There are chapters in scripture we read, and then there are chapters that read us. Luke 6—woven into the broader narrative of the Gospel of Luke—is one of those moments where the text reaches out with quiet hands, turns our chin toward heaven, and asks who we really
There are some truths that refuse to stay thin. They won’t sit politely inside a sentence. They insist on unfolding, expanding, stretching themselves across the interior world until they touch every corner of a life. The line at the heart of this message is one of those truths: If
When I sit with Luke 5 open beside me, I always sense something almost cinematic unfolding in those early movements of the ministry—an atmosphere slipping between the edges of dawn on the Sea of Galilee and the first tremors of a Kingdom breaking into the ordinary rhythm of fishermen
There’s a certain kind of morning when the air feels like it’s listening. A morning that doesn’t raise its voice or demand your attention but waits with the humble patience of something sacred. You wake not because the world shouted but because something softer, deeper, warmer nudged
There are moments in life when everything changes quietly before it changes publicly. Luke 4 is one of those moments. It is not loud at first. It does not open with applause. It opens with hunger. It opens with silence. It opens with the Spirit leading Jesus not into comfort,
There are moments in a man’s life when he quietly asks a question he may never say out loud: What am I supposed to believe in? The world feels loud, divided, unstable, and often hostile to conviction. Voices compete for attention. Standards shift overnight. Strength is redefined every few
The wilderness never arrives quietly. It comes without ceremony, without applause, without explanation. It shows up when life feels stripped down, when the noise fades, when titles and comforts fall away, and when all that remains is a person standing before God with nothing to hide behind. Luke chapter three
There are seasons in life when faith feels like something you carry in your hands, visible and confident, something you can point to and say, “This is it. This is what I believe.” And then there are seasons when faith feels more like something you keep in your pocket, unseen
Luke chapter two is one of the most familiar passages in all of Scripture, and that familiarity is both its gift and its danger. We hear it every December. We see it on greeting cards. We can almost recite it by muscle memory. Caesar Augustus. Quirinius. Bethlehem. No room in
There are families that look simple from the outside and complicated on the inside, and there are families that look complicated from the outside but are quietly learning something profound about love, patience, and faith. A home with one Christian parent and one Hindu parent often falls into that second
Luke chapter one does not begin with thunder. It does not open with armies or kings or even miracles in public view. It begins with a careful explanation, a quiet household, and two people who have been waiting a very long time. This is the kind of beginning that most
There is a quiet lie that creeps into the human heart when the road gets long. It whispers that faith is something you carry by yourself, that obedience is a private burden, and that endurance is supposed to be lonely. Over time, that lie settles into our bones. We begin