Before Job is a suffering man, he is something else first. He is a father. Job at the Beginning — A Father Who Prayed

Joel opens not with a vision, but with a disaster. A devastating locust plague has swept through the land of Judah. Crops are destroyed. Vineyards are stripped bare. Grain, wine, and oil — the essentials of daily life and temple worship — are gone. This is not distant theology. It is lived catastrophe. “That which the palmerworm hath left hath the locust eaten…” (Joel 1:4)

We meet Joseph not as a son, but as a father—raising children in a land that is not his own, within a marriage that did not begin inside the covenant, and yet marked throughout by a steady, unashamed faith in the LORD.

Hosea ministered to the northern kingdom of Israel during its final decades before destruction. The nation was outwardly prosperous but inwardly corrupt—idolatrous, self-confident, and spiritually unfaithful. God’s call to Hosea was unlike any other. Instead of beginning with visions or sermons, the LORD commanded Hosea to live the message: “Go, take unto thee a wife of whoredoms and children of whoredoms: for the land hath committed great whoredom, departing from the LORD

Joseph is born to Jacob in his old age, the first son of Rachel, the wife Jacob loved above all others. From the beginning, Joseph is set apart—by his father’s affection and by God’s early dealings with him. His dreams speak of authority and purpose, though neither he nor his father yet understands their cost. pJacob’s favoritism is unmistakable. The coat he gives Joseph is not merely clothing; it is a public declaration. In a family already strained by rivalry, it becomes a

Daniel was among the first captives taken from Jerusalem to Babylon by Nebuchadnezzar. He was still a young man when he entered exile, selected with others of royal or noble lineage—“children in whom was no blemish… skilful in all wisdom… and such as had ability in them to stand in the king’s palace” (Daniel 1:4). Babylon intended to reshape these young Israelites into servants of empire. God had other plans.

On January 30, the Church remembers Charles I, King of England, who was executed in 1649 after a long and bitter civil war. In the calendar of saints, he is remembered not as a flawless ruler, but as a Christian king who suffered death rather than surrender what he believed to be sacred trusts: the crown under God, the Church’s order, and the sanctity of conscience.

Jacob is the most experienced father of adult sons in the Bible—not because he was exemplary from the beginning, but because he lived long enough to see how deeply a father’s character shapes the lives of his children. He was the father of twelve sons, the heads of the tribes of Israel, yet his fatherhood was marked by favoritism, conflict, deception, grief, and finally hard-won wisdom. Jacob did not merely raise sons; he endured them, lost them, feared them, blessed them—an

Thomas Aquinas stands as the foremost scholar and philosopher of the Middle Ages, the towering intellect of medieval Christianity. As the leading scholastic of his age, Aquinas undertook one of the most ambitious tasks ever attempted by a Christian thinker: to reconcile the truths of Christian revelation with the philosophy of Aristotle and the wider Greek tradition. From this effort emerged what later generations would call Natural Law—that reason itself, properly used, poin

Ezekiel, the son of Buzi, was born in 622 BC. He was a priest by calling and training, the third of the “major prophets,” following Isaiah and Jeremiah. Though his ministry overlaps historically with Jeremiah and the rise of Nebuchadnezzar, Ezekiel’s calling and emphasis are markedly different. Jeremiah and Nebuchadnezzar move largely within the realm of political and military power—kings, nations siege, and exile. Ezekiel, by contrast, is sent to the people themselves. His c

Isaac’s life unfolds between two defining moments: his binding on Mount Moriah as a son, and his burial by two grown sons at the end of his life. Between those moments stands a long, steady ministry of fatherhood—often quiet, but never passive. Scripture presents Isaac as a man who acts deliberately, guides decisively, and accepts responsibility for the spiritual direction of his household.

“Christ is my spouse; to Him alone I pledge my faith.” — attributed to St. Agnes Today we remember Agnes of Rome, one of the youngest and most beloved martyrs of the early Church. Her story is brief, luminous, and uncompromising—like a flame that burns cleanly in the dark.

A stained-glass window (German, 1728) at Pena Palace, in Sintra, Portugal. It includes a depiction of the Israelites defeating the Philistines, after Samuel has offered a sacrifice at Eben-Ezer (1 Samuel 7:2-14).--PUBLIC DOMAIN Last week we met Samuel the child , awakened in the night by the voice of the LORD. Today we follow that child across an entire lifetime — from God’s gift to a praying mother, to prophet, judge, king-maker, intercessor, and finally a voice heard even

Jeremiah is the second of the “major prophets” of Scripture, following Isaiah by roughly a century. Like Isaiah, he was called directly by the LORD, spoke at the national level, and confronted kings, priests, and false prophets. Yet in temperament and experience, Jeremiah could hardly be more different. Where Isaiah seems to stride confidently into his calling, Jeremiah shrank back from it. Before I formed thee in the belly I knew thee; and before thou camest forth out of t

The Crowd is Untruth: One theme in the writings of Søren Kierkegaard is his claim that “the crowd is untruth.” At first reading, it sounds harsh, even exaggerated. Surely the problem lies with bad crowds, not crowds as such. But Kierkegaard presses the point relentlessly, and in doing so, he forces us to look again at the Passion of our Lord. Kierkegaard reminds us that it was not a single individual who mocked Jesus, spat upon Him, and crucified Him — it was the crowd.

Abram Was Not a Perfect Father — And God Still Worked Abram’s story is honest. The Bible does not flatter him. He made mistakes — even serious ones. He moved his household into danger through fear, telling Sarai to say she was his sister. Twice. He also listened to Sarai’s plan involving Hagar, trying to help God keep His promise in human strength — a decision that produced heartache, jealousy, division, and lifelong tension between Ishmael and Isaac. Abram was faithful — bu

Kierkegaard is not interested in abstract philosophy here. He is speaking pastorally, urgently, and personally. He writes to the “single individual,” calling each of us to stand honestly before God and ask: What do I really want? What is the deepest “will” that directs my life? And then he makes this piercing claim: Purity of heart means willing one thing — the Good.

John Wyclif (c. 1320–1384) lived in one of the most turbulent centuries of English and church history. The Black Death had swept through Europe, kings and popes struggled for power, and the Church was immensely wealthy—yet spiritually weak. Into this world God raised up a scholar-priest from Oxford whose life’s labor would help place the Word of God into the hands of ordinary people.

The Bible tells us John was the disciple Jesus loved. We see this When he leans on Jesus' breast at the last supper When he comes to the cross, and Jesus gives him His mother. Later, when He visits John and commissions him to write Revelation. This is the fullest expression of that love, the privilege of revealing Him as He is now - In His glory.

The crowd is untruth.”— Søren Kierkegaard Courage is not loud. Courage is not militant. And in Kierkegaard’s world, courage is not popular. The courage Kierkegaard demanded was something far more disturbing than activism or heroics. It was the courage to believe the New Testament as written — and to live accordingly — alone if necessary, against the entire weight of polite, institutional Christianity. Christendom: Christianity Without Christ Kie