Category: Devotional

Bible 40 Themes 05 Obedience

Obedience isn’t always dramatic. It rarely makes headlines. More often, it’s quiet, costly, and unseen. In 1 Samuel 15, Saul had won a victory, yet he’d adjusted God’s command to suit his own judgement. He kept what looked valuable and offered sacrifice as a spiritual covering for partial obedience. Samuel’s words cut through the smoke of religious performance: “Does the Lord delight in burnt offerings and sacrifices as much as in obeying the Lord? To obey is better than sacrifice, and to heed is better than the fat of rams.”

There’s something in us that prefers sacrifice to obedience. Sacrifice can feel impressive; it’s visible, measurable, even public. Obedience, though, is humbler. It means trusting that God’s way is wiser than our instincts. It means surrendering the part of the command we’d rather reinterpret. Saul’s mistake wasn’t outright rebellion in his own eyes, it was selective obedience. He did much of what God asked, but not all. Yet love that edits God’s voice is no longer love rooted in trust.

“To obey is better than sacrifice” reminds us that God desires hearts aligned with him, not gestures designed to compensate for disobedience. We can serve tirelessly, give generously, sing passionately, and still avoid the simple, searching call to heed his voice in the everyday. Obedience might mean forgiving when resentment feels justified, telling the truth when silence would protect us, choosing integrity when compromise would be easier.

Obedience flows from relationship. Samuel speaks of obeying the Lord, not merely obeying a rule. The invitation is personal. God isn’t hungry for ritual; he longs for trust. When we obey, we declare that his character is good, his wisdom reliable, his purposes kinder than our own plans. That kind of obedience shapes us quietly over time. It forms humility, deepens faith, and anchors our lives in something steadier than impulse.

In a world impressed by spectacle, God still listens for the softer sound of a willing heart. Not grand offerings, but faithful footsteps. Not impressive sacrifice, but attentive love.

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Bible Themes in 40 Posts

Each post in the series Bible Themes in 40 Posts covers one key theme of the Bible. It aims to present a simple overview of Bible to understand its overall message, the inherent theme at its heart, and to show the centrality of Jesus in both Old and New Testaments.

The series serves as a basic reference point, as a simple Lent Course, or as a 40 day devotional to be used at any time. Each post contains links to the previous and next posts in the sequence, these will open in a new tab. You can find an index page here.

It’s for those of all faiths and none. I hope it’ll clear up any misunderstandings or negative perceptions and that you’ll find it helpful.

Bible 40 Themes 04 Faith

Faith is one of the Bible’s most quietly powerful gifts. It isn’t loud, or showy, or always certain of the next step. More often, faith is the steady courage to keep walking when the road ahead is hidden by mist. Scripture doesn’t present faith as a flawless emotional confidence, but as a deep trust rooted in God’s character and promises.

Hebrews offers a simple and beautiful definition: “Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see” (Hebrews 11:1). That verse carries such tenderness. Faith isn’t pretending we have all the answers. It’s holding on to hope when answers haven’t arrived yet. It’s trusting that God is still present, still working, even when our eyes cannot trace his hand.

The stories of faith throughout the Bible are full of ordinary people stepping forward with trembling hearts. Abraham left home without knowing where he was going. Moses stood before Pharaoh with nothing but God’s promise. Ruth walked into an uncertain future guided only by loyalty and love. None of them had a clear map, but they had God, and that was enough to take the next step.

Faith, then, is less about certainty and more about relationship. It grows not through control, but through surrender. It deepens when we pray honestly, when we wait patiently, when we keep choosing trust over fear. Faith isn’t a demand to feel strong, but an invitation to lean on the strength of God.

Sometimes faith feels solid like a mountain. Sometimes it feels fragile like a candle flame. Yet even the smallest faith, placed in the hands of a faithful God, can shine through darkness. Faith isn’t measured by how steady we feel, but by who we are holding on to.

If you’re carrying questions today, you’re not alone. Faith doesn’t erase doubt, but it invites us to bring our doubt into God’s presence. The invitation of Hebrews is simple: keep hoping, keep trusting, keep stepping forward, because God is trustworthy, even when the way is unseen.

And perhaps this is the quiet miracle of faith, that step by step, we discover we were never walking alone.

Bible 40 Themes 03 Promise

Promise is a word we learn early, often through the ache of disappointment. We discover, sometimes painfully, that human promises are fragile things, shaped by good intentions but limited by weakness, forgetfulness, fear, or changing circumstances. Yet Paul speaks into that shared human experience with a steady, hope-filled assurance when he writes that no matter how many promises God has made, they are “Yes” in Christ. It’s a sweeping claim, not naïve optimism, but a grounded declaration rooted in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus.

God’s promises aren’t abstract ideas floating above history. They’re woven through the long, messy story of scripture, promises of blessing, justice, mercy, restoration, forgiveness, and new life. Some seem delayed, others contested, and many misunderstood. But Paul insists they find their coherence, their fulfilment, and their trustworthiness in Christ. Jesus isn’t simply one more promise among many. He’s the living confirmation that God means what God says.

In Christ, the promises of God aren’t merely spoken, they’re embodied. When God promises forgiveness, we see it in Jesus eating with sinners and praying for his executioners. When God promises new life, we see it in empty tombs and transformed lives. When God promises presence, we hear Jesus say, quietly but decisively, that he’s with us always. The “Yes” of God isn’t a distant agreement but a costly commitment, sealed in love and faithfulness.

This matters deeply for how we live. Faith isn’t about clinging to isolated verses or hoping hard enough that things will turn out well. It’s about trusting the character of God revealed in Christ. Even when circumstances feel like a resounding “No”, even when prayers seem unanswered, the deeper promise still stands. God hasn’t withdrawn, changed his mind, or lost interest. The story isn’t finished yet.

To live as people of promise, then, is to anchor ourselves in Christ, returning again and again to that central truth. God’s promises are not dependent on our performance or certainty. They rest in God’s own faithfulness. In Christ, God has already said “Yes”, and that yes continues to echo through our doubts, our waiting, and our hope, steady, resilient, and alive.

This is one of a series of posts outlining 40 themes of the Bible. Previous Next

Beyond Roses and Romance

Love is everywhere, isn’t it, if we have eyes to see. In the warmth of family, in the laughter of children, in the steady companionship of a faithful dog, in friendships formed through shared life and service. Love shows up in the simple joys that make life feel full, music that stirs the soul, learning that stretches the mind, beauty that catches our breath, and the deep gratitude of simply being alive.

And yet, above and through all these loves flows something greater, God’s perfect love, the love that gives meaning and purpose to every other love we experience. Jesus says he has come that we may have life, and have it to the full, not a shallow happiness, but a rich, rooted life held in God’s hands.

Scripture celebrates this love of life. The psalmist stands in wonder at creation, delighting in the works of the Lord. Another psalm paints love in the ordinary holiness of home, shared tables, companionship, and blessing. Romans reminds us that even in sorrow, God is still the source of hope, filling us with joy and peace as we trust in him. For with him is the fountain of life, and in his light we see light.

Human love longs to endure, as Shakespeare wrote, an ever-fixèd mark, unshaken by storms. Song of Songs declares love as fierce as fire, stronger than death, unquenchable by deep waters. And in Christ, we see love made flesh, steadfast, sacrificial, and true.

So today, we give thanks for every love that colours our lives, and we rest in the greatest love of all. God’s love, endless, faithful, beyond all price. May our hearts be softened by it, and may our lives quietly overflow with it, as we go in peace to love and to serve.

Note: This devotional is based on worship I led at Stockton Salvation Army on Sunday 15 February 2026, you can see my full notes by clicking here.

Stuck in the Mud

Waiting can feel like being stuck in the mud, energy draining away as each step sinks deeper. Psalm 40:1-8 gives language to that experience, the long, faithful waiting that isn’t passive but aching with hope. “I waited patiently for the Lord,” the psalmist says, and then comes the turning point, God inclines, listens, and lifts. The rescue is physical and emotional, drawn up from the slimy pit and set on rock, stability replacing fear.

A new song follows, not forced praise, but gratitude born of being held when escape seemed impossible.

Mark 2:1-12 shows us that same rescue. A paralysed man is carried by friends who refuse to let obstacles have the final say. Their faith climbs, digs, lowers, and trusts. Jesus sees it and speaks words that go deeper than anyone expects: “Son, your sins are forgiven.” Before strength returns to limbs, wholeness begins in the heart. The teachers object, but Jesus names what God has always been doing, healing that reaches beneath the surface. The man is lifted up, and feet made firm. A new song walking out into the street.

These passages remind us that God’s rescue is never shallow. He hears the cry, heals what’s hidden, and steadies our lives from the inside out. True worship isn’t empty offering, but a heart that can finally say, “I desire to do your will, my God,” because it’s known what it is to be forgiven, lifted, and made whole.

Holocaust Memorial Day

Holocaust Memorial Day calls us into a sacred kind of remembering, not distant or abstract, but close to the heart, where names, faces, and stories matter. We remember the six million Jewish lives stolen, alongside Roma, disabled people, LGBTQ+ people, political dissidents, and so many others whose humanity was denied. We don’t remember to wallow in despair, we remember because love demands truth, and because forgetting is the first step towards repeating.

Scripture doesn’t offer easy comfort here, but it does offer presence. “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit,” the psalmist writes, and we cling to that promise for every life shattered by hatred. The cry of Micah still confronts us with holy clarity: God requires us “to act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.” Remembrance, then, is not passive, it’s a call to live differently.

We hold the tension between grief and hope. We name the darkness honestly, because anything less would betray the truth, yet we also dare to believe with John’s gospel that “the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” That light flickers in every act of resistance to hatred, every stand against prejudice, every choice to protect the dignity of another.

Today, we remember with reverence, we lament with sincerity, and we commit ourselves again to compassion, justice, and courageous love, trusting that God’s memory is deeper than ours, and that no life, no story, no tear is ever forgotten.

Embracing Christian Unity

There’s a quiet urgency in Paul’s appeal to the church in Corinth (1 Corinthians 1:10-18), a voice that still reaches tenderly and truthfully into our own divided moment. “I appeal to you, brothers and sisters, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you agree with one another in what you say and that there be no divisions among you.” He isn’t asking for bland uniformity, he’s inviting a scattered people to gather their lives around one living centre, shaped by grace rather than rivalry. The Week of Prayer for Christian Unity calls us to hear that invitation anew, not as a burden, but as a gift.

We recognise the ache of fractured witness because we live with it. We’ve heard the labels, “I follow Paul,” “I follow Apollos,” “I follow Cephas,” or their quieter modern equivalents that reveal themselves in loyalties, assumptions, and subtle pride. Paul’s piercing question still stands before us, “Is Christ divided?” The answer remains no, yet our habits can suggest otherwise. Unity doesn’t mean pretending our differences don’t exist, it means choosing, again and again, to let Christ be at the centre rather than our preferences.

Paul gently, firmly, draws our gaze to the Cross, that holy place where all human boasting is undone. For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God. Here, at this strange intersection of suffering and love, we discover the true ground of our oneness. We’re not united by style, politics, or tradition, but by shared surrender and shared hope.

This week becomes a practice of turning towards one another with humility. It’s a time to listen more deeply, to bless more readily, to notice the grace of God alive in communities not our own. Unity grows quietly, in prayers whispered for neighbouring churches, in conversations softened by kindness, in the courage to believe that the Spirit is still at work, patiently weaving us together.

May we remember that our oneness isn’t something we manufacture. It’s a gift we receive with gratitude, tend with care, and live out with joy, for the sake of Christ and for the healing of the world.

From Calling to Witness

There are seasons when hope arrives quietly, almost unnoticed, like the first green shoots after a long winter. We speak of God doing new things, yet we often expect clarity and momentum before we trust. Scripture invites us into a gentler posture of attentiveness.

Isaiah 43:19 whispers promise into dry places, see, I am doing a new thing, now it springs up, do you not perceive it, while Hosea 10:12 urges us to break up unploughed ground and seek the Lord until righteousness falls like rain. Together they call us to watchfulness, to faithful openness, to the slow work of soil being turned and grace already moving beneath the surface.

Isaiah 49:1–7 gives voice to the ache many carry, a sense of calling without visible fruit, labour poured out with little to show. The servant speaks honestly of frustration, yet still trusts that my reward is with the Lord. What feels hidden or wasted is held within a larger purpose, a calling that widens from restoring what is familiar to becoming a light to the nations. God’s work is rarely as small as we fear.

Psalm 40:1–12 captures the texture of lived faith. The psalmist waits patiently, cries out, and is heard. God lifts them from the pit and sets their feet on firm ground. Praise rises, not as performance, but as a life reshaped from within. Obedience matters more than sacrifice, because God’s law is written on the heart. Gratitude for past rescue sits alongside honest prayer for mercy, forgiveness, and help, reminding us that trust is both tender and resilient.

Paul opens his letter in 1 Corinthians 1:1–9 by speaking grace over a fragile community. They are called, gifted, and held, not because they are strong, but because God is faithful. Their future rests not on competence, but on the promise that God will sustain them to the end. It’s a reassurance for every imperfect believer who keeps turning up with open hands.

In John 1:29–42, everything turns on encounter. John the Baptist points beyond himself to Jesus, the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world. Two disciples follow, hesitant yet curious, and hear the simple invitation, come and see. They stay, they listen, they are changed, and witness begins to ripple outward, one life quietly touching another.

Across these readings runs a shared rhythm of calling before clarity, waiting before fruit, faithfulness before recognition. God works through what feels small, hidden, or unfinished. If we live with expectancy, offering our daily yes, we may discover that we’re already standing within God’s new thing, grace unfolding gently, faithfully, and far beyond what we can yet perceive.

Note: This devotional is based on worship I led at Horden Salvation Army on Sunday 18 January 2026, you can see my full notes by clicking here.

The Kingdom That Sings

Psalm 47 reads like a burst of fresh air, the kind that catches you by surprise and leaves you smiling before you’ve worked out why. It opens with this bold invitation to the whole world; every nation, every people, to clap their hands and shout with joy because the Lord most high is awesome, the great king over all the earth. There’s no sense of exclusivity here. It’s a psalm flung wide open, gathering everyone in.

As you sit with it, you can feel the music running through the lines. God is lifted up with shouts of joy and the sound of trumpets, and the whole psalm seems to sway with that confidence. At its heart is a quiet, steady reassurance that the world isn’t drifting without purpose. God reigns. Even in seasons when life feels uncertain, the psalmist calls us back to trust, almost like someone placing a gentle hand on your shoulder and saying, Look up.

One of the most moving threads in the psalm is its vision of unity. The nobles of the nations assemble … for the kingship belongs to God. It imagines former strangers standing together, not because they’ve all agreed on everything, but because they’re held by something greater than themselves. In a world like ours, so often split by fear and noise, that picture feels both ancient and startlingly hopeful.

When you approach Psalm 47 as more than a song, it becomes a reminder of your place in a wider, joyful story. It tells you that even when your own praises feel quiet, you’re still part of a kingdom that sings on your behalf. It invites you to breathe, to trust, and to let your heart rise with the music that’s already playing.