John 10 is one of the richest portraits of Jesus in the Gospel, capturing His identity through the imagery of shepherding. Jesus isn’t simply like a shepherd—He is the Good Shepherd. In contrast to the religious leaders of His day, who were meant to guide and guard God's people but instead acted like hired hands or even thieves, Jesus shows what true, sacrificial care looks like. His words draw directly from Ezekiel 34, where God rebukes Israel’s shepherds for abandoning the sheep—and promises to come Himself to rescue them.

Paul calls believers to imitate God by walking in love, as demonstrated by Christ’s self-sacrificing love for the Church. This imitation is not legalistic behavior modification but a Spirit-led expression of the new identity believers already possess in Christ. Walking in love excludes immoral, impure, and greedy behavior, as well as obscene and careless speech—all of which are out of step with a life transformed by Christ. Paul urges gratitude and thanksgiving instead, for these flow naturally from hearts filled with the Spirit.

In today’s entry from In Christ, E. Stanley Jones draws our attention to the intimacy and dynamism of mutual abiding with the Holy Spirit. He reflects on Jesus’ promise in John 14:16–17 that the Spirit would not only be in us but also withus—our Paraclete, the One called alongside to counsel, guide, and energize. Jones unpacks the meaning of the Spirit as both “Counselor” and “Comforter”—not just offering direction, but supplying vitality, strength, and creative power through His indwelling presence.

Ray Stedman’s reflection on Leviticus 13 unveils how ancient instructions regarding leprosy serve as a spiritual analogy for identifying and dealing with inner maladies of the soul—resentments, anger, and buried bitterness. In the Old Testament, the afflicted person was brought to a priest for careful examination. This wasn’t only for the sake of personal healing but also for the preservation of the community. In the New Covenant, we are all part of a royal priesthood, and we are called to bring our inner afflictions into the light of God’s Word and the fellowship of trusted believers.

In today’s reflection, A.B. Simpson draws our attention to a simple but instructive image from nature—the mesquite tree. Its strength and usefulness aren’t found in what we see above ground, but in what lies deep beneath. Though the tree’s frame may seem slight or unimpressive, its thick roots tunnel deep into the soil, anchoring it and quietly supplying the raw material for pavements that hold up entire cities. San Antonio, Simpson notes, is built upon these roots—structures laid down not by what the eye admires, but by what the earth hides.

This morning’s reading reminds us of what truly matters—not just in moments of quiet but in the whole of life. Bob Hoekstra draws our eyes to the singular focus shared by both Paul and Mary of Bethany: the unwavering desire to know Jesus. Paul, nearing the height of his ministry, did not claim to have arrived spiritually. Instead, he declared that his one goal—his "one thing"—was to know Christ intimately, in the power of His resurrection.

Oswald Chambers gently pulls back the curtain on something we might overlook—those lingering “high places” in our lives. Though King Asa was known as a man whose heart was loyal to the Lord, he left some of the pagan shrines standing. God commended Asa’s faithfulness, but He also noted the compromise. And Chambers warns us that the things we excuse or shrug off as insignificant may, in God’s eyes, still be altars to another way—a rival affection that steals trust from Him.

The devotional reminds us that spiritual growth isn’t accidental—it follows a sacred pattern: purpose, provision, and process. The purpose of our salvation is clearly stated in Romans 8:29: to be conformed to the image of Christ. But that’s not a mission we undertake in self-effort. God’s provision for this transformation is the finished work of the Cross—fully sufficient, lacking nothing. We are told to reckon ourselves dead to sin and alive to God in Christ Jesus (Romans 6:11). And as we yield moment by moment, the Holy Spirit faithfully carries out the process of transforming us into Christ's likeness.

In this powerful moment on the road to Damascus, Saul—soon to become Paul—encountered a reality that would upend his entire understanding of God and the people of God. He believed he was defending God's holiness by persecuting heretics, those following the supposed imposter Jesus of Nazareth. But as a sudden light from heaven halted his journey, the voice that spoke did not ask, "Why are you persecuting My followers?" but rather, "Why are you persecuting Me?"

Nehemiah 7 opens with a shift in focus. The wall is completed, but the work of restoration is not finished—it simply enters a new phase. Just as Adam was commissioned to guard the garden and the Levites were tasked with safeguarding the tabernacle, Nehemiah entrusts faithful and God-fearing men to watch over the city gates. This act of vigilance is not merely for protection but for preservation—preserving the rhythms of worship, rest, and community life for God’s people. The gates are not always open, and that’s by design. There is wisdom in guarding space and time for what matters most: the worship of God and the well-being of families.

Ezekiel 38 launches us into a vision of a final confrontation—one not merely political or military but cosmic in scope and divine in purpose. God instructs Ezekiel to prophesy against a mysterious figure named Gog from the land of Magog, whose identity remains uncertain. While some speculate historical figures, the context makes clear this is a future leader, one who commands a global coalition bent on destroying God's people. Nations from every compass point—Persia, Cush, Put, Gomer, and others—gather under his banner.

In Job 40, God continues His discourse with Job, not backing away from His earlier declarations but intensifying them. He does not coddle or console Job with explanations. Instead, He confronts Job’s presumption with a question that pierces through human pride: “Shall a faultfinder contend with the Almighty?” (v.2). Job’s response is subdued and humbled—he places his hand over his mouth, signaling a posture of reverence and silence before a wisdom and power far beyond him.

E. Stanley Jones draws from Philippians 3:12 and 1 Corinthians 3:21–22 to offer a vibrant declaration of what it means to live as one possessed by Christ. He connects the inner mastery of the soul to the outward mastery of life’s challenges—not through self-discipline or willpower, but through divine possession. When Paul says, “I press on to make it my own because Christ Jesus has made me His own,” Jones sees this not as striving, but as responding to already-being-claimed.

Ray Stedman invites us to revisit the seemingly strange instructions of Leviticus 12—not as outdated regulations, but as holy reminders of a deeper truth: every child born into the world inherits a tainted nature, not because childbirth is shameful, but because of the inherited spiritual condition of humanity since Adam’s fall. The ceremonial uncleanness attached to childbirth, and the covenant act of circumcision on the eighth day, served as vivid illustrations to God’s people that something was awry from birth—that life inherited from Adam needed not to be polished, but exchanged.

A.B. Simpson points us to a beautiful, quiet power that flows from a life truly yielded to Christ. He reminds us that it is not through argument, clever evangelism techniques, or moral perfection that the world is drawn to Jesus—but through the radiant life of Christ lived out in His people. When Jesus is truly lifted up in us, His presence becomes irresistibly attractive to those around us.

Bob Hoekstra’s devotional for April 14 invites us to step into the mindset of the Apostle Paul, who had every worldly and religious reason to boast—and yet gave it all up for one surpassing treasure: knowing Christ. Paul doesn't just reflect on what he gave up once; he describes a continual, present-tense reevaluation of all things through the lens of Christ’s surpassing worth. The excellence of knowing Jesus isn’t a one-time benefit received at conversion. It’s an ongoing, intimate experience that eclipses all worldly gain and religious accolades.

Oswald Chambers calls us to reconsider how we view discipline, burdens, and strength. Instead of resisting God’s shaping or longing to be like others who seem carefree, Chambers urges us to recognize that the burdens God permits are paired with the yoke of Christ—and that yoke is always easy and light when carried in union with Him.

J.B.S. draws our attention upward—literally and spiritually. The focus is not on how transformation happens, but on Who is responsible for it. The central invitation is to set our sights on Christ Himself, seated at the right hand of the Father, rather than dissecting the mechanics of change.

The heart of this morning’s devotional beats with the certainty of God’s promises. Drawing from Matthew 7:7–8, the writer calls us to discard every shred of doubt and to pray as those who already possess the assurance of their Father’s unwavering faithfulness. Faith, as described here, is not a struggle to believe, nor is it a wishful hoping for something uncertain. It is a settled confidence in the integrity of God—who invites us to ask, seek, and knock—not as a test of our piety but because He intends to answer, reveal, and open.

Recently, I listened to Alex O’Connor, a young atheist often known for his articulate critiques of Christianity, engage in a debate with the Knechtles. At one point, Alex raised a deeply important question:

“If suffering entered the world through the fall of man, why do we find evidence of animal suffering, pain, and death long before humans—especially if evolution is true and man came from animals?”

This question isn’t just academic—it touches the very heart of how we understand God’s goodness, the nature of suffering, and the centrality of Christ in creation. So I want to take time to respond to Alex—not with a defensive posture, but with a Christ-centered, grace-oriented lens grounded in the exchanged life perspective.