Even David, the man after God’s own heart, was not a perfect ruler. Even David, the young boy whom Samuel the prophet anointed (1Samuel 16:1), the worshipping shepherd, slaying lion and bear to protect his sheep (1Samuel 17:34–36). Even David, the budding warrior with faith larger than all the armies of Israel that slung a pebble right into the head of Goliath (1Samuel 17). Even David, the one the story of God seems to set up as the perfect earthly ruler. Even David would turn from righteousness, take a man’s wife and lay with her, and then kill the honorable husband to try to cover his sin (2Samuel 11).

Earthly rulers cannot rule with perfect hearts.

Even so, God blessed David. Not because He knew David would be perfect (God knew David would not) but because God had a perfect plan for David’s line—from the descendants of David, God would raise someone to rule on the throne of David forever (2Samuel 7:16).

This “shoot from the stump of Jesse” would come with wisdom, understanding, justice, might, righteousness, and faithfulness (Isaiah 11:1–5). This king would be unlike all others. This ruler would be the perfect redeemer of Israel—and of the world—to all who will believe (John 1:12–13).

But when Jesus came at first, His kingdom did not rule in the way we would expect. At His first advent, the King reigned as a humble, suffering servant (Isaiah 53). He led as a teacher, healer, and friend (Matthew 5:1, Luke 8:26–39, John 15:15). He ruled as our sacrifice for sin and our redeemer in His resurrection.

This is our King.

Unfortunately, we are still ruled by earthly powers until Jesus comes back. Difficult bosses, complicated medical insurance that keeps you from vital treatment, unjust laws.

Where in your life are you longing for righteous leadership?

I think the message of the first advent of Christ is vital for our lives today as we await His return to make all things new (Revelation 21:5). Our hearts long for justice and truth to reign more than agendas and power grabs. Real people suffer and we cry out, “How long, oh Lord?” And then we say with a release of breath, “Come, Lord Jesus, come. As it was in the first advent, may it be in our time. Come, and bring your light.”

How do I let go of the one who tethered me, taught me how to see the world? How do I let go of the hugs that could melt away tears?

The nurse clicked off the death-machine march, and the room fell silent enough to hear dad’s deflating breaths. My husband and I sang “Amazing Grace” as I held dad’s cooling hand. A tear traced down his face. He whispered his last breath.

In that moment, I wanted to reach out my arm and grab forward into the new heavens and new earth (Revelation 21:1). I wanted to run into my father’s safe arms, skipping ahead of the pain and suffering of grief. It’s been eighteen years, and thinking about his death still makes me want to hide in a corner for a week.

Because the reality is, death is a curse (Genesis 2:17, Hebrews 9:27). A consequence (Romans 6:23). A horrific reality of the world torn by sin (Genesis 5). Where parents and children die and our souls cry out, “It should not be this way!”

What pain or suffering has your family faced because of the curse of death? In our pain, our hope echoes as we wait for the reverse of the curse to come, tearing through the clouds—a new reality where God once again dwells with his creation and there is no death or suffering, no mourning or pain, for the curse has been done away with (Revelation 21:3–4).

But for now, we breathe in a heavy weight as we wait for this hope. We carry the marks of our brokenness. These marks can look like the physical scars of cancer surgery or maybe the stiff knee from high school soccer. Maybe they look like the deeper wounds of injustice or the loss of a spouse. Whatever the wounds, we all have them.

And with every wound, we reach forward more to our great hope, a hope not like a wishing well or positive vibes (whatever those are). Our future hope is a physical reality, paved with gold and flooded with the light of God’s glory, where all who are in Christ will dwell with new bodies that never die (1Corinthians 15:42–49, Revelation 21:21–23). This is trustworthy and true (Revelation 21:5, 22:6).

So as we suffer momentarily, even in the darkest days of despair, we can trust the promises of our future home. We set our hope on things above (Colossians 3:1–4) because we can be sure God will make all things new (Revelation 21:5)—including my father’s body.

I think Mother Teresa’s commitment to humble service might be the essence of what Jesus taught His disciples in the upper room during the last meal before He offered His life (John 13). He took off His outer garment, grabbed a towel and basin of water, and wiped the disciples’ feet—muddy, crusty, sweaty, hairy, calloused feet—until they glistened.

Our Lord pushed his fingers in between toes to wipe away layered road refuse. Of course, Peter rebuffed the Lord washing his feet (we might too). The King of Glory soiled His hands with a task so beneath the disciples, that none of the Jesus-followers offered to wash each other before the meal. The disciples wanted positions in heaven (Luke 22:24–30), yet Jesus showed them the true position of the heavenly-minded.

And then Jesus told the disciples to do likewise to one another (John 13:12–17). He chose to teach humble service in His last mentorship session before His betrayal. This is like a deathbed example: love each other by serving one another humbly.

But He didn’t just tell them—He showed them to what extent they are to love one another: to the end of life itself (Philippians 2:6–8, Mark 10:45). The power of the gospel displayed in Jesus’s death, resurrection, and ascension brings justice to the nations (Isaiah 42:1) through the sacrificial service of His people.

But humbly serving our brothers and sisters in Christ hurts sometimes. People gossip. Betray. Lobby. Judge. How can we humbly serve believers when everything in us wants to stand our ground?

Jesus saw the sinner disciples seated at His table but picked up the towel and the basin anyway. He plunged the cloth into the muddy water and washed the feet of Peter who denied Him, Thomas who doubted Him, and Judas who betrayed Him. He knew they would run at His arrest (Matthew 26:56)—hide in fear after His death (John 20:19). But He humbled Himself anyway. Served anyway.

How we love our brothers and sisters in Christ may look different for each of us as we obey the Spirit’s leading. For me, right now it looks like not splurging on the new outfit so our family can support a missionary. It means holding my tongue when I want to gossip about someone at church. It looks like sacrificing an afternoon of needed chores to visit an elderly church member.

I’m not doing this perfectly, but maybe Eugene Peterson said it best when he said the Christian life is “a long obedience in the same direction.” Whether in the slums of Kolkata or the ‘burbs in Indiana, I think Jesus’s example to the twelve belongs to us as well. Love one another through humble service—to the end.

“I don’t need you to teach me,” my son replied. “I know what I’m doing.”

Jesus’s relationship with the Jews reminds me of my son’s comment, “I don’t need you to teach me.” As we come to John 8:30, Jesus had been teaching in the temple and many Jews believed in Him because of what He said. Jesus then offered them a truth that could save them from much more than a text message bully—but they didn’t want Jesus’s teaching. They acted like overly confident teenagers, offended by the aged wisdom of the One that they had just come to believe was the Son of God (vv.28–31).

Jesus might have sounded like a parent while telling them, “If you continue in my word, you really are my disciples. You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free” (vv.31–32). He told them that if the Son set them free, they would be free indeed (v.36).

But the Jews pushed back. I imagine they rolled their eyes like my son, brushing off the redirection they thought they didn’t need. “We don’t need your teaching. We’re Abraham’s descendants and don’t need to be set free from slavery” (paraphrase mine). They thought they were in the know—but they didn’t know they were slaves to sin (Romans 6:15–18).

The fact is, however, we need the same truth the Jews rejected. Unless we, too, hold onto, or know and follow, Jesus’s teachings, we, too, can live as slaves to sin. To be a slave is to live in submission to someone or something. Now, of course we are saved by grace through faith and not by works (Ephesians 2:8–9), but we also learn to walk with God by practicing God’s teachings. The more we obey Him instead of the pull of our sin, the more freedom we find.

I see this in my own life.

When I soak my mind in God’s word, I increasingly follow the pattern of the Bible’s teachings. “Hold your tongue.” “Be patient.” “Trust the Lord” (Proverbs 21:23, Ephesians 4:2, Proverbs 3:5–6, Romans 6:17). My life is then filled with increasing freedom from sin.

But when I’m not soaked in God’s word, it’s another world. I live in increasing slavery to my desire for control. Anxiety moves in, along with grumbling, jealousy, and discontentment (Philippians 2:14, James 3:16).

Do you ever notice a difference in your life when you meditate on and practice God’s word versus when you don’t? The Jews who argued with Jesus in John 8 had no room for Jesus’s words (John 8:37) and couldn’t hear, or understand and retain, what Jesus said (v.43).

May we hear. May we be ready and open to be washed in the words of the Bible over and over. May we hold onto Jesus’s teachings (v.31), know the truth (v.32), and obey His Word (v.51) because Jesus’s words bring freedom from the power of sin and death—and it is for freedom we have been set free (Galatians 5:1).

Like Nehemiah and his workers, following God in ministry—inside and outside the church—can exhaust us in ways we never imagined. With muscles aching from lifting stones and eyes constantly strained from scanning the horizon for threats (Nehemiah 4:17), following God’s lead in our vocation or volunteer work can be more challenging than we ever expected. In the middle of our weariness, Nehemiah’s story offers us a word of encouragement.

The walls of Jerusalem were toppled and the gates burned. When Nehemiah heard about it, he crumbled in grief (Nehemiah 1:4). But instead of merely mourning, he fasted and sought the Lord (vv.4–11) and then set himself up to do something about it; he stepped out to restore the walls of the city where God’s glory had dwelt (Nehemiah 2).

And God blessed Nehemiah—in ways we think one should be blessed when doing God’s work. God provided favor with the king (Nehemiah 2:1–6), resources to build the wall (vv.7–9), and people of the city to help him build it (vv.16–20).

But God did not provide peace on all sides (v.19), the absence of deadly threats (Nehemiah 3), enduring human strength (Nehemiah 4:10), or consistent provision (Nehemiah 5). In American Christianity, we might wonder, “If God was blessing him, then he wouldn’t have so many struggles, right?”

Wrong.

Doing God’s work does not mean a worry free, coasting life. We see this truth from the Apostle Paul too. He endured many opposing threats and stood his ground but not by his strength. Paul wrote, “But the Lord stood with me and strengthened me” (2Timothy 4:17).

God blessed Nehemiah with His strength as well. When he faced a barrage of false accusations, when he knew his opposers were trying to wear him and his men down so that they would be too weak to work, Nehemiah prayed, “But now, my God, strengthen my hands” (Nehemiah 6:9).

God gave Nehemiah what he asked. God proved to be Nehemiah’s mighty Creator and gentle Shepherd (Isaiah 40:11)—the One powerful enough to sustain the universe, who was also tender enough to carry Nehemiah when he was weary (vv.28–31).

Through God’s strength, the wall was completed and all of Nehemiah’s opponents replaced their scoffing with fear, “for they realized that this task had been accomplished by our God” (Nehemiah 6:19).

Maybe part of why we endure trials of various kinds as we serve the Lord is so others can see God’s glory, just like God’s enemies saw His glory through Nehemiah’s endurance. Maybe when we depend on God’s provision in our need, we glorify Him best to a lost world.

And in ancient Egypt, we read about Shiphrah and Puah, two midwives who faced their own hard decision. Pharaoh told them to kill every Hebrew boy they delivered because he feared the Israelites were too numerous in the land (Exodus 1:9–16). Pharoah was not only a brutal and powerful dictator, he was also viewed as the supernatural link between the gods and the Egyptians. 

Shiphrah and Puah had to answer much larger questions in deciding how to respond to Pharoah’s command—what power would the midwives bow down to? Which god would they serve? If they chose to disobey Pharoah, he could have them tortured or killed.

We can imagine Shiphrah and Puah’s epic moments of decision. They pulled forth boys from wombs. They saw the head, then shoulders, arms, and legs of tiny image bearers of God miraculously brought forth, and even if they didn’t have the words to say it, each life was a reminder of the Creator. The helpless babes would lay in the midwives’ hands as new life pulsed through their fingers. What would Shiphrah and Puah do?

They let the boys live. The midwives feared the one true God more than Pharaoh and Egyptian gods (Exodus 1:17). They knew their future was unsure, but they surely would not dishonor God. 

Our decisions in following the Lord may not be as dangerous as the midwives, but we personally face all kinds of faith-based decisions. Do we compromise godliness in our relationships or honor God’s Word (1Corinthians 6:18)? Do we file our taxes with integrity, giving “to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s” (Matthew 22:21)? Do we confess Christ even when it might cost us a promotion or social connections (Matthew 10:32–34)?

Pharoah questioned the midwives, and they convinced him that the Hebrew women gave birth before they could arrive. Shiphrah and Puah feared the Lord, so the Lord blessed them with families of their own (Exodus 1:19–21). 

But following God does not always lead to earthly blessing, such as my eleven-year-old recently learned at school. Another kid teased my son’s friend. So my son stood up for his friend, but when the teacher turned and saw the altercation, my son was in the middle of it and got in trouble. I was moved when he said, “I learned today that honoring God by sticking up for my friend cost me.” 

Yes, my son. Following God takes on risk. Sometimes we are blessed like Shiphrah and Puah for our faithfulness to him. But other times—we suffer. Yet the consolation for us all is the same: if we fear the Lord, we worship Him with our lives like the godly midwives of Exodus.

Dad’s sight suddenly disappeared during a weeknight spaghetti dinner while my brother and I rambled about our day. He played it off not wanting to cause concern, and his sight returned a few minutes later. This episode propelled him to seek medical attention, leading to the discovery of a tumor the size of a golf ball growing next to his visual cortex. Inoperable.  

Dad called Samuel Paul, the prayer warrior that led him to the faith, and Samuel Paul prayed over my dad, begging God for his life—asking for at least fifteen more years like God gave King Hezekiah so dad could see his children grow up. The tumor miraculously stopped growing, every tendril cut off from the surrounding tissue, and his sight remained intact. 

Fifteen years later, Dad fell at work. The next day he woke up and couldn’t move the right half of his body. Doctors discovered another inoperable brain tumor, and Dad died two weeks after my husband asked for my hand in marriage. 

God gave my father fifteen more years, as He did for King Hezekiah. How I praise God that He gave them to us!

Twice Hezekiah came before the Lord with a desperate petition: first, to save Jerusalem from the hand of the king of Assyria, who mocked the Lord (Isaiah 37:16–20). Hezekiah took the assault of the Lord’s name before the throne of God and petitioned the Lord to save Israel for the sake of the name of the Lord (Isaiah 37:14–20). And again, when Hezekiah fell sick, the Lord told him through the prophet Isaiah that he would die. The king begged God for more time, and God added another fifteen years in response to Hezekiah’s prayer (Isaiah 38). 

Hezekiah’s strength was that he did not hesitate to take his needs to the Lord. I’ve learned that I can approach prayer in the same way as Hezekiah. He heard Hezekiah; he heard Samuel Paul—and He hears us too. When we seek the Lord, He hears us (Psalm 34:4). 

And while the act of praying in itself is an act of hope, I have some unanswered prayers. We might hesitate to seek God in prayer, fearing our hope turning into disappointment at God’s response, whatever it may be. How long, oh Lord?, we may cry (Psalm 13). 

But what we see in Hezekiah’s story and in Jesus’s instructions to His disciples is that God hears and responds to our prayers. His sovereignty is a mystery at times, but we know He moves when we pray. So let’s continue to pray against all odds, like King Hezekiah, always for the glory of God to be made known.

Written by Seana Scott

We have them make the trek anyway, step-by-step. We persevere through burning thighs, sibling bickering, and pauses to catch our breath. But then (after what feels like years) we reach the top, and we breathe widely. We pull out the granola bars, oranges, and beef jerky—and soak in the majestic views. 

“Wow. This is cool,” my children say. I smile. The climb is excruciating, but the result is glorious. 

Difficult hiking seems like a metaphor for life. Such was the case for Joseph from the pages of Genesis. 

Joseph’s brothers sold him as a slave and lied to their father for years (Genesis 37:18–36). Their treachery forced Joseph to persevere through forced labor, imprisonment, and living as an immigrant in a distant land (Genesis 39–40). 

But by God’s mercy and providence through Joseph’s excruciating pain of betrayal and servitude, God blessed the work of Joseph’s hands to provide food for multitudes during a widespread famine. 

I imagine Joseph looked at those under his command as they distributed grain. Maybe he locked eyes with a desperate mother hoping to bake bread for her starving children. Maybe Joseph stood on the roof of the palace and breathed in a sense of humble pride as he watched droves of people caravan to grain centers, the storage houses Joseph led Egyptians to build during years of plenty. 

Regardless of the exact details, Joseph saw the hand of God on the mountaintop of life after persevering the excruciating climb.

So when Joseph’s father died and his brothers asked for mercy for how they treated him, Joseph replied, “You planned evil against me; God planned it for good to bring about the present result—the survival of many people. Therefore don’t be afraid. I will take care of you and your children” (Genesis 50:20–21). In Joseph’s heart, there was no room for retaliation. God used his painful journey to bring about miraculous provision for nations in years of famine. 

I relate to Joseph in some ways. I’ve been through more than a decade of deeply painful situations. Life has not turned out the way I imagined, and I’ve struggled with resentment. Bitterness. Unforgiveness. 

But over the past few years, I’ve begun to see God’s glory from my pain. He’s changing me through it and using me to do work for His kingdom I never imagined possible. I see that God’s ways are higher than mine and He works all things out for the good—even when it looks completely different than I might choose (Isaiah 55:8–9, Romans 8:28–30). 

Where are you on your own treacherous journey of life? In the middle of difficulty with burning thighs and shallow breath? Hold on. The view of God’s faithfulness is glorious from the top.

Our last move felt like the worst. We went from living close to family and moved states away. But after a couple of years, I paused to look around at the abundant life God provided: authentic friendships, a home we love, new cultural experiences, and a great school for our kids. Our family would have missed out on all of this if we played it safe and resisted the Spirit’s prodding to move into town.

This is what I think about when I ponder the abundant life we have in Christ. Honestly, we cannot even fathom the glory to be revealed when Jesus returns and all are raised to life (John 5:28–29). We read about our beautiful inheritance in Scripture (Ephesians 1:14, Psalm 16:6), but it’s like a parent telling a child about a new move, “Trust me. It will be great. You will see.” Sometimes all we can see is the hard right in front of us.

What is hard in your life this Advent? Maybe it’s a hurting relationship, challenging finances, or other kinds of suffering. 

The joy of our abundant life in Christ is not just for the future when all is panned out. The joy of our abundant life in Christ is for the right now, when life is unsure, when the tunnel is dark, when you can’t see to the other side. The joy comes from knowing that the babe in the manger was our Savior who came to lay down His life (John 10:15), He is our Good Shepherd who takes care of His sheep (v.14), and no matter what we face—eternal life is ours in Christ (John 5:24). 

This Advent season, maybe our joy comes from the gifts we already have, no matter what remains aching and undone. We have God’s divine power that has granted us all things pertaining to life and godliness (2Peter 1:3–4). We have the hope that as we listen to God’s voice, we will follow his path (John 10:27, Psalm 16:11). And we have the confidence that Jesus came, not so we could have it safe—but so we could have life and have it in abundance (John 10:10). 

C. S. Lewis wrote about Aslan in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, “‘Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good. He’s the King, I tell you.” I think the same is true of trusting and following Jesus. It is not safe following Jesus. We aren’t promised health, wealth, and prosperity. But we are promised life abundant—and God is good. 

May this truth bring you joy this Advent.

But they never returned. 

Annie’s parents died in a fire when Annie was just a baby. However, orphan Annie was adopted by Oliver Warbucks and became not only his daughter—but an heir to his estate as his only child. She went from the clutches of cruel Miss Hannigan to a daughter and heir. 

Now, Annie is just an imagined Broadway story, but it reminds me of the very true reality of our lives as children of God. We once were enslaved to the elemental spiritual forces of this world (Galatians 4:3), but now we are God’s children and heirs in Christ Jesus (v.7). 

Take a moment to let this truth sink in: we are children of God and heirs in Christ Jesus.  

This eternal good news is our very tangible reality. We deserve nothing more than God’s wrath for our sin. But in the richness of gracious love, He not only saves us but also makes us heirs in Christ Jesus. 

This is almost hard for me to fathom. We, the scoundrel sinners, clothed in the rags of our rebellion, are now robed in the righteousness of God (Isaiah 61:10) by faith in Christ’s work. We, the selfish sin-factory humans, are rescued by our faith in Christ’s work, are seated with Him in the heavenly realms (Ephesians 2:6–7), will be glorified with Christ (Romans 8:30), and will reign with Him forever (2Timothy 2:12).

Such a generous inheritance is more than finding hidden treasure at the bottom of the sea or stumbling upon a winning Mega Millions lotto ticket. There is no end to the riches in Christ Jesus (Ephesians 3:8). 

So then, it seems like such a small command of the Lord through the apostle Paul for us to live by the Spirit. In fact, I think it a minuscule instruction to live according to the Spirit and what the Spirit desires (Romans 8:5). But it still can be difficult, especially when we face everyday, ordinary situations where walking in the fruit of the Spirit goes against our human nature (Galatians 5:22–23). 

What is difficult for you right now in your journey of following Christ? 

Friend, God did not leave us as orphans. His Spirit lives in us (Romans 8:16–17). Keep focusing on your hope with the determination of orphan Annie: our eternal glory in Christ is far beyond whatever humility or difficulty we persevere as we honor Him now (Romans 8:18). We will reign with Christ, forever.