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Luke 1:46–55

Across all four gospels there are some 80,584 words, and only about 192 of them belong to Mary. 15 verses. That’s it. And about 71% of those words are poured into one moment, one song, in Luke 1. The mother of Jesus is at the center of the greatest story ever told, and the Spirit lets us hear her voice only in brief, concentrated glimpses. Heaven seems to be saying: you don’t need a lot of words to leave a deep mark—but you do need the right ones.

Most of what Mary ever says in Scripture is her song. My soul magnifies the Lord… He has looked on the lowliness of His servant… He who is mighty has done great things for me. We read it once in Luke 1, but that doesn’t mean she only sang it once. Songs like that do not stay locked in a single moment. You can almost hear it echoing later: on the road to Bethlehem; in the confusion of Nazareth; at Simeon’s strange blessing and the sword he promised; in the long, silent years when Jesus was growing; under the shadow of a cross where her soul was being pierced just as foretold. Mary’s song is not just a Christmas carol; it is a lifetime confession.

Mary’s recorded words show us a pattern. She asks honest questions. She yields herself completely. She sings of a God who sees the lowly, overturns the proud, fills the hungry, and keeps His promises. Then, for the most part, she lives quietly in the path of that song. Her life becomes the long, hidden obedience underneath her own lyrics. We are not given endless speeches from her; we are given a center, a core confession, and then we watch her carry it through pain, misunderstanding, and joy.

Most of us will not be remembered for many words either. A few sentences. A handful of prayers. A small collection of “yes, Lord” moments. The question is not how much we say, but whether what we say is the kind of truth we can keep singing when our heart is breaking. Mary’s very few words invite us to let God form in us a song so rooted in His character that it can be whispered again at the foot of every cross we face.

Let’s pray:

Heavenly Father, take my many scattered words and gather them into a true song, one I can sing at the start, in the middle, and even in the darkest place, until my whole life quietly agrees with it. In Jesus’ name I pray, amen.

 

Over thirty years of ministry, I’ve focused with intention on Mary’s early journey to the stable, this blessed Christmas season, I want to draw attention to a portion of scripture the often goes overlooked- Mary’s song, part 1:

Luke 1:46–50

“And Mary said: ‘My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for He has looked on the humble estate of His servant.
For behold, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
for He who is mighty has done great things for me,
and holy is His name.
And His mercy is for those who fear Him from generation to generation.’”
— Luke 1:46–50

Mary sings before anything looks safe or finished. Joseph hasn’t married her and Nazareth hasn’t heard from an angel. There is no manger, no shepherds, no wise men- just a promise, a cousin who believes her, and a future that suddenly got very complicated. Yet her first words are, “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.” She is still at the beginning of the story, but she talks as if because of God’s goodness, the end is already settled.

Mary does not pretend her life is easy. She calls herself lowly. The word carries the weight of humiliation, smallness, being looked down on. Young, poor, pregnant before the wedding, living under Rome- she is not exaggerating her pain. But right in that low place she says, “He has looked on the humble estate of his servant.” Knowing at the start does not mean denying the valley; it means daring to believe, “He sees me here.”

Then she says something outrageous for a girl in her situation: “From now on all generations will call me blessed.” Her neighbors will whisper other words, but she lets God’s future verdict speak over her present confusion. She looks at the tiny, hidden beginning inside her and calls it “great things” because the Mighty One is the One who started it. She does not know the details of the road ahead, but she knows enough about His character to sing at the beginning.

You may be at the start of something you do not understand, or even in the middle: a calling, a hardship, a change you did not choose. You don’t have a map, only a few uncertain steps. Mary reminds us that we don’t wait for everything to make sense before we worship. We let who God is interpret where we are. We trust that the mercy that has flowed “from generation to generation” has reached our address too!

Let’s pray:

Heavenly Father, teach me to know You at the start or the middle, and everywhere in between. I want to trust Your gaze in my low place, to receive Your future word over my present life, and to call Your hidden work in me “great things,” even before I see the ending. In the season, I worship you, in Jesus’ name, amen!

“And he took bread, and gave thanks, and brake it, and gave unto them, saying, This is my body which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.” – Luke 22:19

At the table, while everyone is still eating, Jesus takes bread into His hands. Ordinary bread, mid-meal, no spotlight. He gives thanks, and as He gives thanks His hands begin to apply pressure. Gratitude does not wait for perfect conditions. In the very act of thanksgiving, the bread is broken, and from the breaking comes sharing. Take, thank, break, give. This is the Savior’s rhythm.

We love to thank God for the great things, the clear answers, the full baskets. Jesus shows us how to bless God when life is pressed and pieces are all we hold. He gives thanks, then He breaks, then He gives. He teaches us to praise God with pieces, to bless in brokenness, to be thankful while pressure is being applied, and to trust that even in our fragments there is food for someone else. What leaves our hands in pieces can enter another’s hands as provision.

The table becomes a picture of our lives. Christ places our stories in His hands, He gives thanks over them, He allows the shaping pressure that makes them shareable, and then He gives us to others. We are empowered for this kind of gratitude by His command and His promise: do this in remembrance of me. Remembering Him keeps our thanks from being sentiment. It becomes faith. We remember His body given, His love steady, His presence near. Remembering fuels thanksgiving in the middle, not just at the end.

Let’s pray:

Heavenly Father, Jesus gave thanks while the bread was still whole and while His hands were already applying pressure. Teach us at Covenant Life Church to bless You in brokenness, to praise You with pieces, to be thankful under pressure. As we remember You, place our lives in Your hands. Take us, pray over us, break what needs to be shared, and give to us for the life of others. Thank You in the breaking. In Jesus’ name, amen.

“Therefore I will give thanks to you, O LORD, among the nations; I will sing praises to your name.” – 2 Samuel 22:50

Leah’s pivot – “This time I will thank the LORD” (Gen 29:35) – names a son Judah (from yādāh: thank/praise). Years later Jacob speaks that root-word over him: “Your brothers shall praise/thank you” (Gen 49:8). Gratitude moves from one mother’s vow to a tribe’s identity.

From Judah to David is eleven generations (ten from Perez to David; Ruth 4:18–22), and when David arrives, thanksgiving doesn’t stay private – it scales.

David, a son of Judah, makes thanks the nation’s language. Personally, he vows, “I will give thanks… among the nations” (2 Sam 22:50 // Ps 18:49).

Publicly, he institutes thanksgiving – appointing Levites “to give thanks and to praise” (1 Chr 16:4, 7; 23:30; 25:3).

Liturgically, he hands Israel a refrain: “Give thanks to the LORD, for He is good; His steadfast love endures forever” (1 Chr 16:34; cf. Ps 106; 107; 118; 136).

What began as Leah’s “this time” becomes David’s at all times – from tent to temple, from Israel to the nations.

Thanksgiving is not garnish in David’s kingdom; it is governance.

It gathers tribes, steadies leaders (Judah’s scepter, Gen 49:10), and turns victories into worship rather than self-promotion. Under Judah’s banner, gratitude goes first – and everything else falls in line.

What if we said – “Let thanksgiving lead.”

Let’s pray:

Father, thank You for Leah’s this time, Jacob’s blessing, and David’s songs. Let thanksgiving lead my life – shaping my words, ordering my work, and witnessing to Your steadfast love. Let Judah go first – let thanksgiving lead. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

“Judah, your brothers shall praise/thank you; your hand shall be on the neck of your enemies… Judah is a lion’s cub… The scepter shall not depart from Judah… Binding his foal to the vine… he washes his garments in wine…” –
Genesis 49:8–11

Leah’s “this time I will thank the LORD” (Gen 29:35) becomes Judah’s name and Jacob’s prophecy. If we wear Judah’s gratitude, here’s what thankfulness does in a life:

Gratitude draws honor (v. 8): “Your brothers shall praise/thank you.” Thankfulness softens rivalry and attracts trust; it turns influence into shared worship, not self-promotion.

Gratitude gains leverage over enemies (v. 8): “Hand on the neck of your enemies.” Thanks chokes out fear, envy, and bitterness, giving holy advantage over inner and outer opposition.

Gratitude makes you lion-hearted (v. 9): A cub that matures, then rests. True strength is courage with restraint—able to act, then un-anxiously be still.

Gratitude steadies authority (v. 10): “The scepter shall not depart.” Thankfulness sustains long-haul leadership; it keeps the staff in hands that serve.

Gratitude lives from abundance (v. 11): Vines so plentiful you tie a colt to them; garments washed in wine—images of overflow.

Thanksgiving trains the heart to see and share God’s plenty.

Let thanks reign.

Let’s pray:

Heavenly Father, the God of Judah, teach my heart to thank You until honor displaces rivalry, courage outlasts noise, and Your scepter rests on servant hands. Let thanks reign in me and through me. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

“She conceived again and bore a son and said, ‘This time I will thank/praise the LORD.’ So she named him Judah; then she ceased bearing.” – Genesis 29:35

Leah had been naming sons out of longing-Reuben, Simeon, Levi-each a hope that Jacob would finally see, hear, and hold her. With the fourth child, she pivots: “This time I will thank the LORD.”

The Hebrew verb is yādāh-to thank, praise, confess-pictured as open hands.

Genesis 29:35 is the first time this word is used in the Bible. It reminds us that gratitude in Scripture is not clenched-fist striving; it is open-handed acknowledgment of God’s faithful love right in the middle of heartache.

Leah’s circumstances haven’t changed. Jacob’s affection hasn’t suddenly arrived. What changes is Leah’s direction: from chasing human approval to resting in divine care. She names the child Judah (“thanks/praise”)-and through Judah, God will one day bring Jesus. Thanksgiving is not cosmetic; it is covenant-deep, and woven into redemption.

This is where biblical thankfulness first steps onto the page: not in a feast, but in a fracture; not after everything is fixed, but while the heart is still tender. “This time” becomes a holy refrain-today’s deliberate choice to thank God in the middle of things.

Open hands. A new name. A new direction. Let Leah’s words become ours: This time, I will thank the LORD.

Let’s pray:

Lord, teach me yādāh- to be thankful, I open my hands to You today. In the places I’ve been grasping, give me Leah’s courage to say, “This time, I will thank the LORD.” Let gratitude reorient my heart and anchor me in Your faithful love. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

John 18:37 – “In fact, the reason I was born and came into the world is to testify to the truth. Everyone on the side of truth listens to me.”

Hebrews 13:8 – “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.”

When Jesus told Pilate that He came to testify to the truth, He wasn’t speaking of shifting opinions or cultural trends. He was declaring an eternal reality. The truth He spoke then is the truth that remains now. Human voices may question it, crowds may deny it, soldiers may mock it – but truth is unchanging because it is rooted in the eternal Christ.

Philosophers through the centuries have wrestled with truth. Some, like Plato, taught that truth must exist beyond the shadows of perception. Others, like Aristotle, insisted truth is that which corresponds to reality. Their words point to something deeper: truth cannot be reinvented; it must be discovered. And Scripture shows us that truth is not only discovered – it is revealed in the person of Jesus.

Science, too, gives us echoes of this. The laws of gravity don’t rewrite themselves each century. Water still cycles from evaporation to rain, just as Job observed millennia ago. DNA carries the same code of life in every generation. Creation reminds us that what is true in God’s design does not change with time.

In a world of shifting headlines, evolving philosophies, and fleeting trends, the words of Hebrews anchor us: “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.” That means the truth He revealed to Pilate is the truth we can cling to today, and the truth that will outlast every power, every empire, and every doubt.

Truth is unchanging because it comes from the One who never changes.

Let’s pray-

Lord, You are the same yesterday, today, and forever. Thank You that Your truth does not shift with culture or crumble under time. Help me to stand on Your unchanging Word with courage and faith, trusting that what You spoke then is still true now. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

“But it is your custom for me to release to you one prisoner at the time of the Passover. Do you want me to release ‘the king of the Jews’?” They shouted back, ‘No, not him! Give us Barabbas!’ Now Barabbas had taken part in an uprising.” – John 18:39–40

Pilate offers the crowd a choice between Jesus and Barabbas, between the innocent Son of God and a guilty rebel. It should have been an easy decision. Truth Himself stood before them. But the voices of the mob drowned out the clarity of conscience. The people chose Barabbas.

The tragedy here is more than historical-it is deeply human. We, too, face moments when we must choose between Christ and compromise. Between truth and convenience. Between obedience and rebellion. And too often, like the crowd, we deny truth in order to preserve comfort or avoid conflict.

Barabbas represents the quick fix, the revolutionary with a sword, the one who promises change through force. Jesus represents the slow, self-giving truth of God’s kingdom. The crowd chose the shortcut over the Savior. We do the same when we seek immediate relief over eternal redemption.

This moment is also a profound exchange of grace. Barabbas deserved the cross, but Jesus took his place. The guilty went free while the innocent was condemned. In that sense, we are all Barabbas. We are the ones set free because Jesus bore our penalty. What the crowd saw as a rejection was actually the stage for redemption.

Truth does not vanish when denied. It remains, steady and unchanging, even when the crowd shouts against it. The question for us is: when the world raises its voice, will we stand with the mob-or with the Messiah?

Let’s pray:

Heavenly Father, I confess the times I have denied You by choosing the easy way instead of the true way. Thank You for taking my place, as You did for Barabbas, and setting me free by Your sacrifice. Give me courage to stand for truth even when the crowd shouts against it. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

“‘You are a king, then!’ said Pilate. Jesus answered, ‘You say that I am a king. In fact, the reason I was born and came into the world is to testify to the truth. Everyone on the side of truth listens to me.’ ‘What is truth?’ retorted Pilate.” – John 18:37–38

Pilate, the Roman governor, finds himself face-to-face with Jesus, who has been accused, beaten, and handed over by His own people. In a moment of history that echoes across centuries, Pilate asks a question that every human heart eventually wrestles with: “What is truth?”

This wasn’t just a question of philosophy-it was a question of eternity. Standing before Pilate was not merely a man, but the embodiment of truth itself (John 14:6). Yet Pilate, blinded by politics, pressure, and his own pragmatism, could not see it.

The irony in this moment is striking. Truth is not abstract. Truth is not a set of shifting opinions. Truth was standing there, bound in chains, appearing powerless yet carrying ultimate authority. Pilate thought he was the judge, but in reality, he was the one being judged by his response to Jesus. That same tension remains for us today. Truth often looks weak in a world that prizes power. Truth seems small in a culture drowning in competing narratives. Yet truth is not up for a vote. It is a person. And His name is Jesus.

Pilate walked away from the question without waiting for the answer. How often do we do the same? We’re too busy, too distracted, or too afraid of the cost of truth. But Jesus’ invitation still stands: “Everyone on the side of truth listens to me.” The question isn’t whether truth exists-it does. The question is whether we will recognize it and align our lives with it. Will we stand on the side of truth, even when it costs us something?

Let’s pray:

Lord Jesus, You are the way, the truth, and the life. Forgive me for the times I have walked away from Your voice. Help me to not only hear Your truth but to live it out courageously, even when it costs me. May I be found on the side of truth, with You. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

 

“By faith Moses’ parents hid him for three months after he was born, because they saw he was no ordinary child, and they were not afraid of the king’s edict. By faith Moses, when he had grown up, refused to be known as the son of Pharaoh’s daughter. He chose to be mistreated along with the people of God rather than to enjoy the fleeting pleasures of sin. He regarded disgrace for the sake of Christ as of greater value than the treasures of Egypt, because he was looking ahead to his reward. By faith he left Egypt, not fearing the king’s anger; he persevered because he saw him who is invisible. By faith he kept the Passover and the application of blood, so that the destroyer of the firstborn would not touch the firstborn of Israel. By faith the people passed through the Red Sea as on dry land; but when the Egyptians tried to do so, they were drowned.” – Hebrews 11:23–29

Moses’ life shows us that faith has two movements: it refuses and it chooses. Faith refuses the easy path when it means compromise, and it chooses the harder path when it means obedience.

Moses refused to be called the son of Pharaoh’s daughter. He refused the treasures and privileges of Egypt. He refused the fleeting pleasures of sin. In the same moment, he chose to identify with God’s people. He chose mistreatment over indulgence. He chose disgrace over luxury. His eyes were not fixed on the palace but on the reward of God. Faith always trades the temporary for the eternal.

Moses also shows us that faith sees the invisible. He left Egypt, not fearing Pharaoh’s wrath, because he had his eyes fixed on God. Faith strengthens perseverance when human eyes see nothing, because faith sees the unseen.

Finally, Moses demonstrates that faith obeys God’s strange commands. By faith, he kept the Passover, sprinkling lamb’s blood on doorframes, trusting that God’s promise would hold. By faith, he led the people through the Red Sea, stepping into waters that would split for them but swallow their enemies. Faith doesn’t need to know how; it just needs to obey who.

Moses’ faith, and the faith of his parents before him, reminds us that living by faith often means refusing what looks safe, choosing what looks costly, and trusting what looks unseen.

Let’s pray-

Lord, give me the courage to refuse what is fleeting and to choose what is eternal. Help me to value Your reward above the treasures of this world. Fix my eyes on what cannot be seen so that I can endure what feels unbearable. Teach me to obey even when Your commands don’t make sense to my human mind, trusting that Your word never fails. In Jesus’ name, amen.

“By faith the people passed through the Red Sea as on dry land; but when the Egyptians tried to do so, they were drowned. By faith the walls of Jericho fell, after the army had marched around them for seven days. By faith the prostitute Rahab, because she welcomed the spies, was not killed with those who were disobedient.” Hebrews 11:29-31

Faith moves in directions. Sometimes it takes us through. Sometimes it brings things down. Sometimes it lifts us up. In these three verses, the writer of Hebrews shows us what faith can do when God directs the journey.

Faith goes through.

Israel stood trapped between water and an army, but by faith they passed through the Red Sea on dry ground. Faith doesn’t always remove the obstacle-it makes a way through it. What drowns others becomes a passage for God’s people.

Faith brings down.

At Jericho, God commanded Israel to march, to shout, and to trust. No battering rams, no siege engines, no strategy of men-just obedience. And the walls fell down. Faith topples what seems immovable, not by human strength, but by God’s power.

Faith goes up.

Rahab, a woman on the margins, believed God’s promise and hid the spies on her roof. She went up to protect them and in doing so was lifted up into God’s story of redemption. Faith lifts us from our past, from shame, from the judgment of the city, and sets us in the lineage of promise.

The directions of faith are clear: through the waters, down come the walls, up goes the redeemed. Faith is not static-it moves. It moves us where human effort cannot, and it proves that when God calls, no barrier is final.

Let’s pray:

Lord, lead me in the directions of faith. Take me through what feels impossible, bring down the walls that block me, and lift me up into Your purpose. Teach me to walk by faith, not by sight, and to trust that what drowns others can carry me through, what stands tall against me will fall, and what feels like shame can be transformed into testimony. In Jesus’ name, amen.

Suffering Is Not the End

“Some faced jeers and flogging, and even chains and imprisonment. They were stoned to death; they were sawed in two; they were put to death by the sword. They went about in sheepskins and goatskins, destitute, persecuted, mistreated.” – Hebrews 11:36–37

As I write this, our news is heavy: two school shootings and a targeted assassination all on the same day, Wednesday-September 10, 2025. Innocents wounded, communities shaken, grief spreading afresh. It’s easy to look at the Bible and think, faith will protect me from this kind of violence. But time and again, Scripture and today’s headlines reminds us: faith does not promise freedom from suffering.

The names change. The places change. But the pattern is the same. Some believers have been flogged, some imprisoned. Some have been killed for their stand. Jesus Himself warned: “They will persecute you… you will be hated… for my name’s sake.” (John 15:20)

Yet, painfully, powerfully-Scripture also insists suffering is not defeat. Not for those who live by faith. The heroes in Hebrews pressed on. Even when the darkness around them was real. Even when they could see no rescue.

From those stories we learn three truths for this time:

Violence is real.

It arrives not just in ancient times, but in our schools, our streets, at events. It violates, injures, and sometimes kills. But neither Scripture nor today’s pain are silent about it.

Faith may suffer—but it does not surrender.

Faith doesn’t always avoid the cross. Sometimes faith carries it. Faith stays stitched to hope even when the skin is broken, even when news headlines hurt, even when there is no obvious rescue.

Violence is not the end.

Hebrews 11 ends not with smoke and blood but with a great cloud of witnesses, with promises, with the assurance that God sees, God remembers, and God will make all things new. The story didn’t finish at the cross-it continued with resurrection. The promise didn’t expire in the tomb.

Let’s pray-

Lord, today we pray with heavy hearts. For lives broken by violence. For families mourning. For communities wounded. We confess we often expect faith to mean safety, only to find violence where we hoped for peace. Yet we choose to believe You are still God. You have promised that suffering is not the end for those who walk by faith.
Strengthen us to stand when fear beckons, to speak Your truth when silence is easier, to live in hope when the future looks grim. Help us trust that even the night You redeem, even tragedy You will see, even when death seems final-You are making a way. In Jesus’ name, Amen.