“But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon you, and you will be My witnesses in Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” — Acts 1
It may be the most powerful prophecy in all of scripture. From a fragile band of men and women, still reeling from the death of their Teacher, would spring a commission that has rippled across centuries like concentric circles widening on a still lake. Their voices, once whispers in the backstreets of Jerusalem, now echo in every land beneath the sun.
When Jesus taught, He painted with words the way an artist works with light and shadow. He drew fishers into the kingdom with nets of story, sowed seeds of truth in soil-hardened hearts, and lifted the weary with images of lilies and sparrows. He did not lecture coldly; He set imaginations on fire. That is why I, in my own faltering way, write through story and illustration. To reach the spirit, one must first touch the heart.
When I learned to write, I made a vow to our Creator: that my words would not merely fill pages but help souls glimpse eternity. Blaise Pascal spoke of an “infinite abyss” within us, a hollow no earthly treasure can fill. There is, indeed, a God-shaped hole in every human being. Some try to cram it with gold, with pleasure, with applause and by raising themselves by putting others down, but they remain as empty as a begger’s pocket. Only the living water of God can fill it to the brim.
So, I write not to lecture but to invite—to whisper across the void in another person’s heart, “Have you considered this? Could there be more than this life?”
And the evidence humbles me. Each day, between 3,000 and 10,000 souls pass through these pages. That is not a statistic; it is a multitude of beating hearts, searching minds, and weary spirits who sense—whether faintly or fiercely—that life cannot be reduced to chance and consumption.
For decades, the West sank into a trough of indifference, lulled by the hollow lullabies of materialism. We were told that science had slain wonder, that atheism had dethroned God, that selfishness was freedom. But those songs have grown thin. Their melodies are brittle, like cracked shells that cannot protect the life within. And so, quietly but unmistakably, people are stirring. They are climbing out of the doldrums, lifting their faces toward the light again, asking questions that pierce through cynicism.
Yet even as this awakening begins, Christianity faces storms—persecution abroad, apathy at home, and the shallow shadow of nominal faith that leaves no imprint on a life. But the same Spirit who breathed fire into fearful fishers still moves. The flame is not out; it only waits for willing hearts to carry it forward, as it has done from that first upper room to the ends of the earth.
The Flame That Will Not Die
The Flame That Will Not Die
“But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon you, and you will be My witnesses in Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” — Acts 1
It may be the most powerful prophecy in all of scripture. From a fragile band of men and women, still reeling from the death of their Teacher, would spring a commission that has rippled across centuries like concentric circles widening on a still lake. Their voices, once whispers in the backstreets of Jerusalem, now echo in every land beneath the sun.
When Jesus taught, He painted with words the way an artist works with light and shadow. He drew fishers into the kingdom with nets of story, sowed seeds of truth in soil-hardened hearts, and lifted the weary with images of lilies and sparrows. He did not lecture coldly; He set imaginations on fire. That is why I, in my own faltering way, write through story and illustration. To reach the spirit, one must first touch the heart.
When I learned to write, I made a vow to our Creator: that my words would not merely fill pages but help souls glimpse eternity. Blaise Pascal spoke of an “infinite abyss” within us, a hollow no earthly treasure can fill. There is, indeed, a God-shaped hole in every human being. Some try to cram it with gold, with pleasure, with applause and by raising themselves by putting others down, but they remain as empty as a begger’s pocket. Only the living water of God can fill it to the brim.
So, I write not to lecture but to invite—to whisper across the void in another person’s heart, “Have you considered this? Could there be more than this life?”
And the evidence humbles me. Each day, between 3,000 and 10,000 souls pass through these pages. That is not a statistic; it is a multitude of beating hearts, searching minds, and weary spirits who sense—whether faintly or fiercely—that life cannot be reduced to chance and consumption.
For decades, the West sank into a trough of indifference, lulled by the hollow lullabies of materialism. We were told that science had slain wonder, that atheism had dethroned God, that selfishness was freedom. But those songs have grown thin. Their melodies are brittle, like cracked shells that cannot protect the life within. And so, quietly but unmistakably, people are stirring. They are climbing out of the doldrums, lifting their faces toward the light again, asking questions that pierce through cynicism.
Yet even as this awakening begins, Christianity faces storms—persecution abroad, apathy at home, and the shallow shadow of nominal faith that leaves no imprint on a life. But the same Spirit who breathed fire into fearful fishers still moves. The flame is not out; it only waits for willing hearts to carry it forward, as it has done from that first upper room to the ends of the earth.