#luke 5

Photo by Owen.outdoors on Pexels.com Teaching Summary of Luke 5–6 🌿 Overall Themes in Luke 5–6 Jesus calls unlikely people — Fishermen, a leper, a paralytic, and a tax collector become central to His mission. The authority of Jesus — Authority over sickness, sin, demons, nature, and even the Sabbath. The formation of a new community — Jesus chooses twelve apostles and defines the values of…

There are moments in Scripture where the surface of the narrative seems almost too familiar, as though time has worn a groove into its meaning, and yet the Spirit keeps nudging us to look again because something in the waters hasn’t stopped moving. Luke 5 is one of those passages. It looks calm to the casual reader, but the moment you step into it, you feel the undertow. It is a chapter that does not merely describe events; it describes the tremor that happens when the Kingdom brushes against the shoreline of an ordinary life and refuses to leave anything unchanged. And as I open this chapter, I want to walk with the reader in such a way that we feel the weight of what it means for nets to break, for a leper to be touched, for a paralytic to rise, and for a tax collector to leave everything in the middle of a profitable day simply because Jesus said two words that still ruin and resurrect lives: follow me.

Luke 5, in its raw sequence, contains four stories and a culminating conflict. But to treat it as a series of episodes held together by the convenient thread of chronology is to miss the resonance of what is happening. Every portion is a variation on the same theme: God’s authority breaking into human limitation and calling forth an answer. This is not a chapter of suggestion. It is a chapter of summons. A chapter that says: You think you know your boat, your body, your house, your job, your boundaries, your rules. But you do not know what they become when I step into them. Jesus does not simply teach; He disrupts. And He disrupts by revealing what should have been apparent all along: that everything we think we have mastered has been quietly waiting for Him.

When I sit with the first scene—the crowd pressing in on Him at the Lake of Gennesaret—I can’t help but imagine the scent of the water and the hardness of the shoreline stones under the feet of the fishermen who had just spent the night in unfulfilling labor. It is morning, but the day has not yet truly begun for these men because in their world, a night with empty nets is not simply disappointing; it is deflating. It means the day starts with failure and continues with mending, cleaning, and preparing for another attempt. So when Jesus steps into Simon’s boat, there’s more happening than a practical decision about teaching logistics. Jesus is entering the vessel of a man whose confidence has just been thinned by the uselessness of his own effort. This is a detail that feels deeply human to me: the way God often chooses moments of fatigue, anticlimax, or deflation to introduce a miracle that will restructure the soul.

Jesus asks Simon to put out a little from the shore. That phrase, a little, carries a great deal of spiritual psychology. It is almost always in the little obediences that the larger obediences come into view. Jesus knows that if He told Simon in that moment what He was actually about to do, the man may have hesitated. But a little from shore? That’s manageable. That’s light. That’s not a command that asks Simon to reconsider his life. That’s the gentle beginning of a much deeper invitation. And while the crowds listen to the teaching—likely hungry for words that make sense of their bruised and burdened daily lives—Simon waits. He might have been listening as well, but he is listening while sitting near the presence of the One who is about to redefine what he thinks is possible in the same water he has worked in his whole life.

Then the moment comes: put out into the deep water and let down the nets for a catch. Everything in that directive contradicts the experience of a fisherman who knows that daytime fishing in deeper water is inefficient and borderline pointless. But Simon has already been drawn into a subtle inner reorientation. He addresses Jesus as Master, which shows a respect budding into trust, even though his rational logic protests. We caught nothing all night, he says, yet he follows with the hinge of his transformation: but because you say so. That line may very well be the quiet anthem of discipleship, the line that rebuilds the world. It is not blind faith; it is relational trust. It is obedience that overrides expertise, not because the expertise is discarded but because it bows to a higher authority.

And then, of course, the nets fill beyond capacity. What arrests me every time I sit with this moment is not simply the miracle of the quantity of fish but the emotional and spiritual precision of the miracle itself. The nets are so full they begin to tear. That detail matters because Jesus isn’t giving Simon a mild demonstration; He is giving him an overwhelming one. He is showing Simon that the limits Simon has accepted about his life are not the limits God has placed on it. The nets tearing is a symbol of a life being stretched beyond its previous assumptions. And when Simon calls for his partners, for James and John, and both boats start to sink under the weight of what God just released into their day, they are being given a preview of the scope of the calling that is about to engulf them. Their boats cannot contain the abundance of obedience. Their capacity is too small for the destiny they are being drawn into. This is not poetic exaggeration; it is theological precision.

Simon’s reaction—falling at Jesus’ knees—is not the reaction of someone grateful for financial blessing. It is the reaction of someone undone. Depart from me, for I am a sinful man. That confession opens a window into the anatomy of spiritual awakening. When divine authority reveals itself, humanity does not stand proud; it collapses into truth. And the truth is that Simon sees not merely the miracle but the holiness behind it. His words echo the cry of Isaiah: I am undone. But Jesus does not affirm Simon’s fear. Instead, He redirects it: Do not be afraid; from now on you will catch men. This is one of the most elegant theological transitions in the New Testament. Jesus takes Simon’s identity as a fisherman, his exhaustion, his disappointment, his profession, and His miracle, and He turns all of it into a metaphor of mission. Simon will still be a fisherman, but not of fish. He will still cast nets, but not into water. He will still gather, but not for markets. Jesus is not erasing Simon’s identity; He is elevating it.

They pull their boats up on shore, leaving everything behind. This is the part that often gets narrated too quickly, as though walking away from their livelihood, equipment, financial stability, years of learned trade, and the sudden windfall of fish is a simple decision. It is not simple at all. It is seismic. But what Jesus revealed in that moment was not prosperity; it was purpose. Purpose will always eclipse profit. And once purpose has been revealed, the old definitions of success lose their grip.

When the scene shifts to the man with leprosy, it appears to be a new narrative, but the spiritual arc remains the same. Leprosy in ancient times was not merely a disease; it was a sentence of isolation. A leper lived outside the community, outside the touch, outside the rituals, outside the possibility of normal human existence. He is the embodiment of exclusion. That this man approaches Jesus at all shows both his desperation and the draw of Jesus’ presence. He falls on his face and says, Lord, if you want to, you can make me clean. This is not doubt; it is submission. He is not questioning Jesus’ power; he is acknowledging Jesus’ sovereignty. And Jesus responds not with a distant healing but with a touch. This is scandalous. Touching a leper makes one ceremonially unclean. But Jesus touching him reveals a Kingdom principle: holiness is not contaminated by impurity; holiness transforms it.

I am willing, Jesus says, be clean. There is immeasurable tenderness in those words. The leper is healed instantly. But Jesus instructs him to show himself to the priest and offer the sacrifices Moses commanded. This is Jesus honoring the legal and priestly system while simultaneously fulfilling what that very system pointed to. And despite Jesus’ request for silence, the news spreads like wildfire. This is not a failure of obedience so much as a failure of containment. People cannot contain a miracle of this magnitude within the walls of silence. They flock to Him in large numbers, hungry for healing, hungry for words that are not weighed down by the legalistic oppression they have grown accustomed to. Yet Jesus often withdraws to lonely places to pray, another detail we often fail to appreciate. The Son of God, carrying divine authority, still seeks solitude with the Father. This is not weakness; it is communion. It is replenishment. It is the pattern for every servant of God who finds that ministry demands more than human strength can supply.

The next movement of Luke 5 shifts into a house so packed with listeners that there is no room for the desperate friends who carry a paralyzed man on a mat. The courage and ingenuity of these men is remarkable. They go up to the roof, remove tiles, and lower their friend into the presence of Jesus. Their faith is not passive; it is inventive. Jesus sees their faith, not merely hears it. Faith in Scripture is often visible, physical, embodied. And Jesus utters a line that sends shockwaves through the room: Friend, your sins are forgiven. The religious experts immediately bristle because to forgive sins is to exercise divine authority. Jesus intentionally provokes this reaction because He wants the crowd to understand that healing is not His most radical act; forgiveness is. Healing repairs the body; forgiveness redefines the soul.

To prove His authority to forgive sins, Jesus commands the paralyzed man to rise, take up his mat, and walk. And the man does so immediately. The crowd is stunned into awe, filled with reverence and fear. They have just witnessed what the prophets promised: God restoring both soul and body, reclaiming both realms as His rightful territory. But what stands out even more deeply is the layered transformation occurring. The man came for physical healing; he received spiritual healing first. Jesus is always restoring in the order that matters most.

Then Luke leads us to the tax booth where Levi sits. A tax collector in that culture is not simply an unpopular figure; he is a collaborator with Rome, a man perceived as exploiting his own people for imperial profit. To many, Levi would be a traitor. And yet Jesus walks by his station and says the same two words He gave Simon: follow me. And Levi rises and leaves everything behind. This mirroring of the earlier calling is not accidental. The fishermen left empty nets and full boats. Levi leaves a full booth and a lucrative career. Jesus does not call only those who have little to lose; He calls those who have much to lose. The cost of discipleship is not measured by the quantity of abandonment but by the willingness to surrender whatever stands in the way of obedience.

Levi then hosts a banquet for Jesus, inviting other tax collectors and outcasts. The Pharisees bristle once again because Jesus is eating with sinners. But Jesus’ response is one of the most clarifying statements of His mission: It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. I have not come to call the righteous but sinners to repentance. Here again the theme emerges: Jesus is redefining boundaries. He is not contaminating Himself with sinners; He is redeeming them. The Pharisaic worldview sees holiness as fragile, needing protection from impurity. Jesus reveals holiness as robust, a force that moves outward rather than recoils inward.

The chapter ends with a discussion about fasting, another moment where Jesus reframes expectations. The Pharisees compare Jesus’ disciples to those of John, noting that the others fast regularly, while Jesus’ disciples do not. Jesus answers with the imagery of a wedding feast. The presence of the bridegroom alters the entire rhythm of spiritual practice. And He continues with metaphors about new cloth on old garments and new wine in old wineskins. These images speak to the incompatibility of the old religious structures with the new reality of the Kingdom. The point is not that the old was evil but that the new is uncontainable by the old forms. Something expansive, something fermenting with divine life, is being introduced, and it requires containers that can stretch, flex, and expand with the vitality of what God is doing.

All of this forms the backbone of Luke 5, but to stop there would be incomplete. This chapter is not simply describing events in sacred history; it is diagnosing the contemporary state of the soul. The themes in Luke 5 replay themselves in every generation. The empty nets of frustrated labor. The deflated confidence of expertise that fails to yield results. The isolated suffering of those who feel unclean in emotional or spiritual ways. The paralysis—literal or figurative—that keeps people stuck on mats they never asked for. The shame that whispers unworthiness. The incremental hardening of those who follow religious rituals but do not recognize the heart of God. The surprise of calling coming to people who never expected to be chosen. The internal resistance to new wine.

Luke 5 breathes across all of this. It speaks into the waters of everyday life where people cast nets that return empty, not realizing the One who fills nets is standing so close He can step right into their boat. And with that in mind, I want to step deeper into each of these stories by exploring their emotional, spiritual, and symbolic resonances for a modern soul who finds themselves somewhere inside one of these narratives. Because Luke 5 is not merely a story of what Jesus did; it is a story of what Jesus still does.

When we return to the moment of Simon’s empty nets, the modern resonance becomes impossible to ignore. There is something in all of us that has fished all night and caught nothing. Something that has labored in quiet determination, telling ourselves that effort should equal progress, that diligence should yield reward, that skill should guarantee outcomes. Yet there are seasons in life where the nets come up empty for reasons we do not understand, despite doing everything we knew to do. Luke 5 meets us exactly there. It tells us the emptiness was not the end; it was the setup. It tells us that our exhaustion is often the very ground where God plants a miracle. There is an unmistakable tenderness in Jesus choosing to perform the miracle in the very place of Simon’s failure, not in a fresh location. He fills the nets where they were empty. He overwhelms the boats where they were light. He does not make Simon start over; He redefines what Simon thought he knew.

This is profound because many people believe their calling will come from new territory, from a change of scenery, from escape, from reinvention. But Luke 5 whispers a different truth: God will often reveal destiny at the site of your deepest discouragement because that is where trust has been tested, and where obedience carries the greatest weight. It is no small thing that Jesus steps into Simon’s familiar world—not to comfort him but to awaken him. He does not say, Simon, let’s leave fishing behind immediately and go preach. Instead, He says, go deeper. Go where you think it won’t work. Do the thing you just did, but this time do it with Me in the boat. And Simon does, and history changes because of that obedience.

The detail of the nets beginning to break matters because it teaches us something crucial: divine abundance is not always comfortable. Sometimes the weight of blessing stretches us to the point of tearing. Sometimes obedience introduces pressures we did not expect. Sometimes the things we prayed for strain the structures that held us together. But the strain is not a sign of failure; it is a sign of expansion. The breaking nets are the prelude to a new identity, not the collapse of an old one. When Simon sees the magnitude of the catch, he does not celebrate; he confesses. This is the mystery at the heart of a true encounter with God: abundance produces humility, not arrogance. Revelation produces repentance, not self-congratulation. The deeper the miracle, the deeper the awareness of our need for grace.

Jesus’ response to Simon’s confession is one of the most liberating sentences in Scripture: Do not be afraid. That sentence has echoed through centuries, into countless trembling hearts, because fear is the instinctive reaction when divine purpose reveals itself. Jesus does not tell Simon to toughen up or try harder; He dismantles the fear at its root by reframing Simon’s identity. From now on, you will be catching people. From now on is the hinge of destiny. The future cannot resemble the past. And so Simon leaves everything—not because he understood everything, but because he encountered Someone who made everything else look smaller by comparison.

When we pivot from this miracle to the healing of the leper, the emotional dimension deepens. The leper’s isolation mirrors the isolation many experience today—not necessarily physical exile, but internal exile. There are people who move through society carrying a sense of contamination, shame, or unworthiness that makes them believe they must remain on the outskirts of community. They fear that if anyone touched the truth of who they are, that person would pull away. Luke 5 interrupts that lie by showing us Jesus reaching into the space of isolation with a touch that does not recoil. The touch of Jesus is not careful; it is compassionate. It does not avoid defilement; it eradicates it. When Jesus touches the leper, it is a declaration: Your condition cannot contaminate Me, but my presence can cleanse you.

This moment strikes at the core of every person who fears rejection. The leper does not approach Jesus with entitlement; he approaches with surrender. If You want to, You can make me clean. There is a fragile hope in those words, a hope many of us have whispered in prayer. And Jesus answers that fragile hope with a simple affirmation: I want to. That sentence alone reshapes the prayer life of a believer. It tells us that God’s willingness is not the obstacle. That divine compassion is not reluctant. That the heart of God leans toward restoration, not away from it.

Jesus instructs the healed man to follow the Mosaic requirements—not as a concession to legalism but as a testimony to the priesthood that the Messiah is already breaking into their world. But the news spreads anyway. And in the swelling crowds we see a truth that endures across ages: when God moves, people gather. And yet Jesus withdraws to pray. The crowds symbolize opportunity; the solitude symbolizes necessity. Jesus is demonstrating something all believers must learn: public ministry, public responsibility, public influence—none of these can survive without hidden communion. The outward work collapses when inward connection is neglected. Jesus returning to lonely places is not avoidance; it is alignment.

Then we come to the paralytic carried by friends. This scene might be the most beloved in Luke 5 because it captures the desperation, creativity, and devotion of community. The house is so crowded that entry is impossible. But impossible is merely a challenge to those who believe access to Jesus is worth inconvenience. They climb the roof. They tear through it. They lower their friend in front of Jesus. This is faith that refuses to be deterred by structural limitations. And Jesus sees their faith—not only the man’s faith, but the faith of the friends. This detail reveals that faith is not always an individual endeavor. Sometimes healing comes because someone else refused to give up on you.

Jesus forgives the man’s sins before healing his body, which ignites theological uproar among the religious experts. But Jesus is not careless with His words; He is intentional. He is revealing priorities. Sin is a deeper paralysis than physical immobility. Jesus heals the soul before He heals the limbs. And when the man rises, mat in hand, he is stepping into a life that is no longer defined by what he cannot do. The crowd erupts with awe, proclaiming they have seen remarkable things. The Greek term used here hints at something beyond remarkable—something bordering on the unthinkable. The presence of Jesus creates realities that defy expectation.

Next comes Levi, also known as Matthew, sitting at his tax booth. This scene reveals something essential about the call of God: it is not limited by reputation. Levi is a man despised by his community for collaborating with Rome. Yet Jesus calls him without hesitation. Follow me, He says. And Levi rises. What strikes me most is the immediacy of his response. He does not negotiate. He does not ask for time to finalize his accounts. He does not defend his past or justify his choices. He simply gets up and follows. This kind of obedience reveals that something in Levi had been waiting for a voice strong enough to cut through the noise of his conflicted existence.

Levi hosts a banquet, inviting fellow tax collectors and outcasts. This gathering draws criticism from the Pharisees, who cannot reconcile a holy man eating with those they consider spiritual pollutants. But Jesus dismantles their assumptions by comparing Himself to a physician. A doctor does not hide from sickness. He moves toward it. Healing requires proximity. And proximity requires compassion. Jesus is not lowering His standards by eating with sinners; He is elevating them by revealing the heart of the Father. His mission is not to congratulate the self-righteous but to reclaim the broken.

The closing discussion about fasting and wineskins is a pivot away from personal encounters and into the larger theological framework of the Kingdom. The Pharisees point out that other disciples fast, but Jesus’ disciples do not. Jesus responds with parables that reveal a deeper truth: spiritual practices are not formulas; they are responses to presence. When the bridegroom is with them, they cannot fast. Something new is happening, and it demands new containers. The metaphors of cloth and wineskins highlight the tension between the old covenant forms and the new covenant reality. The old is not insulted, but it is insufficient to contain what is now unfolding. Jesus is revealing that the Spirit’s movement requires flexibility, openness, and willingness to stretch. Rigid structures cannot hold fermenting revelation.

When we weave all these scenes together, a unified message rises: the presence of Jesus transforms every environment it enters. In boats, in leper colonies, in crowded houses, in tax booths, at banquets, in debates about fasting—Jesus is consistently revealing the collision between the Kingdom of God and the limitations of human frameworks. And within this collision, four deep truths become clear.

The first truth: calling often begins in the ordinary. Simon was washing nets. Levi was collecting taxes. The paralytic’s friends were simply trying to help. The leper was surviving day by day. None of them expected an encounter that would reroute their future. But calling rarely announces itself with fanfare. It often emerges in familiar places, disrupting the expected rhythms of daily life. The divine often enters through the ordinary because the ordinary is the place where trust is most deeply formed.

The second truth: obedience unlocks transformation. Simon’s obedience produced a miracle. The leper’s obedience to approach Jesus opened the way for cleansing. The friends’ obedience to carry their companion led to healing. Levi’s obedience to rise resulted in a life that still echoes through centuries. Obedience is not a mechanical transaction; it is the yielding of the heart to a voice that calls us into deeper waters.

The third truth: religious systems are not inherently wrong, but they are incomplete without revelation. The Pharisees were not malicious caricatures; they were guardians of tradition. But tradition without presence becomes brittle. The debates about forgiveness, eating, and fasting expose the gap between maintaining forms and encountering God. Revelation stretches structures. It does not always fit preexisting expectations. Jesus was not destroying the old; He was fulfilling it in a way that required new spiritual elasticity.

The fourth truth: compassion is the clearest evidence of divine authority. Jesus could have healed the leper from a distance. He could have avoided the banquet. He could have shunned Levi’s circle. Instead, He moved toward them. Compassion is not softness; it is the overflow of divine strength. It is what happens when holiness knows its power. Compassion reaches. Compassion restores. Compassion refuses to accept that anyone is beyond the reach of grace.

These truths form the scaffolding of Luke 5, but what makes the chapter enduringly powerful is the way it speaks directly into the present. We live in a world of empty nets—where people labor without fulfillment, where exhaustion becomes a silent companion. Luke 5 enters that fatigue with the reminder that Christ still steps into boats uninvited and turns failure into revelation. We live in a world of invisible lepers—people who feel untouchable due to shame, trauma, or sin. Luke 5 reveals that Christ still touches the untouchable without hesitation. We live in a world of paralytics—souls immobilized by fear, regret, or wounds. Luke 5 shows that Christ still speaks words that lift mats from under those who thought they would never rise again. We live in a world of modern Pharisees and struggling Levi’s—some clinging to forms without presence, others drowning in guilt and hoping for a summons that feels impossible. Luke 5 makes the impossible inevitable because the call of Christ still cuts through every barrier.

But perhaps the most profound echo of Luke 5 is the reminder that the nets breaking, the crowds gathering, the roofs being opened—these are not anomalies. They are precursors. They are signs that God’s Kingdom is not theoretical but tangible, not abstract but active. The world tries to reduce faith to philosophy, but Luke 5 refuses to cooperate with such reduction. It insists that faith is a collision between divine authority and human reality, and that collision always produces change.

Luke 5 also invites introspection. It asks us: where are you in this chapter? Are you Simon, tired from empty nets? Are you the leper, hiding your wounds? Are you the paralytic, carried by others? Are you one of the friends, fighting through obstacles for someone else’s breakthrough? Are you Levi, longing for a new identity? Are you a Pharisee, struggling to understand a move of God that does not fit your structures? Wherever we find ourselves, Luke 5 provides a path. It offers a word. It offers an answer.

If you are Simon, the word is deeper. If you are the leper, the word is willing. If you are the paralytic, the word is rise. If you are Levi, the word is follow. If you are a Pharisee, the word is see. These single words carry worlds within them. They are invitations to transformation. Jesus rarely uses many words when few will do because the power is not in the syllables; it is in the authority behind them.

As we close this exploration, I want to return to the image of the nets trembling with the weight of the catch. Those nets are a metaphor for every life that encounters the real presence of Christ. They tremble because what they were built for is suddenly expanded. They tremble because divine purpose stretches human capacity. They tremble because glory weighs more than effort. And yet they hold long enough for obedience to bear fruit. They hold long enough for boats to be filled. They hold long enough for calling to be revealed.

Your life may feel like those nets—strained, stretched, on the brink of tearing. But Luke 5 reminds us that the strain is often the sign of something God is filling, not something God is breaking. And even if the nets tear, the miracle is not lost. Two boats were filled to sinking, not because the nets were strong, but because the authority of Jesus was stronger than the nets’ limits.

Luke 5 refuses to let us remain as we are. It calls us into deeper water, into courageous faith, into healing, into repentance, into compassion, into flexibility, into purpose. It calls us into a Kingdom where miracles are not spectacles but invitations. A Kingdom where failure is not final. A Kingdom where isolation collapses under the touch of Christ. A Kingdom where forgiveness precedes mobility. A Kingdom where sinners dine with the Savior. A Kingdom where new wine requires new wineskins. A Kingdom where calling interrupts ordinary days and leaves nothing unchanged.

Luke 5 is not merely a chapter in the Gospel. It is a doorway. And once you walk through it, the shoreline of your life does not look the same. The boat you return to is not the boat you launched from. The nets you carry are not the nets you once mended. The voice that calls you is not one that will ever leave you as you were found. And the deep water is no longer a place of uncertainty; it is a place of encounter.

May your nets tremble with the weight of what God is doing. May your boat lean with the abundance of obedience. May your hands be steady enough to receive what you once believed impossible. May your heart be willing enough to follow when the voice says from now on. And may Luke 5 continue to unfold in you, not as a memory, but as a living testimony.

Monday, 1/5/26

SCRIPTURE:

"I didn’t come to call righteous people but sinners to change their hearts and lives.” ~ Luke 5:32

OBSERVATION:

This isn't a "one-and-done" thing... 

Well, His saving me IS...

...but it's my need to change my heart and life...

...to keep His will front and center...

...be obedient...

...confess my sin (because I am still a sinner - saved, but still...)

...repent (see above)...

Each and every day... 

...hourly as needed...

...or even more often...

Besides, "...there is none righteous, no, not one..." (Romans 3:10)

APPLICATION:

Answer His call...

Change my heart and life...

PRAYER: 

Forgiving Father - Thank You for Your saving grace that is new each day, available as I stumble through trying to do things on my own instead of relying on You when faced with temptations and distractions and, well, life in general... May I constantly seek You will and purpose, finding You and Your presence ready to strengthen me and willing to forgive my failures... In Your Son Jesus's Name, and for Your ultimate glory, honor, and worshipful praise!

For Him... for you... for yours...

𝖌

Abandoned old water mill | nordicsublime | Try Again With GOD || AOG #Last

But I want you to know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins.”

So he said to the paralyzed man, “I tell you, get up, take your mat and go home.”

Jesus answered them, “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick.

I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.”

7 Ways for Men to Grow Spiritually | Pastor Aamir and Carissa Din Home | Media | Contact 7 Ways for Men to Grow Spiritually: Practical Steps to Deepen Your Walk with Christ “Iron sharpens iron, and one man sharpens another.” — Proverbs 27:17 (ESV) Introduction As men, we are often called to lead—in our families, workplaces, and communities. But what does it look like to lead spiritually?…

Thursday, 9/26/24

SCRIPTURE:

As soon as they brought the boats to the shore, they left everything and followed Jesus. ~ Luke 5:11 (emphasis mine...)

OBSERVATION:

It's not that I have to

do something 

or get things lined up to follow Him...

...or finish something first before following Him... 

I just have to go to Him... 

...bring "my boat" to His "shore"

and leave it and everything in it and associated with it - there... 

...with all of its tangled nets and stinking fish smell - my sin and choices...

...and follow Him...

APPLICATION:

Bring my boat to His shore...

Leave it - and whatever is in it...

Follow Him...

PRAYER:

Calling Father - I confess to still thinking I need to do something before I can come back to You, and thank You that Your Holy Spirit reminds me that that's all I have to do - is leave whatever holds me and follow Jesus... Be with me just today, and with those in harm's way, providing comfort and Your peace - in Jesus's Name, and for Your glory and worshipful praise...

Yours, in Him...

𝖌