Today’s devotional invites us to reconsider how we define victory in the Christian life. Often, we imagine triumph as an escape from pain, hardship, or difficult circumstances. But Scripture paints a different picture—one in which victory is not dependent on deliverance from tribulation, but rather on our unbreakable union with the love of Christ.

Oswald Chambers’ heart in today’s entry cuts through the noise of religious performance and aims straight at the danger of spiritual self-promotion. His concern isn’t sin in the traditional sense, nor worldliness in the expected form—but the subtler trap of spiritual undiscipline. It’s when we are so caught up in the appearance of religious success that we forget the essence of discipleship.

This morning’s reflection centers on the necessary dismantling of our self-sufficiency so that we might behold the sufficiency of Christ. Drawing from Job’s final declaration—“I have heard of Thee by the hearing of the ear… but now mine eye seeth Thee”—the devotional presents a hard yet hopeful truth: God's loving intent in our trials is not to pamper us, but to purify our vision. We may hear about God through religion, tradition, or even study, but we often do not see Him until we are brought low and emptied of everything else.

Today’s devotional from eManna draws on the beautiful imagery of Naphtali, described in Genesis 49:21 as a “hind let loose” who “gives beautiful words.” The Hebrew phrase evokes a creature leaping freely at dawn, full of energy and new life. It points us to the picture of Psalm 22, where Christ emerges in resurrection as the “hind of the morning”—a poetic title given in the superscription of that psalm.

I’ve hesitated to join small groups in the past—not out of pride, but out of sorrow. When I hear someone teach as if we must perform to remain acceptable to God, something inside me grieves. I lived that way for 59 years, striving to measure up, until Christ opened my eyes to the exchanged life—His life in me, and my life hidden in Him. Now, when I hear law-centered thinking, it’s not anger I feel—it’s deep compassion. But I also wrestle with how to engage in these spaces.

Nehemiah 11 brings us back to the strategic and spiritual heartbeat of the restoration project: the repopulation of Jerusalem. The city was more than an urban center—it was the holy city, set apart as the dwelling place of God's name. However, it was vulnerable due to underpopulation. To resolve this, Nehemiah resumed his earlier plan from chapter 7, organizing a kind of “sacred lottery” to repopulate Jerusalem with families from Judah and Benjamin, along with priests, Levites, and temple workers.

In this rich and layered section of Paul’s letter to the Ephesians, we’re invited to embrace a stark contrast between what we once were and who we now are. Paul isn’t merely offering moral guidance; he’s unveiling a supernatural identity—“you are light in the Lord.” That identity isn't earned by behavior; rather, it compels new behavior. Just as darkness conceals and confuses, light reveals and transforms. Therefore, we are to live as children of light—not just surrounded by light, but bearing it.

E. Stanley Jones draws us deeper into the mystery of abiding with Christ, focusing on John 15:7. The promise seems extraordinary: “Ask whatever you will, and it shall be done for you.” Yet this is no blank check for the flesh. It’s a spiritual inheritance accessed by those who live in continuous union with Christ—both generally and specifically.

In today’s reflection from Immeasurably More, we encounter a rich picture of identity and purpose drawn from the Old Testament priesthood. Leviticus 21:6a speaks to the requirement for priests to be holy—not in the distorted sense of somber religious piety, but in the life-giving sense of wholeness.

In today’s reading, A.B. Simpson draws our attention to the compassionate heart of our High Priest—Jesus Christ—who fully understands our humanity. He recalls a moment with a suffering sister in Christ who, in the midst of her own pain, turned outward in loving concern for a needy child. Her selfless prayer, filled with tender mercy and deep compassion, became a picture of Christ’s very nature alive within her.

In this devotion, Bob Hoekstra unveils a powerful truth through Paul’s experience in Troas: triumph in Christ is not measured by smooth circumstances, visible outcomes, or emotional ease. When Paul arrived to preach the gospel and found the door open, we might expect a victorious ministry moment. But he confesses, “I had no rest in my spirit.” His companion Titus was missing, and the absence of a trusted partner was enough to send him onward to Macedonia instead.

Oswald Chambers sounds a gracious but necessary alarm to those who, in their zeal to serve God, may inadvertently begin to serve their service. It’s a subtle shift—from being God-centered to being work-centered—and it can slowly steal the joy of true devotion. Chambers reminds us that Christian service is not about effort that eclipses intimacy. The work of the believer must never replace the worship of the Beloved.

This morning’s entry from Abide Above invites us to behold a liberating truth: the law, though holy and just and good, has no dominion over those who are in Christ Jesus—not because it has been dismissed, but because it has been fulfilled. Every requirement of the law, every curse for disobedience, every righteous decree—it has all been answered in Christ.

Today’s eManna devotional draws our attention to a beautifully rich image found in Deuteronomy 33:24—Asher “dipping his foot in oil.” While this may initially seem like poetic imagery, its deeper meaning unveils the abundance of the Spirit-filled life. Oil, in Scripture, frequently symbolizes the Holy Spirit, and in this passage, we are not just told that Asher possesses oil, but that he walks in it. This is no meager anointing. His foot is dipped in it, submerged in a tangible and constant abundance.

Nehemiah 10 captures a holy moment of communal recommitment. After the public reading of the Law and deep national repentance in chapters 8 and 9, the people of Israel choose to bind themselves by a written covenant—a symbolic signature of responsive holiness. This wasn’t an abstract vow; it was filled with detail and sincerity. Civil leaders, priests, Levites, and ordinary men all aligned under the same resolution: to obey the commands of God, not as a means of earning His favor, but as a loving response to the grace He had already extended.

Ezekiel 41 draws us further into the intricacies of the future temple vision, and with it, a deep sense of reverence and progression toward holiness. As the prophet is led through the sacred architecture, we notice a deliberate narrowing of entrances and spaces—an architectural cue symbolizing increasing sanctity and the exclusivity of God's presence. The outer sanctuary, though holy, yields to the inner sanctuary, the Most Holy Place—a perfect square, echoing symmetry and sacred design, which only the high priest may enter (see Leviticus 16).

Psalm 1 opens the Psalter with a clear, vibrant contrast between two paths—the way of the righteous and the way of the wicked. This psalm is not a call to isolate from nonbelievers, but rather an invitation to guard our hearts from their counsel and enticements. It pictures the progressive pull of sin: one first walks, then stops and stands, and finally settles down to dwell in it. The blessed man resists that downward spiral not by striving, but by delighting—by delighting in the Lord's instruction. His meditation on God's Word is constant, not rote or ritual, but murmured softly, like an intimate conversation with a trusted friend.

The Psalms are more than poetic expressions—they are the heartbeat of worship, echoing every high and low of life while pointing toward the eternal reign of Christ. These 150 psalms, divinely orchestrated over centuries, blend raw human emotion with the steady cadence of divine faithfulness. They give voice to joy and pain, to fear and faith, without ever losing sight of God's promises.

E. Stanley Jones gently reframes the often-misunderstood concept of divine punishment by showing us that hell is not primarily a divine imposition but rather the natural trajectory of sin itself. He challenges the old paradigm that imagines an angry God hurling sinners into judgment. Instead, he invites us to see that sin is intrinsically self-consuming—like a fire that feeds on its own fuel. Its consequence is not externally applied, but internally birthed.

Ray Stedman brings our attention to a remarkable pattern in Leviticus 20: the way God repeats His covenant name—Jehovah—after each command. This isn’t redundant; it’s revelatory. By appending His name, “I am the LORD your God,” to every instruction, God is doing two vital things. First, He is asserting authority. His voice defines reality—what is right, what is wrong, what leads to life or death. When He says something is unclean, it’s not a matter of cultural taste; it’s truth. We are called to see life through His lens, not the shifting standards of the world.