Romans 12:1-2 I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that you present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God, which is your reasonable service. And do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, that you may prove what is that good and acceptable and perfect will of God.
Over the past few days, I’ve been discussing the will of God and how to walk out His will daily in our lives. The Lord’s general will involves the development of our character and the ways in which we relate to Him and to our fellow man. Much of this is the same for every believer. But each of us is unique, and each has a potential life vision unlike any other. God has an individual will for every soul that belongs to Him, an individually shaped destiny which varies according to our gifting and calling and purpose in His Body.
Not every believer knows or even desires to walk fully in that vision, calling, or destiny. At times we may try to think about or shape a vision for our lives, but the scripture says that we ought to be able to test and approve what is God’s good, pleasing, and perfect will. How do we do this?
First, Paul urges that we offer our bodies as a living sacrifice. What does this mean? It means that we make a conscious decision to devote our entire lives to the Lord, holding nothing back, to give ourselves to Him without reservation. The Old Testament sacrifices were animals which were totally offered to God and usually were burned on the altar in fire. Their aroma was pleasing to Him, as their flesh was consumed by the fire. As living sacrifices, we remain alive… but given over, as though we were burning on His altar. Our life is not our own, but is devoted to His purpose and pleasure. This is a conscious decision, a choice which every believer is urged to make. The Lord is then free to shape our lives, our experiences, our discipline, according to His perfect will and purposes for the best possible result.
Paul expands on this decisive act of devotion, saying we must not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of our mind. So the act of devoting our life to Him involves a decisive renunciation of the ways of thinking and the values of this present world. (Much could be said about this.) And it also involves a process of renewing our thoughts and values according to the thoughts and values of our Lord. These, then, are the conditions which the apostle gives that we may be able to test and approve what is God’s good, pleasing, and perfect will for our lives.
It’s often said that “God has a wonderful plan for your life.” To me that has always sounded a bit “robotic”, as though I were a rat who needed to find His way through the maze of some “Cosmic Scientist”. But now I know that God’s “plan” for me is anything but mechanical. Rather, it involves the profound realities of my unique individuality; things that He has placed in me and no one else, such that He can beautifully express Himself through my life, my personality, my gifts, relationships, and unique position in the world. Indeed, it is a “wonderful plan”. But in order for Him to shape this destiny, He requires my unreserved consent, my offering… of MY BODY, a LIVING SACRIFICE.
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[worthy_plugins_devotion_single_body]These verses are far more than ancient lyrics — they are a spiritual invitation. The psalmist doesn’t just admire the gate — he pleads for it to open. “Open to me the gates of righteousness…” This is the cry of a heart that longs for access to God, not by merit, but by mercy. In Hebrew thought, gates represent transition points — thresholds between the common and the holy, the outside and the inner court, the temporal and the eternal. These are not man-made doors — they are divine entrances into the presence and promises of the LORD.
As we continue our study in Psalm 118, I want to take a deep dive into verses 17-18, where the psalmist makes one of the boldest declarations in all of Scripture: “I shall not die, but live, and declare the works of the LORD.” This isn’t the voice of someone untouched by pain — it’s the cry of someone who has been through the fire and come out declaring God’s faithfulness. This statement is not a denial of suffering; it’s a defiance of death. It’s the resolve of a heart that’s been chastened, refined, and pressed, yet remains confident in the God who preserves life — not just for survival, but for purpose.
Over the past two devotionals, we heard the song of the redeemed and stood at the wells of salvation. We saw how strength, song, and salvation flow from Yeshua Himself — how the joy of drawing from His presence is not just a poetic promise but a lifeline for our day. Yet today, we stand at a prophetic threshold. Something has shifted. Something has broken open. We are not only being refreshed — we are being awakened and called.
Yesterday, we heard the anthem of the redeemed rise like a trumpet blast: “The LORD is my strength and song, and He has become my salvation.” We explored how this was more than personal — it was prophetic, Messianic, and generational. We saw Yeshua not only as our Deliverer but as the very embodiment of God’s strength, the melody of our praise, and the fulfillment of every promise. We stood in awe as tents of rejoicing rose in the midst of warfare, and households became sanctuaries of celebration. But today, we go deeper — we step to the well.
There’s a reason this verse resounds like a national anthem of the redeemed. It’s not just a personal declaration—it’s a generational cry that echoes back to Moses at the Red Sea (Exodus 15:2) and forward to the final deliverance of Israel. The Hebrew word for salvation—Yeshua—makes this verse unmistakably Messianic. It isn’t a vague deliverance. It is the revelation of Yeshua (Jesus), the Deliverer, who embodies strength, becomes our song, and stands as the fulfillment of God’s redemptive plan.
The cry that shattered the stillness of Golgotha—“My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” (Psalm 22:1; Matthew 27:46)—was not a random cry of despair, but the deliberate voice of Yeshua pointing to Scripture. As He hung on the tree, bearing the sin of the world, He invoked the ancient words of David—not only identifying Himself as the righteous sufferer, but signaling that Psalm 22 was unfolding before their very eyes. In that moment, heaven and earth bore witness to a divine mystery: the Holy One, seemingly abandoned, was fulfilling a prophecy written a millennium earlier. Yeshua did not merely suffer—He fulfilled every word, every shadow, every stroke of divine prophecy.
King David wrote these words generations before the empty tomb shook the foundations of death. At first glance, Psalm 16 reads like a personal prayer of trust — a yearning for security and closeness with God. But beneath the surface, the Spirit was revealing something deeper, something eternal: a promise not just for David, but for all of us.