They prepared the table as they had always done. The Passover meal. The remembrance of deliverance. The story of a lamb slain so that judgment would pass over. But this time something was different. There is no mention of the lamb on the table. No centrepiece of the meal. No visible sacrifice. Because the Lamb was not on the table. He was sitting at it. While they ate, He took the bread and broke it. Not pointing to Egypt. Not pointing to the past. Pointing to Himself. “This is My body.” He lifted the cup. Not the blood on doorposts long ago. “My blood.” In that moment, the shadow began to give way to substance. The symbol was about to be fulfilled by the reality it had always pointed toward. And then He stood up from the table and walked toward the altar. Not a table of wood in an upper room but a cross on a hill. While Israel prepared their lambs, while priests made ready for sacrifice, while families anticipated remembrance The true Lamb was being led. Not into a home. But to slaughter. At the very hour lambs were being killed in the temple, Jesus was stretched out and lifted up. Not one of His bones broken. Spotless. Blameless. Given. This was not coincidence. This was fulfilment. The Passover was never just about Egypt. It was always about Him. The blood on doorposts was temporary. His blood speaks eternally. The lambs of Israel could only cover. The Lamb of God takes away. And so the table was never missing the lamb. The table was revealing Him. The Lamb was never absent from the Passover He was waiting to be recognised. What was once a symbol on the table became a sacrifice on the cross and what was a sacrifice became salvation for all.

There are moments in Scripture that stop us, unsettle us, and make us ask deeper questions. The story of Jesus cursing the fig tree is one of them. At first glance, it can seem confusing almost as though Jesus acted out of frustration. He was hungry, He saw a tree, and when it had no fruit, He cursed it. But Jesus never acts without purpose. This was not a reaction. It was a revelation. As Jesus approached the fig tree, it was covered in leaves. To anyone who understood the nature of such trees, leaves were a sign a declaration that fruit should be present. The tree was advertising life. It gave the appearance of fullness. But when Jesus drew near, there was nothing there. No fruit. No substance. No life to offer. And so He spoke to it not out of anger, but as a prophetic act. Because the tree was not just a tree. It was a mirror. A reflection of a people who had the outward form of devotion but lacked the inward reality. A picture of religion that looked alive, sounded right, and appeared fruitful but was barren at its core. Moments later, Jesus entered the temple and confirmed the message. There was movement, noise, structure, sacrifice everything that looked like worship. But heaven saw something different. Beneath the activity, there was no true fruit. No justice. No surrender. No living connection with God. Leaves without fruit. Form without substance. Appearance without life. And the warning is not confined to that moment in history. It speaks still. It is possible to profess the name of Jesus, to speak the language of faith, to stand in places of worship and yet remain fruitless. To be full of leaves, yet empty of the very life we claim to carry. Jesus is not looking for leaves. He is looking for fruit. Not performance, not image, not noise but lives that are truly rooted in Him. Lives where His presence has taken hold so deeply that something real begins to grow. Because there is a world drawing near. People who are hungry for hope, for truth, for healing, for something real. And when they come close when they encounter believers, when they step into churches what will they find?

There are moments when a song does more than play in the background of life. It begins to echo in your spirit. You find yourself singing it without thinking. It fills your dreams, and when you wake, the melody is already on your lips. Lately the song New Wine has been doing that to me. It keeps running through my mind, almost like a whisper that refuses to be ignored. In Scripture, new wine refers to freshly pressed grapes unfermented or in the process of becoming something new. It is a symbol of divine blessing, abundance, and the joy of the harvest. But it is also a powerful picture of the Holy Spirit and the transforming message of Jesus. Jesus spoke of this when He said that new wine cannot be poured into old wineskins. If it is, the skins will burst and both the wine and the vessel will be lost. New wine requires new wineskins. The old wine may taste familiar and comfortable, but it has become rigid and unyielding. New wine is different. It is alive. It is fresh. It expands, stretches, and requires a vessel that is flexible and able to grow. But before new wine is formed, there is a process. The grapes must be crushed. In Hebrew, the words translated as “new wine” carry the meaning of freshly pressed, squeezed, expelled, and trodden out. The grapes have passed through the winepress. They have been crushed and pressed underfoot. And yet from that crushing comes something new. I sense the Spirit saying that we are entering a new wine season. Many have been crying out, “Lord, where is Your power? Why don’t we see Your Spirit moving as we once did?” And the Spirit responds: “I am pouring out new wine. But I am also forming new wineskins.” God is calling His church back to intimacy. Back to a place where He Himself becomes our greatest delight. In that place He stretches the vessel of our hearts so we can carry what He is about to release. There may be a season of crushing. There may be stretching. But it is not to destroy you it is to prepare you. He is looking for vessels that are willing. Hearts that are soft. Lives that are surrendered.

Seven hundred years before the birth of Jesus, the prophet Isaiah wrote words that would later describe the suffering of the Messiah with astonishing detail. In Isaiah 53:5 we read, “By His stripes we are healed.” At the time Isaiah wrote these words, crucifixion had not yet been invented and Roman scourging did not exist. Yet Isaiah describes a suffering servant who would be wounded, beaten, and striped by lashes that would somehow bring healing to others. Isaiah 52:14 says the Messiah would be “disfigured beyond human likeness.” This was not poetic exaggeration. Roman flogging was one of the most brutal forms of torture in the ancient world. Victims were bound to a low post and beaten with a flagrum, a whip made of multiple leather cords tipped with metal, bone, or lead. Each strike tore into the skin and muscle, often exposing bone. There was no limit to the number of lashes a Roman soldier could give. Under Jewish law a man could receive forty lashes, usually limited to thirty nine. But the Romans had no such restraint. Isaiah 50:6 also declares, “I gave my back to those who strike.” Christians see this as a clear foreshadowing of Jesus willingly submitting to this suffering. He did not resist. He did not fight back. He gave His back to the whip. History confirms that the book of Isaiah existed centuries before Jesus lived. The Dead Sea Scrolls contain copies of Isaiah that date long before the first century, showing that these prophecies were already written and known. Jesus knew these Scriptures. He knew what the prophets had spoken. He knew what awaited Him. In the garden of Gethsemane He prayed, “Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me.” Yet He finished that prayer with complete surrender: “Not my will, but yours be done.” He walked toward the suffering fully aware of what it would cost. The scourging alone would have left His back shredded. Flesh torn. Blood pouring. Isaiah said He would be disfigured beyond recognition, and the brutality of Roman flogging explains why.

Jericho stands in Scripture as a place where the authority of God’s word is unmistakably revealed. The city was heavily fortified, impossible to breach by human strength. God gave Joshua unusual instructions march around the city once a day for six days, and seven times on the seventh day. The priests would blow the trumpets, and the people would shout. The strategy seemed strange. There were no siege weapons, no military assault, no visible plan of attack. Yet the Israelites obeyed exactly as the Lord commanded. On the seventh day, after the final shout, the walls of Jericho collapsed, and the city was taken. This victory was not achieved by military might but by the power of God responding to faith-filled obedience. After the city fell, Joshua pronounced a solemn warning: “Cursed before the Lord is the man who rises up and rebuilds this city, Jericho. At the cost of his firstborn shall he lay its foundation, and at the cost of his youngest son shall he set up its gates.” Joshua 6:26 Jericho became a testimony to God’s judgment and His sovereignty. Yet five hundred years later, during the reign of King Ahab, a man named Hiel of Bethel attempted to rebuild the city. “In his days Hiel of Bethel rebuilt Jericho. He laid its foundation at the cost of Abiram his firstborn, and set up its gates at the cost of his youngest son Segub, according to the word of the Lord, which He spoke by Joshua the son of Nun.” 1 Kings 16:34 Hiel’s attempt to restore Jericho came at a devastating cost. Whether through ignorance or defiance, he ignored the word spoken by God through Joshua. The deaths of his sons fulfilled the prophecy exactly as it had been declared centuries before. God’s word does not fade with time. His decrees remain firm. The rebuilding of Jericho occurred during a period of deep spiritual rebellion in Israel under King Ahab, when Baal worship had spread through the nation. In that atmosphere of compromise and ambition, Hiel’s project reflected a disregard for the authority of God.