Tag: love

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.

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.

St Dwynwen’s Day

Saint Dwynwen’s Day is celebrated on 25 January as the Welsh day of love and friendship, often compared to Valentine’s Day but with a gentler, more reflective tone. Dwynwen was a fifth century princess, said to be one of the daughters of Brychan Brycheiniog, whose story blends history, legend, and faith. She fell in love with a young man named Maelon, yet circumstances and family opposition meant they could not be together. Heartbroken, Dwynwen prayed for relief from her anguish and for the happiness of others in love. According to tradition, her prayers were answered through a series of miracles, leading her to dedicate her life to God and to become the patron saint of lovers.

Her story is rooted on the island of Llanddwyn, off the coast of Anglesey, where the ruins of her church still stand among dunes and seabirds. For centuries, people visited the holy well there, believing its movements could foretell the fate of relationships. Today, Saint Dwynwen’s Day is marked with cards, small gifts, poetry, and messages of affection, especially in Welsh, celebrating both romantic love and deep friendship.

The day carries a distinctively Welsh flavour, honouring language, heritage, and the quieter virtues of compassion, fidelity, and self giving love. It offers a reminder that love isn’t only about grand gestures; it’s also about prayerful hope, gentle kindness, and the courage to wish well for others, even when our own hearts have known sorrow. For many, it’s a tender winter pause for gratitude and connection.

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.

A New Year Unfolds

As a New Year stretches out before us, full of possibility and uncertainty, Paul’s words fold around us like a warm cloak. In Romans 8:38–39 he says he’s convinced that nothing in all creation can separate us from the love of God that’s in Christ Jesus our Lord. Nothing – not the fears that creep in as the calendar turns, not the regrets we carry from the year just gone, not illness, disappointment, change, or the quiet ache of things unresolved. Neither death nor life, neither the heights of our joys nor the depths of our anxieties, neither what’s pressing in on us today nor what might surprise us tomorrow can prise us from the love that already surrounds us.

And Paul’s prayer in Ephesians 3:17–19 feels especially tender at the doorway of a New Year. He longs for us to be rooted and established in love, so that we might somehow grasp its vastness, even though it surpasses knowledge. Wide, long, high, deep: love that fills every direction we might turn. Love that steadies us when we step into something unfamiliar. Love that whispers courage when we don’t feel ready. Love that keeps nourishing us beneath the surface, the way roots drink in hidden water.

As the year unfolds with its mix of beauty and burden, that love won’t thin out. It won’t grow tired. It won’t lose interest. Even when we face decisions that feel heavy, or days that feel lonely, or news that unsettles our confidence, we remain held. God’s love isn’t a feeling that wavers with the season; it’s the deep reality beneath every season.

So let yourself begin this year resting in what’s already true: you’re loved with a love that can’t be broken, outmatched, or undone. Whatever comes, you won’t face it alone.

An Invitation to Hope

A New Year always arrives quietly. No fanfare, no guarantees, just a clean page waiting for the first mark. It can feel hopeful and heavy all at once. We carry into the New Year the joys we want to protect and the disappointments we’d rather leave behind. And yet, here we are, breathing, still becoming.

This is a gentle reminder that you don’t have to rush. Growth rarely announces itself with fireworks. More often, it looks like small, faithful steps taken when no one is watching. A kinder word spoken. A habit nudged slightly in a healthier direction. A decision to begin again, even if you’ve already begun many times before.

The New Year isn’t a test you can fail. It’s an invitation. An opening to live a little more truthfully, love a little more bravely, and listen a little more deeply, to others, to yourself, and to God. Scripture often speaks of newness not as something dramatic, but as something quietly persistent. Morning by morning, mercies renewed. Strength given for today, not for the whole year at once.

So set your intentions lightly. Hold your plans with humility. Celebrate progress, however modest it seems. And when you stumble, because you will, remember that grace doesn’t run out in February.

May this New Year be shaped not by pressure, but by purpose. Not by fear, but by faith. Step forward with hope, trusting that even unfinished, uncertain steps can still lead somewhere good.

What to leave behind?

New Year’s Eve has a particular stillness to it, a threshold moment where we pause with one foot in the familiar and the other hovering over what’s yet to come. It’s tempting to treat this night as a hard reset, as if everything behind us must be swept away to make room for something new. But wisdom rarely lives in extremes. It invites us to look back with honesty and tenderness, to notice what has shaped us, and to choose carefully what we carry forward.

Some things deserve to be packed gently for the journey ahead. Habits that have rooted us, relationships that have deepened us, moments of courage we didn’t know we had until they were asked of us. These are not accidental successes, they’re signs of growth, grace, and quiet perseverance. Carrying them forward isn’t clinging to the past, it’s honouring what has helped us become more fully ourselves.

And then there are the things it’s time to release. Old grudges that have grown heavy, patterns of thinking that shrink our hope, voices, including our own, that tell us we’re not enough. Letting go isn’t failure. It’s an act of trust, a decision to stop giving our energy to what no longer brings life.

As the year turns, we’re not asked to reinvent ourselves overnight. We’re invited to travel lighter, wiser, and more attentive. To keep what serves love, justice, and kindness, and to lay down what doesn’t. In that gentle discernment, we make space for God to meet us again, not as strangers to the future, but as people ready to step into it with intention and hope.

Holy Innocents’ Day

Holy Innocents’ Day confronts us with one of the darkest moments in the Christmas story. Matthew tells of Herod, fearful and threatened, ordering the slaughter of Bethlehem’s children, a brutal act of power seeking to silence hope. Rachel weeping for her children, refusing to be comforted, is an image that still aches with truth today. The birth of Christ is barely announced before violence erupts, reminding us that God’s love enters a world already wounded.

This day refuses to let faith drift into sentimentality. It insists we look honestly at the cost of injustice and the suffering of the vulnerable. The holy family themselves become refugees, fleeing by night into Egypt, carrying with them fear, uncertainty, and a fragile child who is nevertheless God-with-us. Jesus’ story begins not in safety, but in danger.

In our own time, the echoes are unmistakable. Children continue to suffer because of war, poverty, abuse, and neglect. From conflict zones where young lives are shattered, to quieter harms closer to home where children are unseen or unheard, the cry of the innocents has not faded. Holy Innocents’ Day calls us to resist becoming numb. It asks whether we are willing to notice, to grieve, and to act.

Yet this day is not only about sorrow. It also proclaims that God stands unequivocally with the vulnerable. The powers of violence do not get the final word. Even here, God’s purposes are quietly unfolding, carried forward by courage, compassion, and faithful care. Remembering the holy innocents invites us to align our lives with that divine tenderness, to protect, to speak out, and to nurture hope where it feels most fragile. In doing so, we honour those children, then and now, whose lives matter deeply to God.