Acts 11
April 2025
After Peter’s surprising encounter with the Spirit in Joppa—and the Spirit’s unmistakable leading to the home of Cornelius in Caesarea—a new chapter in the Jesus story began to unfold. When the Holy Spirit fell on Cornelius and his entire household, all Gentiles, it was as if a centuries-old wall had suddenly crumbled (Acts 10). The family of God was no longer confined to Israel. Salvation had crossed a boundary, embracing those who had long stood on the outside.
From there, the news traveled like wind over water. In the bustling city of Antioch in Syria, some believers from Cyprus and Cyrene began speaking openly to Gentiles about Jesus. These weren’t just whispered conversations—they were bold declarations. And something unexpected happened. “The Lord’s hand was with them, and a great number believed and turned to the Lord” (Acts 11:21).
What was forming in Antioch wasn’t just a gathering—it was a new kind of community. A church, born of the Spirit, shaped not by ethnic lines or religious pedigree, but by a shared awakening to Jesus the Jewish Messiah.
The Jerusalem church, both cautious and curious, sent Barnabas to see for himself. What he found in Antioch filled him with joy. The grace of God was unmistakable. Soon he brought Paul to help teach and guide this growing family. Together, they introduced these new believers to a radically different way of seeing God, the world, and themselves.
Most of these Gentiles had grown up in a world of transactional religion—gods who had to be appeased, rituals performed in exchange for protection or prosperity. The divine was distant, moody, and impersonal.
But Jesus was nothing like the gods they had known.
He was the Son of the living God, maker of heaven and earth. He was the long- promised King—crucified in weakness, raised in power, and now exalted as both Lord and Christ. He didn’t demand sacrifices to win favor; He was the sacrifice. In Him, forgiveness wasn’t bargained for—it was given. Righteousness wasn’t earned—it was received. Life wasn’t merely extended—it was resurrected.
This gospel didn’t just change their transactional beliefs—it changed them. It pulled them into a community marked by loving inclusion, joyful fellowship, and staggering generosity. So much so that when famine swept through Judea, these new Gentile believers took up a collection to help their Jewish brothers and sisters—people they’d never met but now called family (11:27-30).
In Antioch, something beautiful was being born. Not a religious institution. Not a political campaign. But a Spirit-made family, alive under the lordship of Jesus—bound together by grace, moved by compassion, and carrying hope into the world.
Psalm 84
By: Dave Sims
Father, you have made my heart your dwelling place. But first, you had to make a way for me to be right with you. And because you did, all that was left for me to do was to invite you to be my God.
I’ve been on this journey of life with you for over 60 years now. Along the way, I’ve come to see that your intent for me—from before the foundation of the world—was to know you as my Father. And in knowing you, to discover who I am and your design for me within your great creation.
It’s been a challenging journey, yet you have been my protection, my guide, my strength, and my wisdom—even when I couldn’t sense your presence. In you, I’ve found a deep sense of well-being, purpose, and hope.
Psalm 84 resonates deeply with me. I have learned that my soul truly yearns for you (v. 2).
Even though your creation has been corrupted by sin, it remains beautiful. And you have taught me that I am safe—even in a world marked by violence—because you have given me your indestructible life. I recognize that my excursions through the valley of Baca (Hebrew for “weep,” v. 6) has been a place of profound learning. In that place of testing, I have discovered you to be faithful and good—able to bring beauty from ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair (Isaiah 61:3).
And so, yes—a day in your house, in your presence, is better than a thousand elsewhere (v. 10). Because of the way you have shown me your affectionate, familial love (Greek storge), I now understand why Jesus looked at the cross with such concern—knowing it would mean separation from you.
Now, more than ever, I can say with confidence, “Blessed is the one who trusts in you” (v. 12).
Romans 8:18–34
April 2025
In the middle of Paul’s letter to the Romans, he pauses. The tone softens, as if he leans in to speak not just to minds, but to hearts that are tired—maybe even breaking. His theology doesn’t disappear; it just becomes more personal.
He knows there is suffering, frustration, maybe even some disillusionment among the Christians in Rome, but he doesn’t offer clichés. Instead, he lifts their eyes toward the "city of God" (Ps. 46).
He tells them—yes, it’s hard. But this isn’t the end of the story. He uses a surprising image: childbirth. Not a distant metaphor, but something visceral, raw, and real. The groaning of creation, of our own bodies, is not meaningless. Like labor pains, this sorrow signals that something is on the way. Something beautiful, long-awaited, and worth the ache.
Then Paul shifts again, knowing that when pain lingers, even the strongest among us grow quiet. Sometimes, we run out of prayers. We don’t know what to say. And it’s in that silence, Paul says, that the Spirit speaks for us. Groans are enough. God hears those too.
Paul doesn’t ignore the confusion of suffering—he steps into it. He reminds us that God is still shaping something in the mess. Not in spite of it—but through it.
We all know the feeling: that tug-of-war between who we are and who we long to be (Rom. 7:24). Paul knew it too. And he tells us it is the place where he does deepest work.
Because when we come to the end of ourselves, we stop pretending. We start reaching.
And when we do—when we cry out in weakness, when we drop the performance—we find something unexpected: Jesus. Not watching from a distance, but living His very life in us.
Even now. Especially now.
(Pondering this text, the following was my journal response to God in prayer)
March 2025
Father, your invitation couldn’t be any clearer. You call us to find in you what our souls most deeply long for and need. And we need not say, “I can’t afford what you offer,” because you give it freely.
You ask an important question: “Why spend your money on junk food when I supply the finest fare at no cost?” The only possible answer is that we’ve been deceived.
You remind us of your faithfulness to David—a faithfulness rooted in your covenant, well known and accepted. And now, you offer covenant faithfulness to us. This isn’t the one-time meal you’re serving; your dining invitation is ongoing.
You say: “Don’t be shy. Yes, you’ve failed in your faithfulness to me. You’ve even allowed evil and wickedness to take root in you. I’m certainly not pleased, but I am forgiving. Turn from your hardened heart. That’s all I’ve ever wanted from you. Come to me.
Come and discover what may seem strange at first—but is true. You’ve seen how easily you can be deceived, how the world has shaped your thinking and led you to believe that evil is good. But let me show you my ways. Though your worldly-shaped values may cause you to feel resistance; by trusting me you will come to see that my ways lead to fruitfulness. Goodness is the outcome we all desire. How foolish it is to do evil and expect good!
You will see. With me as your God—leading you, supplying you, empowering you—you will bear fruit, full of life and overflowing with joy.
This joy-filled life will mark you, preparing you for that great day when I will make all things right.”