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PAUL — THE REDEEMED TERRORIST

Allen Frederick Leave a comment

A Modern Parable of Misplaced Adoration and Misplaced Outrage

There are moments in Scripture when the Holy Spirit holds up a mirror, not to the ancient world, but to ours. And if we dare to look long enough, we begin to see that the human heart has not evolved. The crowds have not changed. The impulses of nations have not matured. The reflexes of mobs remain the same. And the pattern of misplaced adoration and misplaced outrage continues its ancient march through modern streets.

One of the clearest mirrors is the story of a man named Saul — a man the early church feared, avoided, whispered about, and prayed against. Scripture does not soften his reputation. It says plainly:

“Saul was breathing out threats and murder against the disciples of the Lord.” (Acts 9:1)

He was, by every definition of the word, a violent persecutor — a man who terrorized the early believers, dragging men and women from their homes, scattering the church, and standing proudly as Stephen was stoned. If the early church had a “most wanted” list, Saul’s face would have been on it.

And yet… God looked at this man and said something no one expected:

“He is a chosen vessel unto Me.” (Acts 9:15)

The crowd saw a threat. God saw an apostle. The believers saw a destroyer. God saw a deliverer. The church saw a terrorist. God saw a teacher of nations.

This is the scandal of grace — the holy reversal that confounds human judgment. God did not destroy Saul. He redeemed him. He did not silence him. He sent him. He did not judge him. He transformed him.

And the people who once feared him… now feared the change in him.

THE CROWD STILL CHOOSES THE WRONG HERO

This is not the only time Scripture exposes the crowd’s blindness. In the Gospels, we see a moment so shocking it still echoes through history:

“Whom will ye that I release unto you? Barabbas, or Jesus which is called Christ?” (Matthew 27:17)

Barabbas was an insurrectionist, a murderer, a man who used violence to achieve his aims. Jesus was innocent, healing, restoring, teaching, and revealing the Kingdom.

And yet the crowd cried:

“Give us Barabbas!” (John 18:40)

And then:

“Crucify Him!” (Mark 15:13)

The innocent was condemned. The guilty was embraced. The Prince of Peace was rejected. The man of violence was celebrated.

Nothing has changed.

Humanity still prefers the familiar rebel over the unfamiliar redeemer. We still cheer for the one who fights like us and crucify the one who convicts us. We still misread the moment, misjudge the messenger, and misunderstand the mission.

THE AGE‑OLD DICHOTOMY: MISPLACED ADORATION AND MISPLACED EVISCERATION

This is the pattern:

  • We adore the wrong savior.
  • We attack the right one.
  • We embrace the loudest voice.
  • We reject the truest voice.
  • We defend the one who mirrors our anger.
  • We crucify the one who exposes our corruption.

The crowd still chooses Barabbas. The crowd still fears Paul. The crowd still stones the very one God sends to deliver them.

And this is where the parable becomes painfully modern.

We live in a time when public figures are judged not by truth but by tribal instinct. When reformers are labeled threats. When disruptors are treated as dangers. When the one exposing corruption is attacked more fiercely than the corruption itself. When the one calling for repentance is treated as the enemy of the people.

This is not new. This is not political. This is biblical anthropology — the study of the human heart in rebellion against God.

THE PARABLE FOR OUR TIME

So here is the parable, written in the language of Scripture but speaking to the age we live in:

There was once a man the people feared. They whispered his name with dread. They warned their children about him. They prayed God would stop him.

And God did — but not the way they expected.

He did not strike him down. He struck him awake. He did not silence him. He sent him. He did not judge him. He justified him.

And the people who once feared him now feared the change in him.

They trusted the old version — the one who fit their narrative. They distrusted the new version — the one who fit God’s purpose.

Meanwhile, the crowd still adored the wrong hero. They still cheered for the Barabbas spirit — the one who fought like them, hated like them, and reflected their rage back at them.

But the redeemed man? The transformed one? The one God raised up to expose what others refused to see?

They tore him apart with the same stones they once saved for the Christ.

Because nothing has changed.

The crowd still calls Barabbas’ name,
Still trembles at Paul’s transformed flame.
They misread signs, the hour’s true face,
Yet God still lifts the unlikely in grace,
To stand against shadows,
to challenge disgrace.
Amen.

“WHEN GOD DISTURBS OUR COMFORT: A LETTER TO THE END‑TIME CHURCH”

Allen Frederick Leave a comment
A prophetic meditation on shaking, self‑focus, and the blindness of convenience
THE OPENING WORD TO THE CHURCHES

We find ourselves in a generation shaped more by the allure of comfort than by the call of Christ, more influenced by convenience than by covenant, and more driven by self-interest than by self-denial. It is a generation quick to complain about the slightest disruptions, the smallest inconveniences, and the most trivial discomforts, as if the very fabric of the universe has been torn apart to disturb our personal peace. Yet, the Scriptures remind us with unwavering clarity that it is God Himself who shakes nations, unsettles economies, and dismantles the false securities upon which the world rests.

The prophet Jeremiah spoke with divine authority about the rise and fall of nations under God’s sovereign hand. He warned Israel that the shaking of the nations was no mere accident of politics or chance but a deliberate act of divine purpose. As Jeremiah declared, “I have made the earth, the man and the beast that are upon the ground, by My great power… and I give it unto whom it seemeth right unto Me” (Jeremiah 27:5).

Too often, we forget this truth. We forget God Himself. We forget the grand narrative in which we live.

THE SMALLNESS OF OUR COMPLAINTS

Today, our complaints may sound different, but the heart behind them remains unchanged. We grumble about rising gas prices, escalating costs, and the instability that global events bring. We shake our heads at the news, not because we recognize the hand of God moving in the nations, but because these events disrupt our routines and threaten our comfort.

We say, “This affects me.” Rarely do we ask, “Lord, what are You doing in the earth?”

We interpret the shaking of the world through the narrow lens of personal inconvenience. We measure prophetic events by how they impact our wallets, schedules, and comfort zones. Yet, Scripture calls us to a higher vision, a broader horizon, and a deeper discernment.

Jesus warned His disciples plainly: “See that ye be not troubled… for all these things must come to pass” (Matthew 24:6). He did not say these things might happen; He said they must happen. And yet, we tremble at the slightest tremor.

THE SHAKING OF NATIONS IS NOT RANDOM

When we hear of conflict in Iran, witness the Middle East trembling, or observe nations aligning as the prophets foretold, we must remember these events are not merely political or economic. They are prophetic.

Jeremiah, Ezekiel, Daniel, and Jesus Himself spoke of a time when nations would be stirred like a pot on a fire, alliances would shift, kingdoms would rise and fall, and the earth would groan under the weight of divine purpose. As Jesus said, “For nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom…” (Matthew 24:7).

We watch prophecy unfold, yet we complain about the price of fuel. We witness the alignment of nations, yet we fret over our weekend plans. We live in the days the prophets longed to see, yet we interpret them through the narrow lens of personal inconvenience. This is the blindness of comfort.

THE COMFORT CRISIS OF THE MODERN CHURCH

The modern church has been discipled by a gospel of ease. We have been taught that God’s highest goal is our personal comfort, emotional peace, and circumstantial stability. But Scripture reveals a far different reality. God disturbs comfort. God disrupts convenience. God dismantles idols of ease. He does this not to harm us but to awaken us; not to punish us but to purify us; not to destroy us but to deliver us.

In Jeremiah’s day, Israel resisted this truth. They desired God’s blessing without His discipline, His promises without His process, His protection without His purification.

We are no different. We want revival without repentance. We want glory without groaning. We want the kingdom without the cross. So, when God shakes the nations, we complain instead of discern; grumble instead of repent; protest instead of pray.

THE COMING TRIBULATION AND THE TEST OF FAITH

If the church cannot endure the inconvenience of rising gas prices, how will she withstand the pressure of tribulation? If we crumble under minor discomfort, how will we stand when nations rage and the earth trembles?

Jesus did not hide the reality of tribulation. He declared it openly: “In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world” (John 16:33).

Tribulation is not the devil’s idea, nor the world’s. It is God’s idea — a refining fire, a purifying furnace, a separating wind. If we cannot handle the shaking of convenience, we will not be ready for the shaking of nations.

THE ROOT OF THE ISSUE: SELF AT THE CENTER

At the heart of our complaints lies a deeper sickness: the sickness of self. We have placed ourselves at the center of the story, making our comfort the measure of truth, our convenience the standard of righteousness.

We say, “It’s all about me. My needs. My comfort. My peace. My preferences. My life.”

But Jesus calls us to something far greater: “If any man will come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow Me” (Matthew 16:24).

Self cannot survive the shaking. Self cannot endure the fire. Self cannot stand in the day of the Lord. Only the surrendered can stand. Only the yielded can endure. Only the crucified can overcome.

THE CALL TO THE END‑TIME CHURCH

Beloved, the hour is late, and the shaking has begun. Nations tremble, economies quake, and the earth groans. Yet, the greatest shaking is not in the world but within the church.

God is calling His people to awaken, to repent, to discern, to rise. He calls us to lift our eyes beyond the smallness of personal inconvenience and into the vastness of divine purpose.

He invites us to shift our gaze from the gas pump to the heavens, from the news cycle to the Scriptures, from our comfort to His kingdom.

The shaking is not meant to destroy us but to prepare us. As Hebrews reminds us, “Yet once more I shake not the earth only, but also heaven… that those things which cannot be shaken may remain” (Hebrews 12:26–27).

What will remain in you? What will stand? What will endure?

A FINAL WORD TO THE SAINTS

Church of the living God, do not fear the shaking. Do not resent the inconvenience. Do not despise the discomfort. These are the birth pangs of the kingdom, the tremors of prophecy, the footsteps of the King.

Lift your eyes, strengthen your heart, and steady your faith. The Lord is at hand.

THREADS OF GRIEF, A TAPESTRY OF LOVE

Allen Frederick Leave a comment

A Tribute to Mother’s

When a Mother’s World Unravels

There are moments in Scripture so familiar that we forget to feel them. We read them with reverence, but not always with imagination. We honor them, but we do not always enter them. And yet, standing at the foot of the cross, beneath the bruised sky of Golgotha there is a woman whose story every mother knows, whether she speaks it aloud or carries it in silence. Her name is Mary, and she is watching her Son die.

This is not the serene Mary of Christmas cards, holding a newborn wrapped in swaddling cloths. This is not the Mary who pondered things in her heart. This is the Mary whose heart is being pierced exactly as Simeon prophesied: “A sword shall pierce through your own soul also” [Luke 2:35]. She stands there as a mother whose world is coming apart thread by thread. Every memory she ever cherished is bleeding out in front of her. Every promise she ever held is hanging on a cross.

And for every mother who has ever buried a child, or lost one to tragedy, or watched one drift into darkness, or prayed for one who never came home, Mary’s grief is not a distant story. It is a mirror.

The Silence of the Missing

Joseph is gone by this point in the story. Scripture does not tell us when he died, only that he is absent from every scene of Jesus’ adult life. And Mary’s other sons — the ones who should have stood beside her — are nowhere to be found. John tells us plainly, “For even His brothers did not believe in Him” [John 7:5]. They were not there to support Him, and they were not there to support her.

Mary stands alone in her grief, surrounded by crowds but abandoned by the very family she once nurtured. It is a loneliness many mothers know too well — the loneliness of carrying burdens no one else sees, of loving children who do not understand the cost of that love, of standing in places where no one stands with you.

But Jesus sees her. Even in agony, even in suffocating pain, even as the weight of the world presses against His chest, He sees her.

The Cross as a Loom

In one of the most tender and overlooked moments in all of Scripture, Jesus speaks words that are not merely sentimental, but structural. They are not poetic; they are architectural. They are the blueprint of a new kind of family.

“When Jesus therefore saw His mother, and the disciple standing by, whom He loved, He saith unto His mother, Woman, behold thy son. Then saith He to the disciple, Behold thy mother.” [John 19:26–27]

These are not the words of a dying man trying to comfort His mother. These are the words of the Son of God establishing a new household. In this moment, Jesus is not simply caring for Mary; He is redefining family itself. He is showing us that the bonds formed by His blood are stronger than the bonds formed by DNA. He is revealing that the kingdom of God is not built on ancestry, but on obedience, compassion, and covenant love.

At the foot of the cross, Jesus becomes the Weaver. Mary’s thread is frayed with grief. John’s thread is steady with devotion. And with hands pierced and trembling, He ties them together. The cross becomes a loom, and from its beams God begins to weave a new tapestry.

Threads of Grief

Grief is a thread every mother knows. It may be the grief of loss, or the grief of fear, or the grief of watching a child walk a path you cannot follow. It may be the grief of distance, or silence, or regret. It may be the grief of dreams that never came to pass, or prayers that seem unanswered, or hopes that feel too heavy to hold.

Mary’s grief was not theoretical. It was not poetic. It was not symbolic. It was real, raw, and devastating. And yet Jesus did not let her grief unravel her. He wove it into something larger than she could see.

This is the hope every grieving mother needs: grief is a thread, not the whole tapestry. It is part of the story, but not the end of it. In the hands of Christ, even the darkest threads are woven into something beautiful.

A Tapestry of Love

When Jesus joined Mary and John, He was doing more than providing care. He was demonstrating the very heart of God. He was showing us that love is not passive. Love is not distant. Love does not outsource responsibility to institutions, agencies, or systems. Love steps in. Love takes ownership. Love binds wounds. Love builds family.

Jesus’ words echo His teaching: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me.” [Matthew 25:40] The least of these are not strangers; they are family. They are the ones Christ ties to us at the foot of the cross. They are the ones we are commanded to care for, not because we share blood, but because we share the Lamb.

The tapestry Jesus weaves is made of compassion, sacrifice, and covenant love. It is made of people who choose to care for one another when the world walks away. It is made of spiritual mothers and spiritual sons, of adopted families and chosen families, of believers who carry one another’s burdens because Christ carried ours.

For the Mothers Who Carry Silent Pain

This message is for the mother who buried a child and wonders if anyone remembers her pain. It is for the mother whose son is lost in addiction, whose daughter is lost in rebellion, whose home is filled with silence instead of laughter. It is for the mother who miscarried, the mother who fostered, the mother who adopted, the mother who prayed for children she never had, and the mother who mothers through prayer, encouragement, and faith.

Jesus sees every thread. He sees every tear. He sees every unraveling. And He weaves.

For the Children Who Feel Motherless

This message is also for the child who lost a mother too soon, or never knew her at all. It is for the child whose mother abandoned them, or whose mother was present in body but absent in heart. It is for the child who longs for a mother’s love but has never felt it.

Jesus says, “Behold thy mother.” He places you in a family. He surrounds you with women of faith who carry wisdom, compassion, and strength. He gives you mothers in the Spirit who will pray for you, guide you, and love you with the love of Christ.

You are not alone. You are not forgotten. You are not without covering.

The Church as the Woven Family of God

The words Jesus spoke from the cross were not suggestions. They were commands. They were the foundation of a new kind of community — one where no one stands alone, where no one grieves alone, where no one carries burdens alone. The church is not a gathering of strangers; it is a tapestry woven by the hands of Christ.

We are called to care for the widows, the fatherless, the grieving, the abandoned, and the forgotten. We are called to step into the gaps left by broken families and fractured relationships. We are called to be the hands that weave, the hearts that love, and the shoulders that carry.

This is the tapestry of love.

A Prayer of Comfort and Covenant Love

Lord Jesus, You who hung between heaven and earth with love pouring from every wound, we come to You now as Mary once did — with trembling hearts, with threads of grief in our hands, with stories too heavy to carry alone. You spoke from the cross, not only to comfort a grieving mother, but to reveal Yourself as the Son who never dies, the Son who never leaves, the Son who never forsakes. When You said, “Woman, behold thy son,” You were not pointing only to John. You were pointing to Yourself — the risen Son, the reigning Son, the eternal Son who holds every mother close to His heart.

Comfort the mothers who stand in the shadows of loss. Comfort the mothers whose children sleep in graves, whose sons and daughters slipped through their fingers like sand, whose arms ache with memories they cannot touch. Comfort the mothers who carry silent sorrow, who pray in the night watches, who wonder if anyone sees the tears they hide. Remind them that You are the Friend who sticks closer than a brother, closer than a son, closer than any earthly bond. Remind them that You are the One who walks beside them in the valley, who gathers every tear, who weaves every broken thread into a tapestry of love.

Comfort also the children who feel motherless — those who lost their mothers too soon, those who never knew the warmth of a mother’s embrace, those whose mothers were present in body but absent in heart. Speak over them the same words You spoke at Calvary: “Behold thy mother.” Place them in families of faith. Surround them with women of wisdom, compassion, and strength. Let them know they are not abandoned, not forgotten, not left to wander alone.

And Lord, speak to Your church. Bind us together with cords that cannot be broken. Teach us to cherish the family You have woven by Your blood. Deliver us from division, from coldness, from the temptation to outsource compassion to institutions and systems. Make us a people who carry one another’s burdens, who show up when others walk away, who love with the fierce, covenant love that held You to the cross.

As the days grow darker and the world grows colder, let the church grow warmer. Let the ties that bind us become stronger. Let the tapestry of Your people shine with the colors of mercy, sacrifice, and steadfast love. Make us a refuge for the grieving, a shelter for the lonely, a home for the broken, and a family for the forgotten.

Lord Jesus, risen Son, reigning King, eternal Brother, everlasting Father, Shepherd of our souls — hold every mother close today. Hold every child close. Hold Your church close. And weave us, thread by thread, into the tapestry of Your redeeming love.

Amen.

Return to the Altar: A Call to Prayer and Remembrance

Allen Frederick Leave a comment
The Forgotten Altar and the Silent Fire

There was a time when the people of God knew where to find Him. They knew the sound of His voice, the weight of His presence, the trembling of holy ground, the fire that fell upon sacrifice, and the sacredness of the altar where heaven met earth. But that time has faded into memory, and the modern church stands in a sanctuary filled with polished wood, tuned instruments, and well‑timed programs, yet the altar of the Lord lies in ruins. The fire has gone out. The testimony has grown silent. The encounter has been forgotten. The people have grown cold. And the priests, who should stand between the porch and the altar, no longer remember where the altar even is.

False Altars and a Fireless Priesthood

The Scriptures speak of a day when Israel’s altars were broken down, neglected, and abandoned. The people still believed in God, but they no longer met Him. They still had priests, sacrifices, rituals, and religion, but they had no fire. The fire only falls on a rebuilt altar, and the tragedy of our age is that the altar has been replaced with a stage. The place of sacrifice has been replaced with a platform. The place of encounter has been replaced with entertainment. The place where God once answered by fire has been replaced with fog machines and lighting cues. And the church wonders why the heavens are silent.

The prophets of Baal danced, shouted, cut themselves, and performed with great passion, but “there was no voice, no answer, and no response” [1 Kings 18:26]. This is the condition of the modern church. There is plenty of noise but no voice, plenty of motion but no presence, plenty of ritual but no fire. We have built altars to entertainment, personality, tradition, comfort, culture, and convenience. We have erected platforms where altars once stood. We have traded sacrifice for sentiment, fire for performance, testimony for announcements, and encounter for routine. And like the prophets of Baal, we go through the motions without expecting fire, because deep down we no longer believe it will fall.

The Abandoned Feasts and the Lost Remembrance

The Feasts of the Lord were given as altars of remembrance, sacred touchstones where God commanded His people to remember His deliverance, His voice, His provision, His mercy, and His presence. Passover declared, “Remember how I brought you out.” Pentecost declared, “Remember how I spoke to you.” Tabernacles declared, “Remember how I dwelt among you.” But the modern church has tossed aside the Feasts and replaced them with man‑made traditions that carry no fire, no remembrance, and no encounter. We have abandoned the very rhythms God established to keep His people anchored in His works, His ways, and His wonders. A church that abandons the altars of remembrance will always lose the God of remembrance.

Joel’s Cry to a Sleeping Church

The prophet Joel spoke to a nation that had forgotten God, a priesthood that had grown cold, a people who had lost their testimony, and an altar that lay in ruins. And the Lord commanded a cry that echoes into our generation: “Let the priests, the ministers of the Lord, weep between the porch and the altar, and let them say, ‘Spare Your people, O Lord’” [Joel 2:17]. This was not a call to polished sermons or well‑crafted worship sets. It was a call to brokenness, intercession, remembrance, and return. It was a call for the priests to stand in the place where the people could see their tears and where God could hear their cry. It was a call to rebuild the altar.

The modern church has pastors who can run a service but cannot call down fire, leaders who can manage a budget but cannot hear the Shepherd’s voice, worship teams who can sing but cannot travail, and congregations who can attend but cannot testify. We have a priesthood without encounter, a ministry without fire, and a generation without remembrance. The apostle Paul wrote, “When you come together, each one has a psalm, a teaching, a revelation, a tongue, or an interpretation” [1 Corinthians 14:26], yet in most churches today the only voice heard is the one behind the pulpit. The people of God have forgotten how to speak of the works of God because they have forgotten how to meet Him.

Elijah and the God Who Answers by Fire

Elijah knew where the fire fell. He did not call fire from heaven because he was loud or talented or charismatic. He called fire because he rebuilt the altar. Scripture says, “Elijah repaired the altar of the Lord that had been thrown down” [1 Kings 18:30]. He knew the God who answers by fire. He knew the difference between ritual and relationship. He knew the sound of heaven. And when he prayed, the fire fell, not because of the prayer but because of the altar. The false prophets could not call fire because they had no altar, no covenant, no encounter, and no relationship. They had built false altars to false gods, and false altars never produce true fire.

A Call to Return and Rebuild

This is the message to the modern church: return. Return to the altar. Return to the God of encounter. Return to the stones of remembrance. Return to the place where the fire once fell. Return to the Shepherd whose voice you no longer hear. Return to the testimony you no longer tell. Return to the hunger you no longer feel. Return to the God you have forgotten. Because until the altar is rebuilt, the fire will not fall. And until the fire falls, the church will remain asleep.

A Final Summons to a Wandering Generation

This is not a call to emotion or nostalgia or tradition. This is a call to awakening. A call to repentance. A call to remembrance. A call to restoration. A call to fire. The altar is broken. The fire is gone. The testimony is silent. But the Lord is calling His people back. And the priests must answer. They must stand between the porch and the altar, with tears, with remembrance, and with fire, until the God who answers by fire answers again.

Faith That Shakes Armies: The Jonathan Principle

Allen Frederick Leave a comment

The world marks its days with festivals, anniversaries, and cultural remembrances. Cinco de Mayo is one of those days, a moment when a nation recalls an unexpected victory—an outnumbered force standing against overwhelming odds and prevailing. Yet for the believer, such moments are not occasions for secular celebration as much as they are reminders of a deeper and older truth. God has always delighted in overturning the odds. He has always stood with the few, strengthened the weak, and revealed His power in places where human strength fails. A date on the calendar may draw attention to an earthly victory, but Scripture draws our attention to the God who makes such victories possible.

Cinco de Mayo becomes, then, not a holiday to honor, but an illustration to consider. It echoes a pattern that Scripture established long before any nation fought for its independence or defended its borders. The pattern is simple: when God is present, the few can rout the many. When God fights, numbers lose their meaning. When God moves, the impossible becomes the inevitable.

Jonathan and the Armor-Bearer: Faith in Motion

Among the many examples of this truth, the story of Jonathan stands out with remarkable clarity. Israel was outnumbered, outmatched, and poorly armed. The Philistines held the advantage in every measurable way. Yet Jonathan, the son of Saul, looked at the impossible situation and saw something different. He saw the possibility of God’s intervention. He saw the potential of faith.

Jonathan turned to his armor-bearer and spoke words that have echoed through generations: “There is no restraint to the LORD to save by many or by few.” [1 Samuel 14:6]. With nothing more than courage, conviction, and confidence in God, the two men climbed a hill toward a garrison of Philistines. They did not carry the strength of an army. They carried the strength of belief.

What happened next was not the result of strategy or skill. Scripture tells us that the earth quaked, the enemy panicked, and confusion spread through the camp. God moved. God fought. God delivered. Two men stood in faith, and an entire army fell into disarray.

This is the Jonathan Principle: God does not need many. He needs willing. He needs faithful. He needs those who will step forward when others shrink back, trusting that His power is greater than any opposition.

Gideon’s Reduction: Strength Through Surrender

Jonathan’s story is not an isolated moment. Gideon experienced the same divine pattern when God reduced his army from thirty-two thousand to three hundred. The reduction was intentional. God declared, “The people that are with thee are too many.” [Judges 7:2]. Too many for what? Too many for God to receive the glory. Too many for Israel to understand that victory comes from the Lord.

Gideon’s three hundred men faced an army described as “numerous as locusts,” yet the outcome was never in doubt. God fought for them. God confused the enemy. God delivered the victory. The few defeated the many because the Lord was in the midst of the few.

Faith That Moves Mountains and Scatters Armies

Jesus continued this theme when He taught that faith the size of a mustard seed can move mountains. “If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed… nothing shall be impossible unto you.” [Matthew 17:20]. He did not speak of faith measured in crowds or nations. He spoke of faith measured in trust.

A seed of faith can topple giants. A seed of faith can shake armies. A seed of faith can overturn the impossible. The strength of faith lies not in its size but in its object. When faith rests in God, the few become mighty, and the weak become strong.

A Secular Reminder of a Sacred Reality

This is why Cinco de Mayo serves as a useful illustration, even if it is not a day we elevate spiritually. It reminds us that earthly victories often mirror heavenly truths. A small force standing against overwhelming odds and prevailing is not merely a historical moment; it is a reflection of a divine pattern. It is a reminder that God has always worked through the few, the overlooked, and the underestimated.

But our focus is not the date. Our focus is the God who stands behind the principle. We honor Him daily, not seasonally. We remember His faithfulness continually, not occasionally. We trust His strength always, not only when the calendar gives us a reason.

“Some trust in chariots, and some in horses: but we will remember the name of the LORD our God.” [Psalm 20:7].

The world may remember a battle, but we remember the God of battles. The world may honor a moment, but we honor the Maker of moments. The world may celebrate the victory of the few, but we celebrate the God who gives victory to the few.

This is the Jonathan Principle. This is the Gideon Pattern. This is the truth that stands above every date on the calendar: when God is for us, the many cannot stand against us.