth: holiness that truly reflects Christ does not draw people to us—it draws them to Him. Our calling is not to showcase our own transformation or virtue, but to be transparent vessels, loyal friends of the Bridegroom, who usher others into His presence. Just as John the Baptist refused to draw attention to himself and rejoiced in decreasing so that Jesus might increase, so should we.

Today’s entry from Abide Above reminds us of the ongoing cooperative dance between the finished work of Christ and our daily moment-by-moment yielding to that work. Positionally, we have already put off the old man and put on the new in Christ—this happened at the cross. The "old man" isn’t something we’re still fighting to kill; he has been crucified with Christ. But the patterns and residues of that old life—the self-life or flesh—still lurk, attempting to draw us back into living independently from God.

John Piper’s message focuses on Galatians 5:1–5 and the clear will of God: that we live in freedom. Not the freedom to live selfishly, but the freedom from trying to earn God’s love or approval by our works. Piper points out how often believers unknowingly slip back under the yoke of performance—whether it’s striving to obey laws to please God or falling into a “gratitude ethic,” where we serve God to pay Him back for all He’s done.

Today’s devotional explores the rich meaning behind Acts 13:34-35, where Paul presents the resurrected Christ not just as Savior or the firstborn Son of God, but as the fulfillment of “the holy and faithful things of David.” These aren’t abstract theological terms—they’re deeply relational. The resurrected Jesus is God’s personal gift to us, the holy and trustworthy One, through whom all God’s promises and mercies are poured into our lives. The original Greek makes this even more vivid, describing Jesus as the sum of all the “holy things” and “sure things” God promised.

Paul doesn’t open Galatians with a gentle word of encouragement, like he often does. Instead, his heart breaks over how quickly these believers have drifted. This isn’t about them getting a few details wrong—it’s about them abandoning the gospel altogether by adding human requirements to what God had already finished. Paul is quick to affirm that his message didn’t originate from man. He wasn’t repeating secondhand ideas from the apostles in Jerusalem. He had received the gospel straight from Jesus Christ Himself.

The Grace and Truth Study Bible reveals the urgency behind Paul's tone in Galatians: the gospel was under threat—not by open rebellion, but by distortion. False teachers, known as Judaizers, were not denying Christ outright, but they were claiming that faith in Christ needed to be supplemented by works of the law—specifically circumcision. Paul would not tolerate such compromise. His love for the Galatians, and his fidelity to the pure gospel entrusted to him by direct revelation from Jesus Christ, compelled him to speak with clarity and force.

Luke 24 moves through a crescendo of evidence and revelation, beginning with an empty tomb, then unfolding into physical appearances of Jesus, and finally culminating in the disciples’ understanding of Scripture as fulfilled in Christ. The women at the tomb come with grief and spices but leave with perplexity and angelic news: “He is not here, but has risen.” Yet, even with the empty tomb and angelic reminder of Jesus’ words, the Eleven remain uncertain—showing us that signs and facts alone do not birth belief.

E. Stanley Jones draws a line in the sand with this reflection: either being “in Christ” is a lofty theological idea or it’s a living, breathing reality. If it’s just theology—a philosophy, a system of ethics—we’re left with good views but no transforming power. But if it’s reality, if it’s fact, then it doesn’t merely inform our intellect—it radically reorients our lives.

Today’s devotional confronts two extremes that the church has often chosen in response to the world: retreat or dominance. One shrinks back from a fear of contamination; the other attempts to overpower the world out of fear of being overwhelmed. But Jesus offers a third way—neither withdrawal nor dominance, but influence through love. He calls us to step into a broken world as He did, not by separating from it or conquering it, but by entering it with the self-giving pattern of His life.

Today’s entry from Days of Heaven on Earth invites us into the kind of joy that doesn’t wait for good news or good feelings. A.B. Simpson challenges us to rejoice in the Lord always, even when there’s no felt joy or visible reason for celebration. Rejoicing becomes not just a response to circumstances but a declaration of faith—a bold, trusting proclamation that says, “I know who holds me.” It’s not about manufacturing emotional highs but about continually aligning our hearts with the unchanging goodness of God.

Paul’s longing in Philippians 3:10 wasn’t about chasing spiritual experiences or acquiring theological head knowledge—it was about knowing Jesus more deeply, more personally, more fully. And the arenas through which that kind of knowing deepens? They aren’t always what we might expect. They include the power of His resurrection (life out of death), the fellowship of His sufferings (walking with Him in hard places), and being conformed to His death (entrusting ourselves entirely to the Father as Christ did on the cross).

Oswald Chambers brings a timely reminder for anyone who walks closely with others on their spiritual journey: We are not the center of anyone’s story—not even our own. He draws from John the Baptist’s words, “He must become greater; I must become less,” and reminds us of the joyful role of the friend of the bridegroom. Our greatest joy is not in being needed or admired, but in seeing others gripped by Christ, regardless of how painful the process might appear to us.

Romans 9:23 refers to us as vessels of mercy—not just recipients, but carriers, patterns, living testimonies of the boundless compassion of God. We are not polished trophies of self-made righteousness. We are containers, once cracked and emptied, now filled and repurposed by His mercy alone.