30 July – Wednesday

We long for clarity, but God offers presence.

Moses doesn’t ask for answers. He asks to see God’s glory—to know that the One who calls him will stay near. And what he receives is not a vision of power, but of goodness.

God reveals holiness not through spectacle, but through compassion. A name whispered in intimacy, not shouted in command. Merciful. Gracious. Slow to anger. Faithful.

This is what changes us—not rules or fear, but relationship. Face to face, as one speaks to a friend. That is how the soul learns to trust.

Transformation doesn’t come from striving. It comes from dwelling. Staying in the tent. Letting God write—not just the commandments, but our identity—into the hidden places of our hearts.

We become what we behold. And when what we behold is mercy, we learn how to carry that presence into the world. Gently. Boldly. Like Moses, shining.

Exodus 34: 29-35

31 July – Thursday

Sometimes holiness leaves a mark we don’t even notice.

Moses descends from the mountain unaware of the radiance on his face. That’s how deep encounter works—it transforms us quietly, often without our knowing, and others see the change before we do.

Real intimacy with God is never self-conscious. It doesn’t seek attention or approval. It simply reflects what it has received—light, mercy, presence.

We often want visible signs of holiness, but true transformation is subtle. It happens when we linger in the presence of love, not to prove anything, but to be with the One who sees us.

And when we return to the world, that presence lingers. Not in perfection, but in radiance—humble, unspoken, real.

The world doesn’t need more brilliance. It needs more people who’ve been quietly lit by grace. People who carry light because they’ve dared to draw close to the fire.

Exodus 40: 16-21, 34-38

1 August – Friday

It’s always been easy for me to flick past Leviticus. It has long felt like a book of rules—restrictive, rigid, and somehow limiting of individuality.

But re-reading this passage gives me pause.

The idea of resting on the seventh day suddenly seems less about law and more about life. What if it isn’t a restriction, but an invitation?

An invitation to a less consumer-driven rhythm. To a slightly slower pace. To more time for reflection, creativity, and connection.

I remember when shops were closed on Sundays. Our family would go walking, make art, tell stories. We’d have friends over for meals.

Those days are long gone. But the memory still lingers—quiet, whole, and warm.

I need to think about this more.

Leviticus 23: 1, 4-11, 15-16, 27, 34b-37

2 August 2025 – Saturday

I love the way these chapters in Leviticus begin: “The Lord spoke to Moses.” It sounds like a casual conversation between friends.

That’s how I’ve always communicated with God. Not with ceremony or drama, but as an ongoing, everyday conversation.

As I read on, I feel like this chapter is speaking directly to me. God seems so realistic about human nature. There’s no pretence that we’ll always get it right or remain pure as the driven snow.

In fact, God seems to assume we won’t.

God expects us to fall short, even to cheat.

But then comes the jubilee—a reset, a second chance. A moment built into the rhythm of life to pause, to reflect, and to start over.

It’s an opportunity to face the little lies we tell ourselves, the small compromises we make, and to step back onto a better path.

I like that.

Nothing is lost.

Leviticus 25: 1, 8-17

3 August 2025 – Sunday

There’s something reassuring about knowing that humans across time and place have always faced the same problems we all struggle with.

We puff ourselves up to seem more important than we are and try to see our work as some kind of legacy, a monument to our goodness or wisdom.

It seems to me that the philosopher of Ecclesiastes struggles with all this too.

They come to a new awareness that it’s not the creation of buildings or legacies that matters; instead, it’s being present — intensely engaged in whatever one is being and doing.

It’s about being in the now.

Not measuring myself against another or trying to be more wise or more philosophical, but just being me.

That is enough.

Ecclesiastes 1: 2; 2: 21-23

4 August 2025 – Monday

Poor old Moses is having a tough time.

During the long trek through the desert, his people begin recalling how well fed they were back in Egypt and start blaming Moses for their misfortune.

How often have I got myself into this position — conveniently forgetting that I was aching to leave a difficult situation, only to look for someone else to blame when things didn’t go smoothly?

And like Moses, not willing to face my misery, because that might entail an honest conversation with myself — a chat about what my responsibilities were and what I could have done differently.

But what’s great about this passage is that, through thick and thin, Moses and God are still chatting to each other.

Numbers 11: 4b-15

5 August 2025 – Tuesday

The Book of Numbers, says Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, is “the most challenging of the five Mosaic books.” That’s good to know if you find yourself struggling to make sense of what’s going on.

In this passage, family jealousies and rivalries are beginning to surface — just as they do in every group of people. But the Rabbi suggests there’s a significant shift happening for the Israelites.

Instead of being a people in flight, they are becoming a people preparing to enter a new land. With that change comes new challenges. There will be enormous struggles ahead, but God wasn’t going to fight the battles for them.

They had to stand up and take responsibility. If they didn’t, they would become the problem themselves.

And Moses, as their leader, had to learn how to set boundaries. Leadership wasn’t just about carrying everyone’s burdens — it meant knowing where he ended and others began.

Thousands of years later, we are still learning the same lessons: how to take responsibility and how to lead with healthy boundaries.

Numbers 12: 1-13