Main passage: 1 Peter 1:3–9

Key verse: 1 Peter 1:3
“In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead.”

There are times when hope comes easily.

The sun is shining.

Things are going reasonably well.

Plans are working out.

People are behaving themselves.

You know, those rare and precious days.

And then there are days when someone says, “You just have to stay hopeful,” and you feel like replying:

Do I?

Because sometimes hope feels like hard work.

When we’re tired, disappointed or worried, simply telling ourselves to be hopeful isn’t necessarily much help.

We need a reason.

Peter gives us one.

And it is enormous.

Resurrection.

He describes our faith as a “living hope” because it is rooted in the resurrection of Jesus Christ.

I love that phrase.

Living hope.

Not vague optimism.

Not pretending.

Not forcing ourselves to look on the bright side.

Living hope.

Hope that breathes.

Hope that grows.

Hope that somehow survives.

And its foundation isn’t our ability to remain positive.

It is something God has already done.

Jesus was raised from the dead.

Death looked final.

It wasn’t.

The stone looked like the end of the story.

It wasn’t.

Friday looked like defeat.

It wasn’t.

God was still at work.

There is something wonderfully stubborn about Christian hope.

It looks at endings and whispers:

Maybe God isn’t finished yet.

That doesn’t mean every disappointment will be magically reversed.

It doesn’t mean every story will have the ending we would choose.

But resurrection teaches us something fundamental about God.

God brings life where we thought there could only be death.

God creates beginnings in places that look like endings.

God can write another chapter.

Perhaps that is why Peter can talk about joy while also acknowledging suffering.

He isn’t writing to people for whom everything is lovely.

There are trials.

There are difficulties.

Faith is being tested.

Yet hope remains alive.

That’s important.

Because sometimes we imagine hope means denying the darkness.

Christian hope does exactly the opposite.

Easter doesn’t pretend Good Friday didn’t happen.

The risen Jesus still bears the wounds.

Hope doesn’t erase the painful parts of our story.

It tells us they are not the whole story.

Maybe that’s what some of us need to hear today.

This thing you are facing matters.

Your disappointment matters.

Your grief matters.

Your questions matter.

But the story is bigger than what you can see today.

There may also be another way of remembering our reasons for hope.

Look backwards.

Think about the times you wondered how you would cope, and somehow you did.

The prayer that was answered differently than you expected.

The person who appeared at just the right moment.

The strength that came when you thought you had none left.

The door that closed and, eventually, another that opened.

The unexpected kindness.

The second chance.

The moment when you realised:

I have come through something I never thought I could.

These become little markers along the road.

Not proof that life will always be easy.

But reminders that God has been faithful before.

And if God has been faithful before, perhaps I can trust God with today.

Our greatest reason for hope, though, is not anything that has happened to us.

It is what happened to Jesus.

Christ is risen.

And because resurrection is part of our story, despair never gets the final word.

The circumstances may be uncertain.

The road ahead may not be visible.

There may still be questions without answers.

But hope is alive.

And perhaps today we simply need to notice it.

A Question to Carry

When I find it difficult to hope, what reminds me that God has been faithful before?

A Simple Practice

Think of three reasons for hope from your own life.

They don’t need to be dramatic.

Write them down.

Then add one more:

Christ is risen. God is not finished yet.

Prayer

God of living hope,

when I struggle to see beyond today,
remind me of resurrection.

When something feels like an ending,
help me trust that you may still
be writing the story.

Thank you for the times
you have carried me before.

Thank you for unexpected grace,
new beginnings
and second chances.

And above everything else,
thank you for Jesus.

Keep hope alive in me.

Amen.

For today: Remember your reasons for hope.

Main passage: Romans 8:18–28

Key verse: Romans 8:28
“In all things God works for the good of those who love him.”

There are some days when things simply go wrong.

Not dramatically wrong, necessarily.

Sometimes it starts with something small.

You oversleep.

You spill the coffee.

You can’t find the thing you definitely put somewhere safe.

The car makes a noise that cars really shouldn’t make.

Someone sends a message that completely changes the day you thought you were going to have.

Those days are frustrating.

But then there are the other days.

The days when wrong isn’t merely inconvenient.

Something happens that hurts.

Something changes that we didn’t want to change.

A door closes.

Someone disappoints us.

We receive news we weren’t expecting.

We lose something precious.

And suddenly hope can feel much harder to find.

Romans 8:28 is one of those verses Christians often reach for at such moments:

“In all things God works for the good…”

It is a wonderful promise.

But I think we need to handle it carefully.

Because Paul does not say that all things are good.

They aren’t.

Some things are desperately painful.

Some things are unfair.

Some things leave us confused, angry or heartbroken.

Faith doesn’t require us to paste the word good over something that plainly isn’t.

In fact, earlier in this same passage Paul talks about creation groaning.

That’s quite a word.

Groaning.

Not smiling bravely.

Not pretending.

Groaning.

Paul describes a world that isn’t yet as it should be.

And we know something about that.

We see brokenness around us.

Sometimes we experience it within us.

Paul even says that there are moments when we don’t know what to pray.

I find that wonderfully reassuring.

Apparently not knowing what to say to God is still part of the life of faith.

Sometimes prayer is beautifully worded.

Sometimes prayer is:

“God, I don’t know.”

Sometimes it’s tears.

Sometimes silence.

Sometimes all we’ve got is:

“Help.”

And Paul says that even there, the Spirit is at work.

That changes Romans 8:28 for me.

It isn’t a cheerful slogan shouted from the safe side of someone else’s suffering.

It is a promise spoken right in the middle of the groaning.

God is still at work.

We might not see how.

We might not know when.

We may never be able to tie everything together neatly and say, “Ah, now I understand why that happened.”

Hope doesn’t demand that.

Hope simply refuses to believe that the difficult thing is the only thing happening.

God is still present.

God is still loving.

God is still working.

There have probably been moments in your own life when something didn’t go according to plan, yet looking back you can see that something unexpected grew there.

Strength you didn’t know you had.

People who stood beside you.

A change in direction.

Greater compassion.

A deeper dependence on God.

That doesn’t make the painful thing good.

It means the painful thing did not get the final word.

And perhaps that’s one of the most powerful things about Christian hope.

The worst thing is never the last thing.

We are resurrection people.

We follow the Christ whose story appeared to end with a cross, while God was still writing resurrection.

That doesn’t mean every problem will disappear by Friday.

It means we dare to believe God can still bring life from places that look barren.

So if today has gone wrong, or if you’re carrying something much bigger that has been wrong for a long time, you don’t need to pretend.

Groan if you need to.

Cry if you need to.

Ask questions.

Pray badly.

Sit silently.

Hope doesn’t require a smile.

Sometimes hope is simply whispering:

“God, I cannot see what you are doing here, but I trust that you have not left.”

And for today, perhaps that is enough.

A Question to Carry

Where have I assumed that because I cannot see God at work, God must not be working?

A Simple Practice

Think of one situation that hasn’t turned out as you hoped.

Open your hands and pray:

“God, I don’t have to call this good. But I trust you to be at work even here.”

Then leave it with God for today.

Prayer

God of hope,

there are things in life
I simply do not understand.

Things I would change if I could.
Things that hurt.
Things that have not turned out
the way I hoped.

Thank you that I don’t have to pretend.

When I don’t know what to pray,
meet me in the silence.

When I cannot see what you are doing,
help me trust that you are still here.

Take what is broken
and, in ways I may not yet see,
bring your goodness and grace.

Keep hope alive in me.

Amen.

For today: Trust that God is still at work.

“Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord.”
Psalm 27:14

Waiting is hard.

Waiting for news.

Waiting for something to change.

Waiting for an answer.

Waiting for a door to open.

Waiting for life to look different from the way it looks right now.

We tend to think of waiting as empty time.

Nothing is happening.

Nothing is moving.

Nothing is changing.

But perhaps waiting with God is different.

Hope doesn’t mean pretending that the waiting is easy.

It means believing that the waiting is not the whole story.

Sometimes we can see what God is doing.

Sometimes we can’t.

And that can be frustrating.

We would much rather have answers.

A date.

A plan.

A nice clear sign telling us what happens next.

But often faith asks us to live without those things.

To trust.

To keep going.

To believe that God is still present, even here.

If you are waiting for something today, you don’t need to pretend that it doesn’t matter.

Bring the waiting to God.

Bring the questions too.

And then, perhaps, simply pray:

God, help me to trust you while I wait.

Carry this today

Waiting does not mean God has forgotten me.

Prayer

God of hope,
you know the things I am waiting for
and the answers I wish I had.
Give me patience when the waiting is difficult,
courage when I cannot see what comes next,
and hope enough to trust
that you are with me here too.
Amen.

Main passage: Romans 5:1–5

Key verse: Romans 5:5
“Hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts.”

Hope is a funny little word.

We use it all the time.

I hope the weather holds.

I hope they phone.

I hope this works.

I hope there’s something nice for dinner.

Often what we mean is:

I would quite like this to happen, but I have absolutely no idea whether it will.

Christian hope is something rather different.

It isn’t wishful thinking.

It isn’t crossing our fingers.

It isn’t looking at a difficult situation and insisting that everything will definitely turn out the way we want.

Paul says:

“Hope does not put us to shame.”

There is a confidence in that.

Not necessarily confidence about what will happen next.

Confidence about God.

And perhaps that distinction matters.

Sometimes we attach our hope to a particular outcome.

We hope the answer will be yes.

We hope the test results will be good.

We hope the relationship will mend.

We hope the problem will disappear.

We hope the door will open.

And naturally we do. These things matter enormously.

But what happens to hope when the answer isn’t the one we wanted?

Paul writes about hope in a passage that also talks about suffering.

That’s interesting.

He doesn’t say that following Jesus means we won’t experience hardship.

Instead, somehow, right there within the difficulties of life, something can grow.

Suffering produces perseverance.

Perseverance produces character.

Character produces hope.

I don’t think that means we have to look at every painful thing and say, “Wonderful! Something good will come from this.”

Some things are simply hard.

Some things hurt.

Some things we would never have chosen.

And when someone is hurting, they usually need our compassion more than they need our explanation.

But perhaps Paul is saying that suffering does not automatically get the final word.

Something can grow even here.

That something is hope.

Think about a tiny green shoot appearing through a crack in concrete.

It shouldn’t really be there.

The surroundings hardly look promising.

And yet there it is.

Life.

Maybe hope is sometimes like that.

Not a huge certainty.

Not a triumphant declaration.

Sometimes just a green shoot.

A reason to get up this morning.

A prayer whispered when yesterday’s prayer seemed unanswered.

A phone call made.

A candle lit.

A meal cooked.

Shoes put on.

One more step taken.

Hope doesn’t always shout.

Sometimes hope simply says:

Keep going.

And Paul tells us why.

Because God’s love has been poured into our hearts.

There is our foundation.

Our hope does not finally rest upon circumstances becoming easier.

It rests upon the God whose love does not disappear when circumstances become difficult.

That takes us back through everything we’ve thought about this month.

Grace says we don’t have to earn God’s welcome.

Mercy says our failures aren’t the end.

Love says we are held.

Peace says we don’t face uncertainty alone.

And now hope says:

Therefore, keep going.

Maybe today your hope feels strong.

Wonderful.

Carry some for somebody else.

Maybe today it feels rather small.

That’s all right too.

You don’t need enough hope for the next ten years.

You don’t even need enough for next month.

Perhaps you simply need enough for today.

Sometimes faith isn’t a great leap.

Sometimes faith is getting out of bed and saying:

“God, I don’t know what happens next, but I’m going into this day with you.”

That is hope too.

There will always be uncertain things ahead of us.

Things we cannot predict.

Things we cannot control.

But hope asks a different question.

Not:

Do I know what happens next?

But:

Who will be with me when it does?

And that changes everything.

We don’t know everything about tomorrow.

But we know something about God.

God is faithful.

God is loving.

God is present.

So perhaps hope isn’t pretending we can see the whole road.

Perhaps it is simply trusting enough to take the next step.

A Question to Carry

What am I putting my hope in at the moment, an outcome I want, or the God who will be with me whatever happens?

A Simple Practice

Find something green today.

A tree.

A plant.

Grass pushing through concrete.

Pause when you see it and let it remind you:

Hope can grow in unlikely places.

Then name one situation where you need hope.

Prayer

God of hope,

I do not know everything
that lies ahead.

There are things I long for,
things I worry about,
and things I cannot control.

Help me not to confuse hope
with having everything turn out my way.

Root my hope instead
in your goodness,
your presence
and your love.

When hope feels small,
help me take the next step.

And when my hope is strong,
help me carry hope for someone else.

Amen.

For today: Take the next step in hope.

Mark 4:35–41

Some storms announce themselves.

Others don’t.

One minute life is moving along quite normally.

And then comes the phone call.

The conversation.

The diagnosis.

The unexpected bill.

The disappointment.

The news you weren’t prepared for.

Suddenly the landscape has changed.

That’s why I like the honesty of this story in Mark.

Jesus and his disciples get into a boat.

They set off across the lake.

And a storm blows up.

The important detail?

Jesus is with them.

Following Jesus has not prevented the storm.

That’s worth noticing.

Sometimes, perhaps without quite meaning to, we absorb the idea that if we’re faithful enough, prayerful enough or good enough, somehow life should work out.

Then the storm comes.

And alongside whatever difficulty we’re facing comes another question:

Where is God?

The disciples ask their own version.

Jesus is asleep.

They wake him:

“Teacher, don’t you care if we drown?”

I love the honesty of that.

This is not polished prayer.

This is frightened prayer.

Don’t you care?

Maybe you’ve prayed something like it.

God, don’t you see what’s happening?

Don’t you care about this person?

Don’t you care how frightened I am?

Why aren’t you doing something?

There is something strangely comforting about the fact that the Bible allows those words into the story.

Fear doesn’t disqualify us.

Questions don’t frighten God.

The disciples are terrified, and Jesus is still in their boat.

He gets up and speaks to the storm.

Peace.

Be still.

And the wind dies down.

Then Jesus turns to his friends and asks:

“Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?”

I don’t hear that as Jesus saying, “How dare you be frightened?”

They are in a storm. Fear is hardly surprising.

Perhaps the deeper question is this:

Have you forgotten who is in the boat with you?

Yesterday we thought about peace in the noise.

Today this is different.

Because some things aren’t simply noise.

Some things really are storms.

And when somebody is in one, telling them to calm down isn’t particularly helpful.

Christian peace isn’t pretending the waves aren’t high.

It isn’t saying, “Everything happens for a reason.”

It isn’t pasting a cheerful sentence over somebody else’s pain.

Peace begins by acknowledging the storm.

Yes, this is hard.

Yes, I am frightened.

Yes, I don’t know what happens next.

And Christ is still here.

Perhaps that little word and matters.

I am frightened and God is here.

I don’t know what happens next and God is here.

I cannot fix this and God is here.

The situation hasn’t suddenly become easy.

But I am not alone in the boat.

Sometimes peace comes because circumstances change.

We pray for that.

But sometimes peace comes before circumstances change.

A strange steadiness.

Enough strength for the next step.

Enough light for today.

Enough grace to keep going.

If you are in calm waters today, give thanks.

But perhaps look around too.

Somebody near you may be in a storm.

You might be part of God’s peace for them.

A phone call.

A meal.

A lift.

A listening ear.

Sitting beside them without trying to explain anything.

And if you are the one in the storm, perhaps there is no big lesson you need to learn today.

Perhaps this is enough:

You are not alone in the boat.

Christ is with you.

Even here.

Especially here.

A question to carry

Where do I most need to remember that I am not alone?

A simple practice

Name one uncertainty you are carrying.

Don’t try to solve it.

Simply say:

“Jesus, you are with me in this.”

Return to those words whenever the worry returns today.

Prayer

Jesus,
when the waters are calm,
help me remember you.

When the storm comes,
help me remember you then too.

I bring you what frightens me,
what I cannot control,
and what I cannot yet see beyond.

Speak your peace into my fear.

And when the storm does not immediately stop,
remind me that I am not alone in the boat.

Amen.

For today: Trust the One who is with you.

John 14:25–27

There is a lot of noise in life.

And I don’t just mean actual noise, although there is plenty of that.

Phones ping.

Radios talk.

Cars pass.

People need things.

Somebody is asking a question while you’re already trying to answer another one.

And even when everything around us finally becomes quiet, sometimes our heads don’t.

Did I remember to do that?

What am I going to do about this?

I really should have replied to that message.

What if this happens?

Why did I say that?

Don’t forget tomorrow.

And suddenly you can be sitting in a perfectly quiet room while internally it sounds like someone has left twelve radios playing at once.

Then Jesus says:

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you.”

It sounds wonderful.

But we need to notice when Jesus says it.

These words don’t come at a particularly peaceful moment.

Jesus is preparing his friends for what is coming. Things are about to change. There will be confusion and fear. The disciples will face circumstances they would never have chosen.

And right there, Jesus speaks about peace.

Not afterwards.

Not once everything has settled down.

Right there.

I find that important.

Because sometimes I imagine peace as the reward at the end of getting everything sorted.

I’ll be peaceful when I’ve finished the list.

I’ll relax when everyone else is okay.

I’ll have peace when this particular problem is resolved.

I’ll slow down when things are less busy.

Which is a dangerous way to live, because there is nearly always another thing.

Jesus offers something different.

“My peace I give you.”

Not the promise of a trouble-free life.

His peace.

Perhaps Christian peace is not primarily about creating perfect circumstances.

Maybe it is about discovering the presence of Christ in imperfect circumstances.

That doesn’t mean pretending everything is fine.

Sometimes it isn’t.

Nor does peace mean becoming so spiritually serene that nothing bothers us any more.

We will still worry.

We will still have difficult days.

There will still be situations we cannot control.

Peace doesn’t ask us to deny those things.

It asks whether they are the only things shaping us.

There is something else here too.

Jesus doesn’t say, “Try very hard to become peaceful.”

He says:

“My peace I give you.”

Peace is gift before it is achievement.

That matters for those of us who can turn even resting into another task.

Right.

I must be peaceful.

Deep breath.

Relax.

RELAX!

And five minutes later we’re stressed because we’re not doing peace properly.

Perhaps today Jesus simply asks us to receive.

To stop for long enough to remember:

I am here.

God is here.

This moment is here.

And I do not need to solve tomorrow before I get there.

There is a phrase later in the verse:

“Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.”

That doesn’t sound like criticism to me.

It sounds like reassurance.

Jesus knows his friends are going to be afraid.

He knows their hearts will be troubled.

And he gives them something to hold onto.

His presence.

His promise.

His peace.

Maybe we need that too.

The noise may not disappear today.

The phone may still ring.

The jobs will still need doing.

People will still need us.

The difficult situation may still be difficult tonight.

But perhaps peace isn’t waiting somewhere beyond all that.

Perhaps Christ meets us right in the middle of it and says:

My peace I give you.

Take a breath.

You do not have to carry everything at once.

Just this moment.

Just this step.

Just today.

A question to carry

What noise, outside me or inside me, is making it difficult for me to notice God’s presence today?

A simple practice

Find two minutes of deliberate quiet today.

No phone. No music. No words if possible.

Breathe slowly and, with each breath, simply pray:

“Your peace, Lord.”

Don’t try to achieve anything.

Receive.

Prayer

Jesus,
there is so much noise.

Around me,
and sometimes within me.

Thank you that your peace
doesn’t depend on everything being sorted.

Meet me in the middle of this day.

Quiet what needs quieting.
Help me release what I cannot control.

And let me receive the peace
you are already offering.

Amen.

For today: Seek peace.

Romans 8:31–39

Some things are easier to believe for other people than for ourselves.

God loves you?

Absolutely.

God forgives you?

Of course.

God hasn’t given up on you?

Definitely.

God loves me?

Ah.

Now we might need to talk.

Because somewhere along the way many of us have become rather good at adding qualifications to grace.

God loves me when…

God loves me if…

God loves me as long as…

Paul doesn’t seem terribly interested in our qualifications.

Instead, towards the end of Romans 8, he asks a huge question:

“Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?”

And then he starts naming possibilities.

Trouble.

Hardship.

Persecution.

Famine.

Nakedness.

Danger.

Sword.

These aren’t imaginary difficulties. Paul knows that following Christ does not somehow place a protective bubble around our lives.

Hard things happen.

Loss happens.

Disappointment happens.

Plans unravel.

Prayers seem unanswered.

There are days when God feels extraordinarily close.

And there are days when we wonder where God has gone.

Paul’s promise isn’t that those days won’t come.

His promise is that none of them has the power to separate us from God’s love.

That’s different.

Perhaps we sometimes imagine God’s love as something we must hold tightly.

Don’t mess up.

Don’t doubt.

Don’t wander.

Keep believing hard enough.

Hold on.

But what if the deeper truth is that God is holding us?

That shifts everything.

A frightened child doesn’t feel safe because their grip on the parent’s hand is particularly impressive.

They feel safe because the parent’s hand is holding theirs.

Maybe faith is sometimes like that.

There will be days when we hold confidently.

And there will be days when our grip is barely there.

But God’s love does not depend upon the strength of our grip.

Paul keeps pushing the idea further.

Neither death nor life.

Neither angels nor rulers.

Neither the present nor the future.

No powers.

Nothing above us.

Nothing below us.

And then, just in case we’ve found some loophole, he adds:

“Nor anything else in all creation.”

Anything else.

That seems rather comprehensive.

Including whatever you imagine might disqualify you.

Your mistakes.

Your questions.

Your regrets.

Your bad days.

Your doubts.

Your failures.

Your yesterday.

Your fear about tomorrow.

Nothing.

Not one of those things can remove you from the love of God revealed in Jesus Christ.

Maybe that’s where our week of love needs to finish.

We began with the truth that we are loved.

We’ve thought about loving God, loving our neighbour, loving difficult people and putting love into action.

But before love becomes something we give, it remains something we receive.

We love because we have first been loved.

And perhaps today we don’t need to achieve anything with that.

Maybe we simply rest in it.

You are loved.

Not because you performed particularly well this week.

Not because you got everything right.

Not because you prayed enough or believed enough or served enough.

You are loved because love is at the heart of who God is.

So take a breath.

Put down the scorecard.

Stop trying to prove yourself.

You are held.

And nothing can separate you from the love of God.

Nothing.

A question to carry

What would change if I genuinely believed that God’s love for me was not hanging by a thread?

A simple practice

Hold your hands open for a moment and slowly say:

“Nothing can separate me from the love of God.”

Then sit quietly and let that be enough.

Prayer

God of unshakeable love,
when I doubt, hold me.

When I struggle, hold me.

When I get things wrong, hold me.

When I cannot find the words to pray,
remind me that your love
does not depend on my ability to hold onto you.

Help me rest in the truth
that you are holding onto me.

Amen.

For today: Rest in love.

1 Corinthians 13:1–7

Love is one of those words we use so often that we can forget how demanding it actually is.

We love people.
We love places.
We love songs.
We love coffee.
We love a particular television programme, a favourite meal, a view, a book.

And then Paul comes along and rather inconveniently tells us what love looks like.

It is patient.

Oh.

It is kind.

Fine so far.

It does not envy. It does not boast. It is not proud. It doesn’t dishonour others. It isn’t self-seeking. It isn’t easily angered. It keeps no record of wrongs.

By now, I’m beginning to wish Paul had stopped at kind.

Because this isn’t sentimental love.

This is love with its sleeves rolled up.

We often hear 1 Corinthians 13 at weddings, and understandably so. They are beautiful words.

But Paul wasn’t writing a romantic poem for a wedding ceremony. He was writing to a community of people who were struggling to live well together.

People with different personalities.

Different opinions.

Different gifts.

Different ideas about what mattered.

In other words, people.

And perhaps that is precisely where love becomes real.

It is relatively easy to love people in theory.

Actual people are considerably more complicated.

Actual people interrupt us.

They disappoint us.

They say the wrong thing.

They don’t notice all the things we’ve done.

They take too long.

They misunderstand.

So do we.

And into all that ordinary human mess, Paul says:

Love is patient. Love is kind.

Notice that he doesn’t spend much time telling us how love feels.

He tells us what love does.

That changes things.

I might not be able to manufacture warm feelings towards everyone I encounter today.

But I can choose patience.

I can choose kindness.

I can refuse to keep score.

I can listen.

I can hold my tongue.

I can make room.

I can encourage.

I can forgive.

I can turn up.

Sometimes love looks remarkably ordinary.

It’s making the cup of tea.

Sending the message.

Letting somebody else speak.

Remembering the person who might otherwise be forgotten.

It’s asking, “How are you?” and then staying long enough to hear the real answer.

Love isn’t always spectacular.

Very often it is simply faithful.

And perhaps there is another challenge here.

Paul begins this chapter by saying that we can do impressive things and still miss love entirely.

We can speak beautifully.

We can know an enormous amount.

We can possess great faith.

We can even be extraordinarily generous.

And yet without love something fundamental is missing.

That’s worth sitting with.

Because it is perfectly possible to do the right thing for the wrong reason.

To serve while resenting.

To give while wanting recognition.

To help while secretly feeling superior.

Love asks something deeper.

Not merely:

What am I doing?

But:

How am I doing it?

Perhaps today we don’t need to do anything enormous.

Perhaps we simply choose one of Paul’s descriptions and practise it.

Patience.

Kindness.

Not keeping score.

Protecting.

Trusting.

Hoping.

Persevering.

Pick one.

And let love become a verb.

A question to carry

If love became something I did today, rather than simply something I felt, what would it look like?

A simple practice

Choose one person today and deliberately show them love in a practical way.

Don’t announce it.

Just do it.

Prayer

God of love,
thank you that your love
is more than words.

Teach me to love like that.

Make me patient when I want to hurry,
kind when irritation comes more easily,
generous when I want my own way.

Let the love I speak about
become the love I live.

Amen.

For today: Practice love.

“Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you.”
Luke 6:27

And then Jesus goes and says something like this.

Love your enemies.

Really?

Loving the people who love us is one thing.

Loving the person who annoys us, hurts us, misunderstands us or seems determined to make life difficult?

That’s different.

And let’s be honest.

Some people are difficult to love.

Jesus doesn’t pretend otherwise.

Nor does loving someone mean allowing them to hurt us repeatedly. Love can have boundaries. Love can say no. Love can step away when that is necessary.

But love refuses to let bitterness take over our heart.

Sometimes loving a difficult person might simply begin with refusing to return hurt for hurt.

Not rehearsing the argument again.

Not enjoying their failure.

Not letting resentment become the thing that occupies our thoughts.

Perhaps we are not ready to feel warmly towards them.

That’s all right.

Love is not always a feeling.

Sometimes love begins as a choice.

God, I don’t know how to love this person.

But I don’t want bitterness to win either.

Maybe that’s enough of a prayer for today.

Carry this today

I cannot control another person’s behaviour, but I can choose what grows in my own heart.

Prayer

God of love,
you know the people I find difficult.
Give me wisdom to know when boundaries are needed,
grace not to return hurt for hurt,
and freedom from bitterness.
Teach me what love looks like
even when loving is hard.
Amen.