2026 Devotions
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The Methodist in Early America Wake up, Sleeper Rise From the Dead
“Wake up, sleeper,
rise from the dead,
and Christ will shine on you.”
— Ephesians 5:14
Before America had a Constitution, it had circuit riders.
Long before our nation had a Capitol building, it had men on horseback with Bibles in their saddlebags, riding through forests and over mountains to tell people about Jesus.
This is the story of how God used the Methodist movement to wake up a young nation.
The Spark That Crossed the Atlantic
Methodism didn’t start in America. It began in the heart of an Anglican priest named John Wesley in England.
On May 24, 1738, Wesley went to a small meeting on Aldersgate Street in London. Someone was reading a commentary about the book of Romans. Wesley later wrote that, as he listened, he felt his heart “strangely warmed.”
In that moment, he knew—deep in his soul—that Christ had taken away his sins, even his, and saved him by grace.
From that “strangely warmed” heart, a movement was born.
Wesley never came to America himself, but his message did. In 1769, he sent two lay preachers, Richard Boardman and Joseph Pilmore, to the colonies—a land spiritually hungry and geographically vast. It was the perfect place for what came to be called “Methodist” methods: small groups, close accountability, passionate preaching, and a call to holy living.
Wesley once summed up the Christian life like this:
“Do all the good you can,
by all the means you can,
in all the ways you can,
in all the places you can,
at all the times you can,
to all the people you can,
as long as ever you can.”
That kind of practical, wholehearted faith would fit perfectly on the American frontier.
The Circuit Riders: God’s Saddle Preachers
If there is one image that captures early American Methodism, it’s this:
A lone rider, on a muddy road, in the rain.
A worn Bible in his saddlebag.
A heart burning with the gospel.
These were the circuit riders—traveling preachers who rode from settlement to settlement, preaching wherever they could gather a handful of people: cabins, barns, fields, camp meetings.
One of the greatest was Francis Asbury. He came from England in 1771 and never really stopped moving.
An estimated 300,000 miles on horseback.
More than 16,000 sermons preached.
Organizing camp meetings, ordaining ministers, visiting believers.
All while battling chronic illness, never marrying, never owning property, never settling down.
By the time Asbury died in 1816, Methodism had grown from a small, scattered movement into the largest Protestant denomination in America.
And who were these preachers?
Not polished seminary graduates.
They were blacksmiths, farmers, young men from ordinary backgrounds—people on fire for Jesus, willing to go where comfort could not follow.
They believed something powerful: that salvation is for everyone—not just the rich, the educated, or the well-connected.
On a frontier where many people felt forgotten, that message was revolutionary.
The Message They Preached
What did these early Methodists preach?
They preached the new birth:
“You must be born again.”
— John 3:3, 7
You could grow up in church, know the prayers, say the right words—but without a personal encounter with Christ, you still needed to be born again.
They preached grace:
“For by grace you have been saved through faith… not a result of works…”
— Ephesians 2:8–9
Salvation, they said, is a gift, not a reward. You don’t earn it by being good. You receive it by trusting in Jesus.
They preached holiness:
“Strive for peace with everyone,
and for the holiness without which no one will see the Lord.”
— Hebrews 12:14
And:
“For this is the will of God, your sanctification…”
— 1 Thessalonians 4:3
Methodists believed that God doesn’t just forgive us—He transforms us. He calls us to a life set apart, a life that looks more and more like Jesus.
They preached invitation:
“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden,
and I will give you rest.”
— Matthew 11:28
Camp meetings and revival services often ended with this kind of call: come, kneel, pray, receive Christ, find rest for your soul.
They preached assurance:
“The Spirit himself bears witness with our spirit
that we are children of God.”
— Romans 8:16
You didn’t have to live in constant fear and uncertainty. The Holy Spirit could give you a deep, inner assurance that you really belong to God.
And they preached the power of the Spirit:
“I will pour out my Spirit on all flesh…”
— Acts 2:17–18
They believed God wanted to pour out His Spirit on ordinary people, in ordinary places—cabins, campgrounds, little wooden chapels—transforming hearts and communities.
And again and again, they echoed this wake-up call:
“Wake up, sleeper,
rise from the dead,
and Christ will shine on you.”
— Ephesians 5:14
What This Means for Us
So what does an old story about circuit riders and camp meetings have to do with you and me?
Everything.
Because the same Jesus who met John Wesley on Aldersgate Street,
who strengthened Francis Asbury on lonely roads,
who moved in log cabins and open fields…
…is the same Jesus who meets us right where we are.
The Methodist movement in America reminds us:
No one is too far—geographically, socially, or spiritually—for God to reach.
Faith is personal—you must be born again; you can’t inherit salvation.
Grace is real—you’re saved by faith, not your performance.
Holiness matters—God wants to change not just your status, but your life.
The Spirit still speaks—assuring us, empowering us, waking us up.
Maybe today, you feel like that sleeper in Ephesians 5—going through the motions, but spiritually tired, numb, or distracted.
Hear this word spoken over you:
“Wake up, sleeper,
rise from the dead,
and Christ will shine on you.”
Will you not revive us again,
that your people may rejoice in you?”
— Psalm 85:6
In every generation, God’s people drift.
We get comfortable. Our faith becomes routine. The fire grows dim.
In the 1700s, across the American colonies, that’s exactly what had happened. Churches were filled with people who believed the right things on paper—but many hearts were cold. Faith had become inherited, not experienced.
Into that moment, God began to answer the prayer of Psalm 85:
“Will you not revive us again…?”
He did it through two very different men: Jonathan Edwards and George Whitefield. And the ripple effects helped shape the spiritual atmosphere in which this country was born.
Jonathan Edwards: A Heart Captivated by God’s Beauty
Jonathan Edwards pastored in a small New England town called Northampton. He wasn’t flashy. He preached quietly, often reading from a manuscript. But his heart burned with a huge vision of God.
One of his favorite verses was:
“So, whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do,
do all to the glory of God.”
— 1 Corinthians 10:31
Edwards believed all of life—from simple meals to great decisions—was meant to display the glory of God. True Christianity, to him, was not cold belief, but a heart set aflame with the beauty of Christ.
He also loved verses that highlighted God’s grace:
“For by grace you have been saved through faith.
And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God,
not a result of works, so that no one may boast.”
— Ephesians 2:8–9
In a culture that often confused being “nice” or “religious” with being truly born again, Edwards insisted: salvation is by grace alone, through faith alone, in Christ alone.
He preached about the new birth:
“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation.”
— 2 Corinthians 5:17
For Edwards, a Christian wasn’t just someone who said the right words. A Christian was a new person—heart, desires, and affections transformed by the Holy Spirit.
In Northampton, revival did not begin with noise, smoke, and lights. It began with conviction.
Young people who had been indifferent suddenly felt the weight of eternity. Families began gathering in homes to pray. Conversations in shops and fields turned to the state of the soul. A town once spiritually dull became alive with a sense of God’s presence.
Edwards reminds us that revival often begins quietly, when God stirs the heart of one person who longs for more of Him.
George Whitefield: A Voice That Shook a Continent
If Edwards was a quiet flame, George Whitefield was a wildfire.
Whitefield traveled up and down the colonies on horseback, preaching outdoors to thousands. His voice was so powerful that Benjamin Franklin once calculated that it could be heard from nearly a mile away.
Whitefield’s message centered on one dominant theme:
“You must be born again.”
— John 3:7
He believed you could attend church your whole life, know the Bible, and still not be truly converted. So he preached with passion, often with tears, pleading with people to come to Christ personally.
Another passage that shaped his preaching was:
“And you were dead in the trespasses and sins…
But God, being rich in mercy…
made us alive together with Christ.”
— Ephesians 2:1, 4–5
Whitefield told people the truth: without Christ, we are spiritually dead. We don’t need a spiritual tune-up—we need a resurrection. And only Jesus can do that.
Crowds gathered in fields, streets, and churchyards. Farmers, merchants, enslaved people, children—tens of thousands heard the gospel. Hardened hearts softened. People wept, repented, rejoiced.
Whitefield reminds us that revival spreads when God’s people boldly proclaim the gospel with love, urgency, and joy.
Two Men, One Spirit, One Mission
Jonathan Edwards and George Whitefield could hardly have been more different.
Edwards: quiet, scholarly, careful.
Whitefield: dramatic, emotional, thunderous.
Yet the same Holy Spirit worked through both.
The First Great Awakening was not about one style of preaching or one kind of personality. It was about God reviving His church.
Edwards shows us the power of deep, steady faithfulness—a life anchored in God’s glory.
Whitefield shows us the power of bold, Spirit-filled proclamation—a voice willing to speak for Christ anywhere, to anyone.
Together they show us this:
Revival does not depend on our personality. It depends on our availability.
Shaping a People, Shaping a Nation
So how did this shape the birth of this country?
As the Awakening spread, believers across the colonies began to experience:
A personal relationship with God, not just inherited religion.
A sense of spiritual equality—rich and poor, educated and uneducated, all stood level at the foot of the cross.
The courage to question dead, formal structures and to seek freedom to worship from the heart.
Those spiritual currents helped prepare people to think about freedom, conscience, and responsibility before God—ideas that would echo in the years leading up to the American Revolution.
No, the Awakening wasn’t a political movement. It was a spiritual one. But spiritual awakenings change people, and changed people begin to shape history.
A Word for Us Today
Listen again to Psalm 85:6:
“Will you not revive us again,
that your people may rejoice in you?”
We need that prayer today.
We live in a distracted age, a divided age, an age where it’s easy for faith to become just one more activity on the calendar.
The First Great Awakening reminds us:
God can awaken whole communities—starting with one surrendered heart.
He can use quiet scholars and fiery evangelists, pastors and ordinary believers.
He loves to take dry bones and breathe new life into them.
The question is not, “Can God revive us?”
The question is, “Are we willing to be revived?”
Are we willing, like Edwards, to seek God’s glory in everything?
Are we willing, like Whitefield, to speak of Jesus openly, with love and urgency?
The History of Early America Part One – The Pilgrims/Congregationalists
Today I want to invite you to step back in time—not to escape our world, but to see it more clearly.
In the 1630s, a group of Christians crossed the Atlantic to what would become Massachusetts. They weren’t just looking for better land or new opportunities. They were longing to build a holy community—a place where Scripture shaped every corner of life.
As they sailed, their leader, John Winthrop, preached a famous sermon. In it, he used the words of Jesus:
“You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden.”
— Matthew 5:14
Winthrop told them: if we follow Christ faithfully, our life together will shine. But if we turn from him, everyone will see that too. They believed the eyes of the world—and of God—were on them.
They dreamed of a “city upon a hill”: small towns, wooden meetinghouses, families gathered each week to worship, pray, and covenant together. Out of this soil grew early Congregational churches—communities that emphasized local faithfulness, shared responsibility, and a people bound together by promise.
It wasn’t perfect. They made real mistakes and committed real sins. No human community is flawless. But their longing was sincere: to build a people whose hearts were wholly God’s.
A People Shaped by Covenant
For these early Massachusetts believers, the church was not just an institution—it was a covenant family.
Members promised to walk together in holiness, to encourage one another, and to submit to Christ as their true head. They met in simple buildings, not grand cathedrals. They sang psalms without polished choirs. They listened to long sermons—not for entertainment, but for transformation.
Their simplicity reminds us of something important:
The strength of a church is not in its structure, but in its surrender.
One passage that shaped them deeply comes from Acts 2, describing the very first Christians:
“They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and the fellowship,
to the breaking of bread and the prayers.”
— Acts 2:42
That little word “devoted” tells the story. The early church—and later, the churches in Massachusetts—weren’t perfect, but they were devoted:
Devoted to the Word of God.
Devoted to fellowship with one another.
Devoted to worship and prayer.
That’s what they wanted their churches to be: not clubs we attend when it’s convenient, but covenant communities we give our lives to.
A Community Built on the Word
Those early settlers believed Scripture should shape not only Sunday worship, but everyday life—speech, work, family, and community decisions.
Their town records show people wrestling with questions like:
How do we treat our neighbors justly?
How do we care for the poor?
How should we respond when someone sins publicly?
They weren’t trying to build a perfect society. They knew that was impossible this side of heaven. They were trying to build a faithful one.
And God used their imperfect efforts. From their small, windswept towns came pastors, missionaries, schools, and movements that would influence the spiritual life of a nation.
What Their Story Teaches Us
So what does all of this have to do with us?
We live in a very different world. We’re online; we’re scattered; many of us feel more isolated than ever. But the calling is surprisingly similar.
Their story reminds us that:
Faithfulness begins small.
It starts at home, in local churches and small groups, in friendships where believers covenant—formally or informally—to walk with Christ together.
Revival begins with ordinary obedience.
Not with celebrity preachers or perfect programs, but with everyday Christians opening their Bibles, confessing their sins, loving their neighbors, and showing up for one another.
God delights to use simple, Scripture-anchored people.
A plain meetinghouse, a faltering prayer, a family gathered around the Word—these are the places where God’s light shines most clearly.
Their story is not about perfection; it is about perseverance.
Not about power; it is about purity of heart.
Not about building monuments; it is about building disciples.
A Word for Us Today
Listen again to these two verses, now spoken over your life and your church:
“Unless the Lord builds the house,
those who build it labor in vain.”
— Psalm 127:1
“You are the light of the world.
A city set on a hill cannot be hidden.”
— Matthew 5:14
We may not live in colonial New England, but we face the same calling:
To be a people shaped by the Word.
To be a community bound by love.
To be a light on a hill in our generation.
The Puritans planted seeds they would never fully see grow.
In the same way, much of what we do for Christ will bear fruit long after we are gone.
So here is the question for us:
What kind of “city on a hill” are we building—
in our homes, our churches, our neighborhoods—today?
Not a perfect one. That’s not possible.
But a faithful one?
By God’s grace, yes.
The Safest Place
That last line of Psalm 31 is powerful.
David is in danger. He is under pressure. He does not know how everything is going to turn out. So he prays:
“Into your hands I commit my spirit.”
Psalm 31:5
In other words, David is saying, “God, I trust You with me. I trust You with my life. I trust You with what I cannot control. I trust You with what others are doing against me. I trust You with the outcome.”
Centuries later, Jesus would speak those same words from the cross:
“Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.”
Luke 23:46
David wrote those words from a place of danger and dependence.
Jesus spoke them from a place of suffering and surrender.
And both remind us of this truth: the safest place for your life is in the hands of God.
That does not mean fear disappears.
David still had fears. He still had enemies. He still had questions. Faith did not mean he never felt afraid. Faith meant he knew where to run when he was afraid.
Psalm 56:3 says:
“When I am afraid, I put my trust in you.”
That is real faith.
Real faith does not pretend fear is not there. Real faith brings fear to God.
That is what David did again and again.
When people lied, David ran to the God who tells the truth.
When people broke promises, David ran to the God who keeps His word.
When people set traps, David ran to the God who was his refuge.
When David did not know what would happen next, he placed himself in God’s hands.
Maybe today you are carrying the weight of broken promises. Someone disappointed you. Someone failed you. Someone said they would be there, and they were not. Someone took advantage of your trust.
That pain is real.
But do not let the unfaithfulness of people convince you that God is unfaithful too.
People may fail.
God does not.
Hebrews 10:23 says:
“Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful.”
Not because life is always simple.
Not because people are always trustworthy.
Not because we always understand God’s timing.
But because He who promised is faithful.
David’s faith was not rooted in the reliability of people. It was rooted in the character of God.
And that kind of faith can hold you too.
God’s promises never fail.
https://youtu.be/mZH6xYBggJo
Sunday, June 28, 2026
June 30, 2026 (accidently published on June 7 — )
The History of Early America Part One – The Pilgrims/Congregationalists
Today I want to invite you to step back in time—not to escape our world, but to see it more clearly.
In the 1630s, a group of Christians crossed the Atlantic to what would become Massachusetts. They weren’t just looking for better land or new opportunities. They were longing to build a holy community—a place where Scripture shaped every corner of life.
As they sailed, their leader, John Winthrop, preached a famous sermon. In it, he used the words of Jesus:
“You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden.”
— Matthew 5:14
Winthrop told them: if we follow Christ faithfully, our life together will shine. But if we turn from him, everyone will see that too. They believed the eyes of the world—and of God—were on them.
They dreamed of a “city upon a hill”: small towns, wooden meetinghouses, families gathered each week to worship, pray, and covenant together. Out of this soil grew early Congregational churches—communities that emphasized local faithfulness, shared responsibility, and a people bound together by promise.
It wasn’t perfect. They made real mistakes and committed real sins. No human community is flawless. But their longing was sincere: to build a people whose hearts were wholly God’s.
A People Shaped by Covenant
For these early Massachusetts believers, the church was not just an institution—it was a covenant family.
Members promised to walk together in holiness, to encourage one another, and to submit to Christ as their true head. They met in simple buildings, not grand cathedrals. They sang psalms without polished choirs. They listened to long sermons—not for entertainment, but for transformation.
Their simplicity reminds us of something important:
The strength of a church is not in its structure, but in its surrender.
One passage that shaped them deeply comes from Acts 2, describing the very first Christians:
“They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and the fellowship,
to the breaking of bread and the prayers.”
— Acts 2:42
That little word “devoted” tells the story. The early church—and later, the churches in Massachusetts—weren’t perfect, but they were devoted:
Devoted to the Word of God.
Devoted to fellowship with one another.
Devoted to worship and prayer.
That’s what they wanted their churches to be: not clubs we attend when it’s convenient, but covenant communities we give our lives to.
A Community Built on the Word
Those early settlers believed Scripture should shape not only Sunday worship, but everyday life—speech, work, family, and community decisions.
Their town records show people wrestling with questions like:
How do we treat our neighbors justly?
How do we care for the poor?
How should we respond when someone sins publicly?
They weren’t trying to build a perfect society. They knew that was impossible this side of heaven. They were trying to build a faithful one.
And God used their imperfect efforts. From their small, windswept towns came pastors, missionaries, schools, and movements that would influence the spiritual life of a nation.
What Their Story Teaches Us
So what does all of this have to do with us?
We live in a very different world. We’re online; we’re scattered; many of us feel more isolated than ever. But the calling is surprisingly similar.
Their story reminds us that:
Faithfulness begins small.
It starts at home, in local churches and small groups, in friendships where believers covenant—formally or informally—to walk with Christ together.
Revival begins with ordinary obedience.
Not with celebrity preachers or perfect programs, but with everyday Christians opening their Bibles, confessing their sins, loving their neighbors, and showing up for one another.
God delights to use simple, Scripture-anchored people.
A plain meetinghouse, a faltering prayer, a family gathered around the Word—these are the places where God’s light shines most clearly.
Their story is not about perfection; it is about perseverance.
Not about power; it is about purity of heart.
Not about building monuments; it is about building disciples.
A Word for Us Today
Listen again to these two verses, now spoken over your life and your church:
“Unless the Lord builds the house,
those who build it labor in vain.”
— Psalm 127:1
“You are the light of the world.
A city set on a hill cannot be hidden.”
— Matthew 5:14
We may not live in colonial New England, but we face the same calling:
To be a people shaped by the Word.
To be a community bound by love.
To be a light on a hill in our generation.
The Puritans planted seeds they would never fully see grow.
In the same way, much of what we do for Christ will bear fruit long after we are gone.
So here is the question for us:
What kind of “city on a hill” are we building—
in our homes, our churches, our neighborhoods—today?
Not a perfect one. That’s not possible.
But a faithful one?
By God’s grace, yes.
Promises, Promises
When I worked as a problem solver for colleges, I heard the same story more than once:
“My boss promised me a raise, but it never happened.”
And to be honest, it was not always the boss’s fault. Sometimes the boss really did want to give the raise. Sometimes they had even asked for it. But somewhere higher up, the request was denied. Sometimes there just was not enough money.
So when I became the boss, I made a decision: I would be very careful with promises.
Because promises matter.
Maybe you have been let down by someone who made you a promise. Maybe it was a boss. Maybe it was a parent. Maybe it was your child, a teacher, a friend, or someone you trusted deeply.
They said they would do something, but they never followed through.
Or maybe it was worse than that. Maybe they promised you something, but they never intended to keep that promise in the first place. Maybe you were lied to. Maybe you were cheated. Maybe you were swindled out of something that was rightfully yours.
And when that happens enough times, something changes inside us.
We stop trusting easily.
Sometimes people distrust others because they have been hurt. But sometimes people distrust others because they themselves have learned to scheme, manipulate, or cheat to get ahead. And after a while, they begin to assume everyone else is doing the same thing.
Either way, broken trust leaves a mark.
So when the subject of God comes along, many people struggle.
They hear that God is faithful. They hear that God keeps His promises. They hear that God can be trusted. But deep down they wonder, “Can He really?”
They start out trying to do things God’s way. But when life does not change fast enough, when the answer does not come soon enough, when the pressure does not let up quickly enough, their trust begins to give out.
That could have happened to David.
David knew what it was like to be let down by people in power. He served King Saul, and Saul was not trustworthy.
At first, Saul welcomed David. David played music for him, fought battles for him, and served him faithfully. David even defeated Goliath when no one else would step forward. But Saul grew jealous. The same king who benefited from David’s faithfulness eventually tried to kill him.
You can read that story in 1 Samuel 16 through 24.
Saul told David one thing, but his actions said another. He praised him at times, used him at times, feared him at times, and hunted him at times.
David had every human reason to become bitter.
He had every reason to say, “I cannot trust anyone.”
And yet David flourished.
Not because his life was easy.
Not because people always treated him fairly.
Not because he was perfect.
David flourished because he knew something deeper: God is faithful even when people are not.
David knew that God was righteous. God was loving. God was just. God would not lie.
Numbers 23:19 says:
“God is not human, that he should lie,
not a human being, that he should change his mind.
Does he speak and then not act?
Does he promise and not fulfill?”
That is the difference between human promises and God’s promises.
People may mean well and still fail.
People may speak too quickly and then discover they cannot deliver.
People may promise one thing and do another.
But God does not make promises He cannot keep.
David was called a man after God’s own heart. But David was not called that because he was flawless. He was called that because, in the middle of his fear, failure, pressure, and pain, he kept turning his heart back toward God.
He trusted God even in adversity.
Listen to what David wrote in Psalm 31:1-5:
“In you, Lord, I have taken refuge;
let me never be put to shame;
deliver me in your righteousness.
Turn your ear to me,
come quickly to my rescue;
be my rock of refuge,
a strong fortress to save me.
Since you are my rock and my fortress,
for the sake of your name lead and guide me.
Keep me free from the trap that is set for me,
for you are my refuge.
Into your hands I commit my spirit;
deliver me, Lord, my faithful God.”
That last line is powerful:
“Into your hands I commit my spirit.”
David was saying, “God, I trust You with me. I trust You with my life. I trust You with what I cannot control. I trust You with what others are doing against me. I trust You with the outcome.”
But what about you? When it is hard to trust. Do you still Trust Jesus?
The Imperfect King
David was a great king. Scripture even calls him “a man after God’s own heart.” That phrase shows up in 1 Samuel 13:14, and Paul repeats it in Acts 13:22.
But David was not perfect.
Not even close.
A quick look at David’s life shows us a man with real flaws, real failures, and real sins.
He committed adultery with Bathsheba. You can read that in 2 Samuel 11. Then he arranged for Uriah, Bathsheba’s husband, to be placed in the front lines of battle, where he was killed. That is also in 2 Samuel 11.
He was a loving man in many ways, but he was also a deeply flawed father. His family was filled with pain, especially in the lives of Amnon, Tamar, and Absalom. That story unfolds in 2 Samuel 13 through 18.
He took a census of Israel, not simply to count the people, but to strengthen his own sense of power and greatness. You can read about that in 2 Samuel 24 and 1 Chronicles 21.
And at times, David was unjust. One painful example is how he handled the sin of Amnon against Tamar. Tamar was wounded, Amnon was not rightly dealt with, and David’s silence helped create even more brokenness in his family.
So David was great, yes.
But David was also guilty.
And before we are too quick to judge him, we need to remember something: we all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. That is Romans 3:23.
All of us have things in our lives we would never want written down for everyone to read. We have thoughts we are ashamed of. Words we wish we could take back. Actions we regret. Patterns we have tried to hide. All of us have a past.
So here is the question: if David sinned so badly, why is Saul remembered as a rejected king, while David is remembered as a man after God’s own heart?
I think one of the biggest differences is this: David saw his sin honestly before God. Saul kept trying to explain his away.
When Saul sinned, he blamed others.
In 1 Samuel 13, Saul disobeyed God by offering the sacrifice himself instead of waiting for Samuel. When Samuel confronted him, Saul blamed the situation. He said the people were scattering, Samuel was late, and the Philistines were gathering.
In 1 Samuel 15, Saul again disobeyed God. He spared King Agag and kept the best of the animals, even though God had clearly commanded him otherwise. When Samuel confronted him, Saul said, “The people spared the best of the sheep and of the oxen.”
In other words, Saul kept saying, “It was the people. It was the pressure. It was the circumstances.”
But David responded differently.
When the prophet Nathan confronted David about his sin with Bathsheba and Uriah, David did not make excuses. He did not blame Bathsheba. He did not blame the pressures of leadership. He did not blame temptation. He simply said:
“I have sinned against the Lord.”
2 Samuel 12:13
That is the difference between personal responsibility and blame.
David’s prayer of repentance in Psalm 51 shows the same thing. He cries out:
“Against you, you only, have I sinned and done what is evil in your sight.”
Psalm 51:4
Now, of course, David had sinned against people too. He sinned against Bathsheba. He sinned against Uriah. He sinned against his family. He sinned against the nation.
But David understood that every sin is first and ultimately against God.
Then there was the issue of repentance.
Saul seemed sorry when he got caught, but he did not seem truly changed. Even after admitting wrong, he was still concerned about saving face. In 1 Samuel 15:30, Saul says to Samuel:
“I have sinned; yet honor me now before the elders of my people and before Israel.”
Do you hear that?
Saul wanted forgiveness, but he also wanted to protect his image.
David, on the other hand, was conscience-stricken. His sin crushed him. But instead of running from God, he ran to God.
Listen to Psalm 32:3-5:
“When I kept silent,
my bones wasted away
through my groaning all day long.
For day and night
your hand was heavy upon me;
Then you restored my soul, you forgave my sins.
David loved his son, and he wept at his death. Scripture lets us hear the sob in his voice: “O my son Absalom! My son, my son Absalom! If only I had died instead of you—O Absalom, my son, my son!” (2 Samuel 18:33).
I saw that kind of ache up close. My little sister, Joyce, fell ill. The diagnosis came: brain cancer. There was talk of surgery, but it couldn’t be done. I remember sitting in a chair, reading to her. She drifted to sleep. A week later, she went to be with Jesus. One Sunday morning in April, Grandma met us to say that Joyce was now in heaven with Him (Philippians 1:23; 2 Corinthians 5:8).
I can still picture that first meal together. It wasn’t happy. Mom and Dad sat there weeping. “Our little girl. Joyce.” For months, Mom would break into tears without warning. But there was hope. They had Jesus. They were certain Joyce was with God (John 14:1–3; 1 Thessalonians 4:13–14). We learned to sing through tears, “What a Friend We Have in Jesus—all our sins and griefs to bear!” (UMH 526; cf. Hebrews 4:15–16; 1 Peter 5:7).
Time passed, and their faith grew stronger. Years later, our 18-year-old neighbor died in an icy-road accident. I watched as no one could console her parents (Job 2:13; Romans 12:15). But my parents’ tested faith became a quiet, durable witness to them (2 Corinthians 1:3–5).
Oh, David loved his son. How it tore his heart to lose him. It’s part of why Scripture calls David “a man after God’s own heart” (1 Samuel 13:14; Acts 13:22). Even though Absalom tried to steal the kingdom, David never stopped loving him (2 Samuel 15:1–6, 10–14; 2 Samuel 18:5). Some called that love weakness, but it looked a lot like a parent who refuses to give up—always leaning toward the child, even when the child has wounded them deeply (Psalm 103:13).
That’s the rhythm many of us know: we weep, and pray; we pray, and weep (Psalm 56:8; Romans 8:26). We hold fast to the God who holds us fast (Isaiah 41:10). And we let our imperfect love for our children point to God’s perfect love for us. We have sinned against Him, yet He loves us still (Romans 5:8).
So take heart, grieving parent, hurting son or daughter:
God sees your tears and keeps count of them (Psalm 56:8).
Jesus meets you in sorrow with real comfort and real hope (John 11:33–36; John 14:27).
The Spirit helps you pray when words fail (Romans 8:26–27).
In Christ, death does not get the last word (1 Corinthians 15:54–57).
Keep loving. Keep praying. Keep coming before God. Let your love echo His: steadfast, long-suffering, and ready to embrace. And when the ache rises again—as it will—lift David’s cry to the God who understands a Father’s heart better than any of us.
Choice Our Children Make
On the surface, David doesn’t look like a model father. But before we rush to judge, remember a simple truth: each of us must choose whether to follow God. There’s a comforting myth that if we love our children enough, they will surely turn out well. It’s a myth. David loved Absalom deeply—yet Absalom still chose rebellion.
Again each of us must make a choice.
Consider Abijah, a direct descendant of David. Scripture says, “He committed all the sins his father had done before him; his heart was not fully devoted to the Lord his God, as the heart of David his forefather had been” (1 Kings 15:3). In other words, David—despite his many flaws—was fully devoted to the Lord, yet that devotion did not automatically transfer to every child or grandchild. Devotion is not inherited; it is chosen.
David was fully committed, yet still a sinner. Fully committed, yet at times a distracted parent—perhaps too busy ruling, often at war, stretched thin by the burdens of the crown (2 Samuel 11; 2 Samuel 18:33 hints at the depth of his fatherly grief). Some of his children seem to have been indulged, “lavished in love,” but love alone is not the same as guidance. Some chose the Lord; others chose self. Read through 1–2 Samuel and 1–2 Kings and you’ll see a sobering pattern: godly kings and ungodly sons, ungodly kings and surprising moments of repentance. The human heart must decide.
As a grandparent, I understand the instinct to lavish love on children and grandchildren. That is good and godly. But love must be joined to training, correction, and wisdom. Scripture charges parents to bring children up “in the discipline and instruction of the Lord” (Ephesians 6:4), to “impress” God’s words on them in the ordinary course of life (Deuteronomy 6:6–7), and to “train up a child in the way he should go” (Proverbs 22:6). We plant and water; only God gives the growth (1 Corinthians 3:6). Our calling is faithfulness; our children’s calling is response.
Absalom is a painful case study. He began to abuse his father’s love and position, gathering symbols of power for himself—“a chariot and horses and fifty men to run before him” (2 Samuel 15:1). In the ancient world, chariots were like tanks—status with sharp edges. He stood at the city gate, playing politics: “If only I were appointed judge in the land… I would see that they receive justice” (2 Samuel 15:4). In this way he “stole the hearts of the people of Israel” (2 Samuel 15:6), raised an army, and declared himself king (2 Samuel 15:10–12). David was forced to flee (2 Samuel 15:13–18). None of this happened because David failed to love his son; it happened because Absalom chose a different lord—himself.
So what do we do with the ache and the guilt many parents carry? Hear this with grace:
Parents are called to guide, teach, correct, and love—consistently and prayerfully. Be faithful in what God has entrusted to you (Deuteronomy 6:6–7; Ephesians 6:4).
Children, as they grow, are called to choose whom they will serve (Joshua 24:15). Their choices are real, and sometimes heartbreaking.
God does not measure you by your child’s latest decision, but by your faithfulness to Him. He sees your prayers, your tears, your steady love (Psalm 56:8; Galatians 6:9).
If you are weighed down by regret, bring it to the Lord. Confess what needs confessing. Receive His mercy. Keep loving. Keep praying. Keep the door open. David wept over Absalom even after betrayal (2 Samuel 18:33). The Father’s heart is like that—steadfast, patient, and always pursuing love. (Luke 15:11–24).
Not the Best Parent
David loved his children. Yet by every sign, he struggled as a father. Perhaps it was the sheer size of his household—nineteen sons we know by name, one daughter named Tamar, and likely many more daughters besides. Love he had in abundance; wisdom and courage for parenting, not always.
Amnon, David’s firstborn, set his heart on Princess Tamar, the sister of Absalom. Instead of seeking the king’s counsel or an honorable way, he feigned sickness and lured Tamar into a trap. She pleaded. He refused to listen. And in the darkest act, he violated her. Then, as sin so often does, it turned cruel—he cast her out, compounding disgrace with rejection. Tamar went away weeping.
News reached David. He was furious. But he did nothing. Perhaps a father’s partiality blurred his judgment. Perhaps a king’s busyness stole his courage. In that silence, another fire kindled.
Absalom, Tamar’s brother—and David’s son—nursed his anger for two long years. Then came the sheep-shearing feast. He invited the king, who declined. Absalom didn’t want David present—he wanted Amnon. With a nod from the king, the brothers gathered. When wine had loosened Amnon’s guard, Absalom gave the signal. Amnon fell. The princes fled. The party turned to panic.
Word raced back to David: “All the king’s sons are dead.” He tore his robes and fell to the ground. Soon the report was corrected—only Amnon had been killed, the reckoning Absalom had planned since the day Tamar was wronged. What a tangle of grief, guilt, and vengeance. And still, David’s father-heart beat on: “The spirit of the king longed to go out to Absalom,” for his sorrow over Amnon had run its course, and his ache for the living son remained.
What are we to do with a story like this?
Sin multiplies in silence. David’s passivity did not keep the peace; it fertilized bitterness. Justice delayed became vengeance delivered.
Wounds seek a voice. Tamar’s cry was met with inaction. When pain is ignored, it seeks another path—often a destructive one.
A father’s love without a father’s guidance leaves children to be led by their strongest impulse, not their truest good.
What about us?
If you carry guilt as a parent, bring it into the light. Confess to God what you could have done and what you still can do. God meets us not in our polished success but in our honest surrender.
If your children are still under your roof, guide them—gently, firmly, presently. Set boundaries. Tell the truth. Act when action is needed. Love is not less because it is courageous.
If they are grown and far, entrust them to God. Pray by name. Open your door to reconciliation without opening your hands to enablement. Forgive as you’ve been forgiven.
If you are like Tamar—wounded and unheard—know this: God saw you when others did not. Your dignity is not lost. Seek safe people. Seek just paths. Your tears are counted.
If you are Absalom—burning with anger at real wrong—bring your fire to the Lord before it burns you and those you love. Pursue justice, not vengeance. Let God be God.
There is more to this story. David’s house will feel the tremors of his choices—and God’s steadfast mercy will still find a way. Keep listening as the week unfolds.
In the Midst of Adversity
How do you act when the bottom drops out? Do you slip into complaint mode? Do you scramble to fix what can’t be fixed? And what if the source of your suffering is a person—what then?
David’s story meets us right there. He served Saul wholeheartedly, married his daughter, fought bravely for king and country. And Saul repaid him with hatred—plots, spears, and a relentless hunt.
Still, David would not retaliate. By 1 Samuel 24, he has a small army. He could fight. He could end it. But he won’t. Retaliation is the natural reaction. We’ve all tasted the urge: a cruel boss, a spouse who wounded us, a parent’s cutting words. Natural—but not supernatural. Jesus calls us higher: “Turn the other cheek.” “Love those who persecute you.” And from the cross, “Father, forgive them.”
David models that path. He hides in a cave—not from fear, but to avoid answering hate with hate. Then the unthinkable happens: Saul walks into the very cave to relieve himself. David’s men whisper, “This is the day the Lord spoke of… I will give your enemy into your hands.” In other words, “Take the shot.”
David inches forward, knife in hand—and can’t do it. He knows it’s wrong. He settles for cutting off a corner of Saul’s robe and crawls back into the shadows. Even that small act pierces his conscience. He apologizes to his men. A sliver of revenge is still revenge.
Then David steps out of the cave, holding the fabric. He calls to Saul, shows the proof, and says, “I could have killed you. I didn’t.” Saul is stunned. He goes home.
Here’s the lesson: David handed his adversity to God—fully. He wasn’t perfect, but revenge didn’t live in his vocabulary. Forgiveness did.
When adversity comes:
Pause before you pounce. Let God slow your instincts.
Name the hurt honestly—then release your right to retaliate.
Choose a tangible act of restraint. Do the good you can without harming.
Let your conscience stay tender. If you’ve taken a “small slice,” confess and step back toward mercy.
Pray for the one who wronged you. Bless them out loud. It disarms your anger.
Retaliation feels strong, but it makes us smaller. Mercy feels costly, but it sets us free. Put revenge out of your vocabulary. Put forgiveness into your prayers, your words, your steps. Like David, trust God to judge justly and to carry you through the cave to daylight.
Watch today’s thought based on 1 Samuel 24:1-7
Saul’s path to self destruction became apparent with a song: “Saul has killed his thousands, and David his tens of thousands.” A celebration turned sour. Jealousy took root in Saul’s heart, and before long it ripened into hatred.
I’ve watched hatred stew and spoil a life. A woman once sat in my office for nearly an hour, cataloging every terrible thing her ex-husband had done. Finally, I asked, “Do you think he cares about any of this?” She paused. “No. He doesn’t care at all.” I said, “Then you’re letting him win. He’s still robbing you. He’s stealing your joy.”
Jesus said, “The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy.” Your joy, your peace, your future—stolen. But Jesus doesn’t end there. He adds, “I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.” John 10:10 (NIV) That’s His heart for you—an abundant life, not a prison of resentment.
Hatred never hurts just one person. It wounds the one who holds it first. It shrinks the soul. It fogs the mind. It drains the heart. That’s what we see in Saul. Jealousy toward David grew into a plan to kill him. Advisors pleaded. Even Jonathan—Saul’s own son—begged him to stop. For a time Saul relented. But when war broke out and David again distinguished himself, Saul’s envy flared. The spear flew. Twice. David escaped.
And then hatred spread its damage. David fled to his wife, Michal—Saul’s daughter—who helped him flee that very night. From that point on, her life was never the same. Jonathan suffered too. So did the nation. That’s the anatomy of hatred: it burns the innocent, splits families, weakens communities, and leaves a leader smaller than before.
Uncontrolled hatred has one destination: self-destruction. Every time Saul fed it, he starved himself spiritually. By the end, the man anointed to lead Israel had become a shadow of who he was called to be.
If hatred has found a corner of your heart:
Name it before God. Don’t excuse it. Confess it.
Hand it over—truly. Pray, “Lord, take this from me. I can’t carry it anymore.”
Turn from it—repent—and choose the harder, holier road of love.
Bless where you’ve been tempted to curse. Pray for the one who wronged you.
Love builds. Jealousy breaks. Hatred steals. Christ restores.
Today’s thought from 1 Samuel 19: Don’t let the thief write your story. Let Jesus lead you into the abundance He promises.
Jealousy
I had a friend who was an exceptional pastor. His gift wasn’t flashy preaching; it was spotting and empowering great leaders. He once told me, without a hint of insecurity, that several on his team preached better than he did—and he was glad, because it made the church stronger. That’s what he wanted. God blessed him and his ministry.
But my friend is the exception. Most of us want to be the best in the room. We want to outdo the people beside us. That itch shows up in King Saul’s story when the crowd starts singing:
“Saul has slain his thousands, and David his tens of thousands.” 1 Samuel 18:7
Jealousy turned the song into a threat. It became all about Saul. David was loyal, faithful, and consistently served Saul well—yet Saul’s heart soured. He could have:
Thanked God for a loyal servant.
Asked God to grow him as a king.
Realized that great leaders multiply strength by elevating others.
He did none of these. Instead, paranoia took over. The very next day, while David played the lyre, Saul snapped and hurled a spear at him—twice. He missed both times, but something worse landed: fear. Jealousy opened the door to fear, and fear made a home in Saul’s heart.
If you know the book of 1 Samuel, you know Saul had nothing to fear from David. David repeatedly refused to harm him, even when he had the chance. Still, Saul’s jealousy spread like a crack through everything he loved. It fractured his family—he even tried to spear his own son Jonathan. It wounded his leaders. It weakened his nation. Jealousy never builds; it only breaks. It never fuels love; it drains it. It never wins; it wastes.
Most of us have felt jealousy’s pull. Have you noticed God doesn’t honor it? It makes problems bigger, relationships colder, and our souls thinner.
There’s a better way to spend your strength. Love the people God has placed around you. Celebrate their wins. Share the work. Build others up. When we choose love over rivalry, God weaves our individual gifts into something stronger than any of us could achieve alone.
Today’s thought: let 1 Samuel 18 search your heart. Where jealousy is whispering, answer with gratitude, humility, and blessing. Then put that into action.
Galations 5 says,
“The acts of the flesh are obvious….jealousy. But the fruit of the Spirit is Love.”
Let’s be known for our love and not for our jealousy.
Who Is This Boy?
David just wouldn’t stop.
He said, “Who is this uncircumcised Philistine that he should defy the armies of the living God?” (1 Samuel 17:26, NIV)
You can almost hear the confidence in his voice — not prideful, not cocky — just full of faith.
Now his older brother Eliab, the one who looked like a king but wasn’t chosen by God, starts lecturing him. “David, what are you doing here? Go back to those few sheep in the wilderness.” But David doesn’t back down. Word spreads quickly, and before long, David is standing in front of King Saul himself.
And here’s the beautiful part — none of it intimidates him. Listen to the conversation in your mind:
“Your servant will go and fight this Philistine,” David says.
Saul shakes his head. “You’re too young. He’s been a warrior since his youth.”
But David looks him in the eye and says, “The Lord who rescued me from the paw of the lion and the paw of the bear will rescue me from the hand of this Philistine.”
Saul is stunned. He’s looking at a boy — maybe 16, maybe 17 years old — but speaking with the confidence of a man who has seen the hand of God at work.
And notice this — David never once calls Goliath a giant. To David, he’s not a towering monster. He’s just an unbelieving menace, standing in the way of God’s glory. Another Philistine. Another obstacle God is about to remove.
So Saul agrees. “Go, and the Lord be with you.”
They try to dress David up — armor, helmet, sword. But it’s too heavy. It’s not his style. He takes it all off. He picks up his staff, chooses five smooth stones from the brook, and heads out to face the enemy.
It looks ridiculous, doesn’t it?
A shepherd boy with a stick and a few rocks. But that’s exactly how God works — winning battles not by might, not by muscle, not by military power, but by His Spirit.
As David approaches, Goliath tries to intimidate him — shouting, mocking, cursing him by his gods. But David’s faith doesn’t waver. His courage stands firm.
Then David shouts back:
“You come against me with sword and spear and javelin, but I come against you in the name of the Lord Almighty — the God of the armies of Israel, whom you have defied! This day the Lord will deliver you into my hands.” (1 Samuel 17:45–46, NIV)
And then — David runs. Not away — toward the giant!
He runs with faith fueling every step. He swings that sling, releases one stone, and down goes the giant — face-first into the ground.
The battlefield falls silent. The soldiers can hardly breathe. Did that really just happen?
The giant is gone. The fear is gone. And victory — victory came through a boy, empowered by the Lord.
So let me ask you — what giants stand towering over your life today?
Don’t face them in your own strength. Don’t let fear control you. Pick up your faith, trust the Lord, and watch the giants fall.
Not by sight. Not by strength. But by faith in the living God who fights for you.
Watch today’s video based on 1 Samuel 17.
Who Is This Man?
It took a boy — just a boy — with faith as his weapon to see past the threats.
While everyone else was trembling, David’s thoughts were steady on God. I can almost see him now — out in those green valleys, harp in hand, writing another psalm. I can picture him lying down in those green pastures, letting the Lord restore his strength.
But the soldiers — the men who made up Israel’s army — they were blinded by “the worries of this world.” They listened to their fear more than their faith. They let the panic of their friends drown out the promises of God.
So David shows up. Just a shepherd boy, carrying bread and cheese for his brothers. He’s not there to fight; he’s there to serve. But when he arrives, he hears it — that booming voice from Goliath, taunting, mocking, defying the living God.
The army is silent. The king is terrified. But David… sees things differently.
He says — 1 Samuel 17:26 (NIV):
“Who is this uncircumcised Philistine that he should defy the armies of the living God?”
Did you catch that? David doesn’t talk about Goliath’s size. He doesn’t mention his armor, his sword, his experience.
David looks deeper.
He sees a man without God.
A man who is immoral and defiant.
A man who is challenging the army of the living God.
That’s the difference. David saw what everyone else missed — this wasn’t a battle of weapons or size. It was a matter of the heart, a matter of faith.
Israel had forgotten their history.
They forgot how God split the Red Sea and destroyed Egypt’s power.
They forgot how the walls of Jericho crumbled with a shout.
They forgot Gideon — who took three hundred men and, with God’s power, overwhelmed an entire army.
They had forgotten the one thing that had always made them strong — the presence of God.
But David remembered.
He knew — this man isn’t just insulting an army, he’s defying the Lord Himself.
And if God is for us, who can stand against us?
So David wasn’t afraid. His faith drove out fear. He believed God would fight the battle.
But David didn’t stop at belief — faith moved him to act.
He started talking.
He asked questions.
He reminded people who their God is.
And of course, his brothers didn’t like it. They thought he was being proud, unrealistic, maybe even reckless. They were trapped — stuck staring at appearances, stuck focusing on how strong the giant looked instead of how strong their God is.
But David—David knew.
His God was bigger.
His God was stronger.
His God was amazing.
So let me ask you today:
When you face the giants in your life — the fears, the doubts, the struggles that seem too big to beat — do you see them through the eyes of everyone around you?
Or do you see them through the eyes of the living God, who is bigger than every giant you’ll ever face?
Watch today’s video based on 1 Samuel 17:12–32.
This week, we’re looking at a story almost everyone knows — David and Goliath.
Now, before David ever swung that sling, there was fear — deep, paralyzing fear.
Remember, even the prophet Samuel once judged King Saul by his height and appearance. Saul looked like a king. He had the stature, the presence… the kind of man who seemed ready for a fight. But faith isn’t measured in inches.
The story begins with this massive Philistine warrior — Goliath. This man stood higher, stronger, and broader than anyone in sight. Taller than the tallest player in the NBA — by about ten inches! He was enormous.
So when he stepped onto that battlefield and shouted his challenge, no one wanted to move. Here’s what the Bible says in 1 Samuel 17:10–11 (NIV):
“This day I defy the armies of Israel! Give me a man and let us fight each other.”
On hearing the Philistine’s words, Saul and all the Israelites were dismayed and terrified.
Dismayed… and terrified.
Have you ever been there?
When fear hits, your mind fogs up. When dismay settles in, your will to act just… stops. You can’t think straight, you can’t move forward.
They could have tried something — shoot arrows, throw spears, rush him together — but they didn’t. Fear had already won in their hearts before the first blow was struck.
And that’s what happens when we live by sight instead of faith. The Israelite army forgot the one thing that mattered most — God was still with them. They were so focused on the size of the giant that they missed the greatness of their God.
The problem wasn’t Goliath’s height. It was a lack of faith in their hearts.
And that’s where we often find ourselves, isn’t it? Looking at the giants in front of us — the diagnosis, the debt, the conflict — and forgetting the One who stands behind us.
James 1:5 (NIV) says:
“If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you.”
When the world grabs your attention — when confusion, hurt, or fear start shouting louder than your faith — pause. Turn your eyes toward the One who gives wisdom. The One who brings peace. The One who reminds you that no giant is greater than His power in your life.
Don’t be dismayed. Don’t be terrified. Faith may look small — like a boy with a sling — but when it’s placed in God’s hands, it’s unstoppable.
Watch today’s video on 1 Samuel 17:1–11.