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It’s easy to hunker down when life gets complicated. We’ll just manage what’s in front of us and quietly wonder whether God’s bigger plan still has a place for us in it. Genesis 24 takes us to the story of a family facing down that same question.
We’ve all set out to pursue what we think God wants, only to watch the road curve in ways that make no sense. How do you trust Him when His path seems to undo the very promise He gave? In Genesis 22, Abraham faces exactly that moment as God calls him to offer Isaac.
We’ve all felt stuck in the middle—watching God work powerfully somewhere else while wondering if He’s forgotten us. In Genesis 21 the long-promised son finally arrives and the house fills with laughter, yet Isaac almost vanishes into the background of his own story. Even there, something unseen is still moving.
We love remembering that Jesus overturned tables in the temple—especially when we imagine them belonging to someone else. But in Luke 19:45–48 when Jesus drives out those who sold, and declares, “My house shall be a house of prayer,” His challenge isn’t just to those people who annoy us. What might He overturn when our own convenience, usefulness, and preferences begin to define worship?
We keep wanting peace now—the right circumstances, the right outcome, the right person in charge—and that hunger is not wrong, just misdirected. In Luke 19:41–44, Jesus weeps over a city shouting for peace while blind to the only kind that lasts, and his tears raise an uncomfortable question about what we’re actually seeking when we seek it.
We can say all the right things about Jesus and still expect the wrong things from him. In Luke 19, the crowd welcomes its King with praise, peace, and glory—but what happens when the Savior we celebrate does not pursue the earthly victory, security, or power we wanted?
We’ve all got a part of ourselves we refuse to hand over—the place that says, You don’t get this, Lord. Heading toward Jerusalem, Jesus told a parable about a nobleman whose citizens hated him and sent word: We do not want this man to reign over us. The question is whether that refusal still has the last word.
Most of us are quicker to panic over a dying phone battery than over a dying spiritual one—we coast along, confident we’re fine, while the indicator drops lower than we’d ever admit. As Jesus calls a written-off man in Jericho, He challenges all of us on this: “Do we know how much we need Him?”
There’s a blind man sitting by the road outside Jericho in Luke 18, and the crowd wants him to be quiet—he’s an embarrassment, a distraction from something more important. He cries out anyway: “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me.” Whatever it is that makes you feel like the person everyone else wants to go away, this passage is for you.
Clear words can still sail right past us when they aren’t the news we want. In Luke 18, Jesus tells the Twelve exactly what’s about to happen to Him, yet they were just like us: they didn’t want to hear.