Psalms 118:27-29 The LORD is God, and he has made his light to shine upon us. Bind the festal sacrifice with cords, up to the horns of the altar! 28 You are my God, and I will give thanks to you; you are my God; I will extol you. 29 Oh give thanks to the LORD, for he is good; for his steadfast love endures forever!
These closing verses of Psalm 118 begin with an unshakable proclamation: “The LORD is God.” In Hebrew, it’s emphatic — YHVH, He is El — the declaration that all authority, holiness, and sovereignty belong to Him alone. Yet this is not just a statement of who He is — it’s a testimony of what He has done: “He has made His light to shine upon us.” This light is more than the glow of the sun — it is the revelation of His presence, the warmth of His favor, and the piercing truth that chases away every shadow. His light doesn’t simply illuminate — it transforms.
The psalmist then calls for a radical act of worship: “Bind the festal sacrifice with cords, up to the horns of the altar!” This is the language of the Temple, of worship that is both celebratory and costly. During Sukkot, this verse was read on Hoshana Rabbah, as worshipers circled the altar, praising God and crying out for salvation. The horns of the altar were the place of atonement and covenant — the very spot where the blood of the sacrifice was applied. To bind the sacrifice was to fully dedicate it to God, with no option of taking it back.
This is no ordinary offering — it is a festal sacrifice, brought with joy, not reluctance. In the light of God’s revelation, the only reasonable response is full surrender. It’s as if the psalmist is saying, “I will not just bring my gift to the altar — I will bind myself to it. My worship will not be convenient — it will be complete.” This points us directly to Yeshua, the ultimate festal sacrifice, who willingly allowed Himself to be bound and led to the cross, the final altar, so that His light could shine on all who believe.
From this place of total surrender, verses 28 and 29 overflow with thanksgiving: “You are my God, and I will give thanks to You… Oh, give thanks to the LORD, for He is good; for His steadfast love endures forever!” The heart that has encountered God’s light and laid itself on His altar cannot help but worship. These words also carry a Shabbat rhythm — just as Shabbat closes each week with blessings and praise, so this psalm closes with the eternal refrain of God’s goodness and enduring mercy. Shabbat reminds us that our worship flows from rest, not striving, and that our surrender is not loss, but delight.
Your light has come, the altar is before you, and the cords are ready. Will you be a casual observer of His goodness, or will you bind yourself to His purposes with joy? This is the moment to go beyond convenience into consecration. Lay yourself down — not as a reluctant offering, but as a willing one. Let the light that has shone on you ignite a life of thanksgiving. Tie your heart to the altar of His will and let your praise rise like incense. The LORD is God — acknowledge it with your life. He is good — declare it with your lips. His mercy endures forever — live in it with every breath.
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[worthy_plugins_devotion_single_body]When we read the promises of God, we must read them the way we ourselves want to be heard—in full context. Just as we expect others to understand our words in light of what we’ve said before, God expects us to interpret His promises in light of all He has revealed in His Word.
A few days ago, I shared a quote from B.J. Willhite, and today I want to delve deeper into his powerful insight. He wrote, “The law of prayer is the highest law of the universe—it can overcome the other laws by sanctioning God’s intervention. When implemented properly, the law of prayer permits God to exercise His sovereignty in a world under the dominion of a rebel with free will, in a universe governed by natural law.”
When God spoke to Abram, the command was clear yet profoundly personal. The Hebrew phrase lech lecha carries a dual meaning: “go forth” and “go for yourself.” This journey wasn’t just a physical relocation; it was a spiritual pilgrimage—a call to walk out God’s will and to walk into his divine inheritance. Abram’s journey was not merely about distance but about destiny.
In the stillness of a desert night, surrounded by cut offerings and the lingering scent of sacrifice, Abram beheld something utterly sacred — God Himself, in the form of a smoking oven and a burning torch, passing between the pieces of a covenant. It was not Abram who walked through the blood-soaked path. It was God alone. And that changes everything.
Tonight we’ll participate in the Independence Day celebration in Israel — and what a party! — shows, fireworks, music, dancing, everything under the sun!
Yesterday, Israel observed Yom HaShoah—Holocaust Remembrance Day—honoring the memory of the six million Jews who perished. Tragically, a recent poll reveals that nearly half of Israelis fear the possibility of another Holocaust. In light of this sobering reality, I want to share a powerful story of one remarkable woman who rescued 2,500 Jewish children from the ghettos during World War II.
One night a house caught fire and a young boy was forced to flee flames by jumping to the ground from the roof. His father stood on the ground below with outstretched arms, calling to his son, “Jump! I’ll catch you.” But the boy was afraid — he couldn’t see his father — all he could see was flame, smoke, and blackness. He was afraid. Still, his father kept yelling: “Jump son! I will catch you!” But the boy refused, crying, “Daddy, I can’t see you!” His father replied, “It’s ok son — I can see you — and that’s all that matters!”