
When it feels dark, we need the well trod paths of God’s Word to strengthen us so we don’t lose hope.

We think, “If only I had enough money, my life would change forever,” yet even a life-altering jackpot can’t easily eliminate the old self. Romans 6:10 tells us the death Christ died, He died to sin once for all, but the life He lives, He lives to God.


In a snowstorm, the signs showing miles to safety keep you moving even when relief feels hours away. You eat, you sleep, you feel better—so you believe that’s where strength comes from. But what happens when food runs out, rest doesn’t help, and the world keeps breaking? David pleads the same in Psalm 13, cutting to the real source of life: “Look at me, answer me, oh Lord, my God, revive me, or else I will die.” When personal storms and world chaos collide, what keeps hope alive?

We long for fresh starts, yet even after coming to Christ we can feel the pull to return to the same old sins and familiar ways. Romans 6:6–9 says our old self was crucified with Christ and that death no longer rules him—so what does that new standing mean for believers still facing temptation, failure, and the daily work of living for him?

You arrive early at the restaurant and order an iced tea while waiting for a friend whose advice you desperately need. One refill comes, then another, until the condensation has left the table damp and the agreed time is long past. An hour and a half later, you leave more dejected than when you arrived. Psalm 13 asks the same question that fills that silence: How long, O Lord?

We know we’re going to die—it’s as inevitable as buttered toast landing face-down—but Romans 6:5 asks whether that death has to mean the same thing it did before Christ.

When evil seems to be prospering, the temptation can be to find a backup plan instead of God’s way. Do we need one?

A voyage to the moon can feel finished once splashdown comes and the pictures stop, yet those who flew it insist it is only the start. Romans 6 challenges us to see the same of Easter: we’re not at the end of our old debt, but the beginning of our new life in Jesus.

Easter is God’s profound statement that He not only listens, but He also saves.

We are good at recognizing what is wrong—and remarkably bad at fixing it. Isaiah 1 warns that the strong become tinder and their work a spark, exposing every human effort we trust to make life secure and lasting. What hope does Easter offer when the things we build, the solutions we devise, and even our own strength end in ash?
Greg helps us to reflect on Good Friday by turning to the Book of Isaiah.

We begin a new series in the Psalms tonight, looking at David’s lament in Psalm 12. What happens when we feel like evil has triumphed and whatever good we do is fruitless?

We love to DIY it, and those efforts can look impressive on the surface—but surface polish gives false confidence. Isaiah 1:30 warns that a life cut off from God withers like an oak without water. The question is whether we are still building kingdoms that burn, or rooting ourselves in the One who lasts.

Jason looked to the Gospel of John to help us think about encountering Jesus as we begin Holy Week.


When a worthy cause demands everything, compromise feels reasonable—even necessary. As Paul delivers a charge to Timothy to continue the job, he gives an important qualification: fight the good fight while holding firmly to faith and a good conscience, because the good fight is lost not through open defeat but through the quiet erosion of integrity.

Whatever looks triumphant—the people and things we hold out as the absolute measure of concrete, dependable success—still meets death that tramples it. Isaiah warns that rebels and sinners will together be shattered, and those who forsake the Lord will perish. What then are we going to hold onto?

We too often forget that the source is joyful and accept the far more mundane or depressing secondhand source.

How does a people God has blessed so richly turn their backs on him? Isaiah 1 opens with God’s lament over Jerusalem—once full of justice, now a harlot filled with murderers—and brings the question home for Lent: when he looks at you, does he lament?