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Morning Watch 7/27/25 -4:32 am&nbsp;Matthew 4:3–5The tempter didn’t offer power outright. He offered an identity shortcut.“If You are the Son of God…”It’s subtle. It sounds almost like affirmation. But it’s not. It’s a dare to bypass what’s hard. A nudge to step out of skin and take the fast route to glory. And Jesus doesn’t take it. He answers with Scripture, yes—but what anchors me this morning is that first word: Man.He’s choosing to stand in the position of humanity. Not lofty divinity, not untouchable holiness—but skin and hunger and ache.It matters.The demons weren’t afraid to call Him the Son of God (Matt. 8:29). That doesn’t cost them anything. What they wouldn’t say is that He came in the flesh (1 John 4:3)—because once you confess that, you’ve already lost. You’ve admitted that holiness walked into the vulnerability of a body. That God didn’t hover above the battle—He entered it.The enemy doesn’t tremble at the idea of God in heaven. He trembles at God-as-man. Because that means there’s no safe ground for evil anymore.There’s a kind of exchange happening here—Jesus refusing to leverage divine status to skip the wilderness. And I think He’s saying something like:“Don’t tempt Me to leave this posture, Satan. I’m not here to play Son of God over you—I’m here to stand as man. If I step out of this place, even for a moment, the whole confrontation collapses. You’re not afraid of distant glory—you’re afraid of restored humanity. That’s why I’m here.”Adam was meant to crush the serpent’s head. He didn’t. Now Christ stands where Adam fell. Same ground. Same hunger. Same whispering lies.This morning I feel the gravity of that choice—that Christ didn’t just descend, He remained. He didn’t claim immunity; He chose exposure. And in doing that, He redeemed the human frame from the inside out.I’m holding that. I’m letting it land where I live—in my body, my mind, my smallness. I’m not asked to rise above humanity to resist evil. I’m invited to remain in it. To believe that Jesus took this path all the way through.And Satan lost. Not because God was untouchable—but because He was touchable, and still refused to yield.

The Son Stood in Skin—And Satan Lost

Morning watch - 7/26/2015 - 5:52 am&nbsp;There’s something I’m sitting with today—this moment at the Jordan, when the Spirit descends like a dove. Not the beginning, but the unveiling. Before that descent, Jesus was already formed by the Holy Spirit—conceived, born, filled. His very being was Spirit-made. That was birth.&nbsp;But ministry required something different. Something outward. Isaiah 61:1, Psalm 45, the echo in Isaiah 42—they aren’t just poetic markers. They name a threshold. The Spirit didn’t come to make Him what He wasn’t—it came to reveal what He was. The dove didn’t correct Him, it confirmed Him.&nbsp;A dove only sees one thing at a time. That image won’t let go of me. Gentleness, singleness, focus. Not fragmented. Not multitasking. Ministry that’s grounded in vision too narrow for distraction.&nbsp;Jesus didn’t need to be filled again. He needed to be poured out. The descent was anointing. Visibility. Invitation. Before the crowd, before the wilderness, before the testing—this. The Spirit saying: here is your King. Watch how He moves.&nbsp;I wonder: how many times have I mistaken inward fullness for readiness? How many moments have I waited for a dove, when the Spirit was already forming me beneath the surface?

Singleness of Sight

July 25, Morning Watch 6:15 amMatthew 3:6; Romans 6:3–5 &nbsp; There’s something sobering here, something precise. Righteousness isn’t a feeling. It’s an act, a way—a step through what God has set in place. In the Old Testament, it was keeping the law. In John’s time, it was the water. No shortcuts. No exceptions. Even Jesus—especially Jesus—entered through the baptism John offered. Not as some divine exemption, but as someone modeling the way. A man. Willing to be seen. Willing to be submerged. I keep circling that word: gateway. Not ceremonial. Not decorative. A passage. And if Jesus didn’t bypass it, why should I? Why would I? I think about what baptism meant then—and now. Termination. Germination. To be right with God means letting the old die, and letting something else break forth. Not just a cleansing, but a resurrection. Not just a gesture, but a grafting. Is my life showing this righteousness? Not in the visible ways, maybe. But in the surrender? In the willingness to be undone and redone? I carry this question with me today: What part of me still resists the gateway God has ordained—preferring my own version of righteousness instead? &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;

Even Jesus Entered Here

Morning watch 7/18/25 - 5:30 amScripture Reflection:&nbsp;1 Peter 2:17 — “Show proper respect to everyone, love the family of believers, fear God, honor the emperor.”Yesterday, I shared something sacred—a milestone, a labor of love, a book born of prayer, sweat, and presence. I posted it in a group I belong to, hoping perhaps it might resonate or encourage. Instead, a woman—who knows nothing of my story, my ministry, or the weight I carry—chose to speak not from curiosity, but from contempt. Her question wasn’t a question. It was an accusation: “How much did you write, and how much was AI?”It wasn’t just about authorship. It was about worth. About whether my voice was real. About whether my offering deserved to be honored.I know her history. She’s been removed from leadership for similar behavior. But today, I’m not journaling about her—I’m journaling about what it means to keep showing up with dignity when dignity is denied.I’m reminded that disrespect often reveals more about the speaker than the spoken-to. And I’m reminded that my work is not for applause, nor is it fragile enough to be undone by a careless tongue.So I ask myself:What does it mean to honor my own voice when others won’t? How do I respond—not with retaliation, but with rootedness? Can I bless even those who mock, knowing that my offering is unto God? I choose not to let her words define the worth of my work. I choose to keep writing, keep posting, keep showing up. Not because I’m unbothered—but because I’m anchored.

When Honor Is Denied

This morning, I mourn the loss of a dear friend. Grief does not knock—it enters. Quietly, or suddenly. And today it arrived with a familiar ache. I carry memories like stones in my pocket—gentle reminders of those sacred moments I was allowed to witness. Like the day when I was young, I saw the face of a loved one turn to us—not the body, but something deeper. A shadow that smiled. Not toward eternity, but toward us. As if to say, "I remember you." Or the car accident, where confusion hung like thick fog. The eyes, not quite closed. Fear lingering in the air. And then, a moment of truth whispered into the silence: "We are caring for your family. They are safe." That simple promise lifted something heavy. The fear dissolved. Peace settled. Grace moved, unannounced. In these moments, I am not just observing death. I am participating in the mystery. Scripture gives language when my own falters: &nbsp; “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints.” — Psalm 116:15 “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me.” — Psalm 23:4 &nbsp; There is a sacred weight in holding space for someone’s last breath. I do not speak of heaven or hell. That is not mine to decide. What I carry is presence. The kind that sees souls off gently, and anchors the living with assurance. So today, I light a candle. Not just for the one who passed, but for all who need to be reminded: There is peace, There is grace, And there is always room for love to pass through.

Fresh Manna: Reflections at First light

The Son Stood in Skin—And Satan Lost

Singleness of Sight

Even Jesus Entered Here

When Honor Is Denied

Peace Passed Through