by Jonathan Krause
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Read Acts 27:9–26
I am no sailor.
I once got seasick on a houseboat on a lake while we were still attached to the wharf.
And I’ve never been on a cruise. Not only am I scared of going cabin-crazy from being confined, but I worry I will eat too much, exercise too little, and come home twice the man I was when I set sail.
So, I don’t know how I would go on a boat in a storm.
And if some smart fella stood up and told me to have courage, as Paul did in the Bible reading, I’m not sure I’d want to listen. Especially when he said in the next breath that we were going to be shipwrecked even if we did exactly as commanded!
What is courage anyway?
I’m not sure that it means you’re not scared. Your greatest courage is when you are scared – but you carry on anyway. (Those of us blessed to be Collingwood supporters know that feeling well – we are always scared we’ll lose, especially when it comes to finals, but we have the courage to keep hanging in there anyway!)
I don’t know what your life is like right now.
Maybe the cost-of-living crisis or high mortgage interest rates are causing you stress. Perhaps you’re worried about a loved one or have lost someone dear to you. Maybe the black dog of depression is barking at your ankles, or the chill of loneliness is wrapping icy fingers around your heart.
We shouldn’t be surprised. The storms will come. We may even run aground and suffer in ways that feel unfair or overwhelming.
That’s when we need the courage to hold on to our faith. Maybe it’s by our fingernails. Perhaps we feel too weary and worn to hold on a moment longer. That’s when we lift our eyes to Jesus, focus only on him, and – rather than holding on – let ourselves be held.
That takes true courage. I pray that for you.
Lord, you know me. You understand the life I lead, the challenges that confront me, the joys that delight. I know no life goes by without storms. Give me the courage to hold on to you. Amen.
Jonathan lives south of Adelaide with his wife Julie. Blessed by children and grandchildren, Jonathan enjoys reading and writing, walking by the beach and watching Collingwood win. Author of many devotion books, Jonathan is the Community Action Manager for the Australian Lutheran World Service (ALWS).
Ashes don’t get the last word
by Jane Mueller.
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A new heart I will give you, and a new spirit I will put within you, and I will remove from your body the heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh (Ezekiel 36:26). Read Ezekiel 36:24–28
Australia knows bushfires. Black Friday in 1939 scorched Victoria, darkening the skies with smoke and killing 71 people. Ash Wednesday in 1983 claimed 75 lives across Victoria and South Australia, levelling whole communities. Black Summer in 2019–20 brought devastation on a scale almost beyond comprehension – millions of hectares burned, and thousands of homes destroyed. Thirty-three people lost their lives to the flames, and hundreds more deaths were later counted among the toll from smoke exposure. Every summer, the memory of bushfire lingers like a scar on our land and our hearts.
Ezekiel also knew devastation. He wrote to exiles who had seen their land razed, their temple destroyed, and their hope reduced to ash. Into that bleakness, God spoke, ‘I will sprinkle clean water upon you, and you shall be clean … I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you.’ God promised that destruction would not be the final word. Renewal was coming.
Have you walked in a bushfire-blackened landscape? It looks hopeless. Yet after rain, green shoots push through the ash. Nature holds the secret of resurrection. Likewise, God takes our scorched places – the losses, the grief, the failures – and brings new life. His Spirit writes resilience on our hearts. He plants hope where there was only ruin.
Scars remain, but scars can testify. Just as the landscape bears the memory of fire even as it regenerates, we bear witness to God’s Spirit who brings life from death. Out of ashes comes beauty. Out of devastation comes a new heart.
God of hope, I remember those who grieve losses caused by bushfires – past and present. Bring comfort to the broken-hearted and strength to rebuild. As I go about my day today, show me signs of new growth – a plant sprouting, a flower opening or even weeds pushing through cracks. Let these signs remind me that you bring life where I least expect it. Amen.
Jane is a former Lutheran school principal and now serves as Governance Leadership Director for Lutheran Education SA, NT & WA. Jane has a keen interest in psychology, enjoys hiking and loves learning about and trying new things.
What do Twenty20 cricket and Ancient Israel have in common?
by Jane Mueller
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But now, this is what the Lord says – he who created you, Jacob, he who formed you, Israel: ‘Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine’ (Isaiah 43:1).
Read Isaiah 43:1–7
On this day in 2005, Aussies saw something new at the Western Australian Cricket Association ground in Perth: the very first Australian Twenty20 cricket match. Traditionalists scoffed. After all, cricket was a gentleman’s game of patience and strategy, not coloured shirts, roaring crowds and fireworks. Yet the game changed. It was fast, bright and captivating. Twenty20 brought new audiences to an old sport. Reinvention breathed fresh life into cricket.
God’s words through Isaiah also speak of reinvention. Israel had been battered by exile. Its identity was fractured. But God declared, ‘Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine.’ God wasn’t abandoning the covenant – Israel’s story wasn’t over. The God who never lets go was renewing the covenant and reshaping Israel’s story.
We live in a world that thrives on reinvention, but often leaves us exhausted as we constantly update, rebrand and hustle for relevance. The reinvention God offers is different. He doesn’t demand that we remake ourselves to earn his love. Instead, he renames us, claims us and redeems us. Our identity is secure. ‘You are mine.’
Let that sink in.
You are his.
Just as Twenty20 reshaped cricket without erasing its heart, God reshapes our lives without discarding who we are. He takes what is weary, fractured or stuck, and breathes new Spirit-filled energy into it. We are called by name into a story of belonging and purpose.
When fear rises – fear of change, of failure, of the unknown – remember that God has already called you by name. You belong. Your life is not defined by exile or loss, but by the redeeming love of the one who says, ‘You are mine’.
Redeeming God, thank you for calling me by name. When fear rises in me today – whether small or large – guide me to pause and whisper aloud, ‘I am yours. I belong to you.’ Let this confession quiet my fear and steady my steps. Amen.
Jane is a former Lutheran school principal and now serves as Governance Leadership Director for Lutheran Education SA, NT & WA. Jane has a keen interest in psychology, enjoys hiking and loves learning about and trying new things.
When God joined the queue
by Jane Mueller
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Then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan, to be baptised by him (Matthew 3:13).
Read Matthew 3:13–17
John saw him coming and froze. The line at the Jordan was full of ordinary sinners – farmers, labourers, tax collectors – all waiting their turn to be washed clean. And then Jesus joins the queue. No entourage, no special treatment. Just the Son of God, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the very people he came to save.
John can’t take it. ‘You should be baptising me,’ he blurts out. But Jesus insists, ‘Let it be so now.’
Let it be so now.
It’s one of the most quietly disruptive moments in Scripture. The one who has nothing to confess stands among the confessors. The one who created water submits to being washed in it. Holiness doesn’t hover about human mess – it wades right into it.
That’s what grace does. It doesn’t operate at a distance. It moves toward us, joins the queue and stands behind us in all the mess we’d rather hide. The baptism of Jesus is about solidarity. God doesn’t save by staying clean; God saves by stepping in.
If being human has started to feel like a competition or a performance, maybe the invitation is the same: step down into the water. Stand where everyone else stands. Get in line with the people you’ve been comparing yourself to and the ones you’ve tried to impress. Let grace even the playing field.
When Jesus rose from the water, heaven tore open, and the Spirit descended. Maybe that’s what happens when we choose humility over hype, presence over performance and love over comparison. The same sky that opened over the Jordan still opens for moments like these.
In this week’s devotions, we won’t just read about baptism – we’ll see that something’s changed. We’ll get on with living like resurrected people. Every piece of Scripture in the days ahead is a reminder that grace moves, water breaks, God keeps making all things new, and heaven is here, now.
Jesus, you could stay distant, but you don’t. You step into our mess, into our fears and into the queues we stand in. Teach me to do the same – to meet people where they are, not where it’s comfortable – and strip away my need to appear strong or right. Let my life and presence look like your love – close enough to get wet. Amen.
Jane is a former Lutheran school principal and now serves as Governance Leadership Director for Lutheran Education SA, NT & WA. Jane has a keen interest in psychology, enjoys hiking and loves learning about and trying new things.