Some songs have a way of stirring something inside of us. We might not have lived the story behind the lyrics, but we understand the emotion. Whether it is the ache of longing, the hope of reconciliation, or the beauty of unconditional love, music often speaks to the soul in a way plain words cannot.

Let’s start here. Love does not originate with us. It begins with God. The Bible tells us God is love, and He has always existed in loving community as Father, Son, and Spirit. That means love was not something He created later, it has always been part of who He is. When we experience love or give love to someone else, we are reflecting God's nature, whether we realize it or not.

But here’s where it gets personal. Jesus didn’t say to love "a" God. He said to love the Lord "your" God. That one little word, “your,” makes all the difference.

We live in a culture that encourages compartmentalization. You have your work life, your family life, your social life, your faith life. Most of us have learned to manage these separate areas just to function. But over time, those boxes can start to feel disconnected. You might find yourself being one version of you at work, another at home, and someone else entirely at church. That kind of fragmentation leads to exhaustion and, eventually, to spiritual compromise.

When Jesus answered the Pharisees’ question about the greatest commandment, He didn’t just provide good theology. He offered a way of life.

Romans 12 opens with a single, powerful phrase: “in view of God’s mercy.” That’s the lens. That’s the starting point. Everything Paul says after that flows from this one reality: that God, in His grace, didn’t leave us where we were. He saw our sin, our need, our brokenness… and He came close. He showed us mercy.

So, how do you respond to mercy like that?

We live in a world that constantly tells us who we are based on what we’ve done, or what’s been done to us. It’s easy to let that define us. But Paul spends the first 11 chapters of Romans laying out a different story. It’s a story that says: God sees you through mercy, not merit. Through grace, not guilt. Through the Spirit, not your shame.

Love is hard. It’s beautiful, but it’s hard.

John doesn’t sugarcoat it when he writes, “This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us.” That’s not a metaphor. That’s not a feel-good quote for social media. That’s the gospel. Jesus gave everything—not because we deserved it, not because we earned it, but because that’s who He is.

How do you know your faith is real?

That’s the question John tackles head-on in his letter to the early church. These were believers who, like many of us, sometimes wrestled with doubt. Not doubt about whether God exists or if church matters, but something deeper. Is this real in me? Do I actually believe this, or am I just hoping it’s true?

Love is a word we all say and celebrate. We decorate with it, post about it, and build holidays around it. But here’s the thing: We rarely stop to ask what love actually means. Most people say we just need more love in the world, but few agree on what that looks like. One person’s definition of love might be tolerance, while another’s might be truth-telling. And without an anchor, love becomes slippery—just a word we use to describe whatever makes us feel good in the moment.

Sometimes Jesus does something that catches us off guard—something that doesn’t fit the version of Him we’ve become comfortable with. In Mark 11, we see Jesus cursing a fig tree and clearing the temple courts. At first glance, it might seem like He's just having a rough day. But if we take a closer look, we discover something much deeper: a warning to God’s people about the danger of appearing fruitful while being spiritually barren.

Every one of us knows what it feels like to carry guilt. We replay our mistakes in our minds, things we’ve said, done, or failed to do, and they echo back with shame and regret. Sometimes those accusations come from others, but more often they come from within. We hold ourselves to impossible standards and then live in the tension of constantly falling short. Our own voice becomes the loudest accuser: You should have known better. You’ll never change. You’re not good enough.

At the same time, we face pressure from the outside. Life can be brutally hard. We experience sickness, betrayal, job loss, anxiety, financial burdens, or simply the weight of trying to keep everything together. It can feel like we’re being crushed by forces we can’t control. The question starts to form in our hearts: If God is for me, why is this happening?

Life doesn’t always feel like God is for us.

There are seasons when pain, uncertainty, or loss seem to shout louder than hope. It can feel like we’ve been overlooked, forgotten, or even punished. But Scripture reminds us of a powerful truth: God is for us.

This passage from John is one of the most powerful examples of invitation in the Gospel. Philip finds Nathanael and tells him, “We’ve found the one Moses and the prophets wrote about—Jesus of Nazareth!” Nathanael’s response is full of skepticism: “Nazareth? Can anything good come from there?” But Philip doesn’t argue or try to convince him. He simply says, “Come and see.”

There’s something about Easter that stirs our hearts. Something about standing in awe at the empty tomb, realizing that the resurrection wasn’t a metaphor or a hopeful story—it was a real, living event that changed everything. Jesus really did walk out of that grave, and because He lives, we’re invited into something far greater than we could ever imagine. We’re invited into a new way of living.

We often think of Easter as a single moment—Jesus walking out of the grave. And while that moment changes everything, the beauty of the resurrection isn’t just that Jesus rose from the dead. It’s that He brought something back with Him.

The resurrection is the return of a victorious King, and with that victory come gifts meant for you and me—gifts to carry us through the hardest days and anchor us in hope. Jesus brings us a personal connection with God, a divine purpose for our lives, and a peace that helps us endure. These aren’t lofty, far-off promises. These are real gifts for real people in real struggles.

Most of us grow up thinking Christianity is about being forgiven. Like God looks at our sin, says, “Okay, I forgive you,” and then sends us on our way. And that’s good news… but it’s not the whole gospel.

The Bible says we’ve been justified by faith. That’s not just forgiveness. Forgiveness is letting you off the hook. Justification is God declaring, “You are no longer guilty. There’s no sin to see here. You are innocent.” It’s a legal verdict. It’s a cosmic announcement. And it changes everything.

There’s a common belief that people are generally good—that deep down, we just need a little encouragement, a bit of guidance, and a few better habits to become who we’re meant to be. But Scripture tells a different story. The Bible is clear: we weren’t just morally confused or slightly off track. We were spiritually dead. Not weak, not imperfect—dead.

Have you ever looked at a need and thought, “Someone should do something about that,” only to realize that God might be nudging you? That’s exactly what happened to the disciples. They saw a hungry crowd and thought the only solution was to send them away. But Jesus turned the problem back on them: You give them something to eat.

Think about the relationships that have impacted your faith. Maybe it was a friend who invited you to church, a mentor who encouraged you to pursue Jesus, or even a conversation with someone who lived out their faith in a way that made you curious. These moments aren’t just coincidences; they’re evidence of God actively working in your life through others.

Many of us approach Christianity like a bucket of paint sitting in the closet—we own it, we believe in its potential, but we never apply it. Jesus makes it clear in Matthew 7 that hearing His words isn’t enough; we must put them into practice. The difference between a strong, unshakable faith and one that crumbles under pressure is not knowledge, but obedience.