Isaiah 7 draws us into a moment of real fear in the life of God’s people. Judah faced a crisis as Syria and Israel formed an alliance against them, and King Ahaz’s heart trembled “like the trees of the forest shake before the wind.” Yet standing behind this political threat was something far greater—the unwavering promise God had made to the house of David. Though Ahaz panicked, God had already declared that no enemy would overturn His covenant. Instead of trusting the Lord’s faithfulness, Ahaz reached for the world’s protection, appealing to Assyria for help. In doing so, he placed his hope in the very nation that would later bring Judah to its knees.

Into this fear-filled moment, God sent Isaiah—along with his son whose name meant “a remnant shall return”—to confront Ahaz with a call to trust. God knew every detail of the enemy’s plans and assured Ahaz that they “shall not stand.” What Ahaz saw as overwhelming, God saw as nothing more than “two smoldering stumps.” The Lord’s command was simple: “If you are not firm in faith, you will not be firm at all.” It was a call to see life from God’s vantage point rather than the narrow, anxious view of human sight. Faith, Isaiah reminds us, is not passive. It is the daily, active posture of resting in the God who keeps His promises.

The opening chapters of Isaiah confront us with a scene of deep spiritual darkness—a people who have rejected God’s counsel, trusted political alliances over His promises, and now face the shadow of Assyrian invasion. Into that gloom Isaiah speaks a staggering word of hope: a light is coming. Though Zebulun and Naphtali would soon be crushed and scattered, Isaiah promises that this very region—Galilee of the nations—would one day see a great light. And seven centuries later, Matthew tells us that Jesus intentionally began His ministry there, fulfilling Isaiah’s words with precision. What Isaiah saw dimly, we now see fully: the promised light has dawned in Christ, shining into the hearts of those once trapped in darkness (2 Cor. 4:6). Yet many believers still live as if they are in the night—walking in guilt, returning to old chains, and holding tight to sins and patterns Jesus has already broken. Advent calls us to step into the light of who we now are in Him.

Isaiah then shows what this light produces. First, it brings an expansion of God’s people: “You have multiplied the nation.” Though Israel faced destruction and exile with no nation left to multiply, Isaiah foresaw a global kingdom made up of people from every tribe, tongue, and nation. This is fulfilled in Jesus, who grafts Gentiles into God’s family and calls “other sheep” into His fold. Second, the light brings unending joy—joy like the harvest, rooted in God’s provision and faithfulness. Yet we often settle for lesser joys: ambition, material gain, temporary pleasures that cannot satisfy. Isaiah points us to a deeper joy found only in Christ. Third, the light brings incomprehensible victory. The “rod” and “yoke” of Assyria—images of oppression—will be shattered “as on the day of Midian.” This anticipates the decisive victory Jesus won at the cross, where sin and death were defeated once for all. Our greatest enemies have been conquered; nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus.

The closing section of Mark 9 exposes a kind of spiritual nearsightedness in the disciples—a blindness we often share. They had just been arguing about who was the greatest, and now they try to stop a faithful believer from casting out demons simply because he wasn’t part of their group. Jesus responds by widening their vision: “Do not stop him… For the one who is not against us is for us.” The disciples had shrunk the Kingdom down to the size of their own tribe, assuming God only works through people who think and act like they do. Jesus refuses to let them draw lines He has not drawn. His Kingdom is far bigger than our preferences, our traditions, or our circles of comfort. And if we’re honest, we can easily fall into the same spiritually nearsighted posture—celebrating what God is doing in our own church, while ignoring or even resenting gospel fruit in others. Jesus calls us to lift our eyes and rejoice wherever His name is honored.

But Jesus doesn’t stop with the breadth of His kingdom; He turns to the depth of our sin. He warns the disciples that causing a fellow believer to stumble is so serious that drowning with a millstone would be a better fate. Their pride—subtle, unrecognized, and unaddressed—was becoming a stumbling block to someone faithfully serving Jesus. Then Jesus uses the most startling imagery in the passage: if your hand, foot, or eye causes you to sin, cut it off or tear it out. He’s not calling for literal harm; He’s calling for decisive action. Nothing is worth keeping if it pulls you away from Him. There is no “small sin” to tolerate. The things we pet, protect, excuse, or coddle—Jesus says those are the very things that can destroy us. Sin always promises control but eventually turns and consumes. Jesus is pleading with us not to make peace with what will ultimately kill our joy, our witness, our relationships, and our spiritual vitality.

Jesus then speaks of salt, sacrifice, and fire—connecting the costly work of cutting out sin to the Old Testament sacrifices that were seasoned with salt and consumed by fire. Following Him is not passive; it is a living sacrifice. Our ongoing repentance, our pursuit of holiness, our fight against pride and impurity—these are the very things God uses to preserve a decaying world. But when we grow passive toward sin, we lose our distinctiveness, and the decay spreads faster. Jesus’ words, “Have salt in yourselves, and be at peace with one another,” bring everything together. Peace with others can only grow where we are actively waging war against the sin within our own hearts. The disciples’ problem wasn’t a lack of peace with others—it was a dangerous peace with pride. Jesus calls us to something better.

The only way we can live this way is by looking to Him. Jesus made the ultimate sacrifice: the sinless One salted with the fire of God’s justice, the One who endured the unquenchable fire so we could know the smile of God’s peace. He crushed sin, conquered it, and carried it away—so we don’t have to live in bondage to it. As we keep looking to Him through repentance and faith, our eyes open wider to the breadth of His Kingdom and deeper to the seriousness of our sin. And as He works in us, we become a people who are marked not by tribal pride or spiritual passivity, but by humility, holiness, and peace.

Mark 9:30-37 examines the tension between two conflicting value systems: the world’s pursuit of “achieved status” and the “upside-down kingdom” introduced by Jesus. As we find the disciples arguing about who among them was the greatest, Jesus offers a stunning and deeply counter-cultural correction. He redefines greatness not as rank or recognition, but as radical, selfless service. This guide is designed to help you and your group explore what this teaching means, challenge your own definitions of success, and practically apply what it looks like to be a “servant of all.”

Last week, we saw the radiant glory of Jesus on the mountaintop. This week, in Mark 9:14–29, we find Him stepping down into the valley—a place filled with confusion, chaos, and weak faith. The contrast is striking: on the mountain, a Father’s voice declared His pleasure in His Son; in the valley, a father pleads for the life of his son. The disciples who had just witnessed divine glory are now powerless against demonic darkness. Yet this is where Jesus chooses to go. He steps into the mess to reveal that His strength is not for the heights of human experience but for the depths of our need.

When the desperate father brings his demon-possessed boy to Jesus, he says, “If you can do anything, have compassion on us and help us.” Jesus’ response is both firm and tender: “‘If you can’! All things are possible for one who believes.” The father’s cry, “I believe; help my unbelief,” captures the honest tension of faith. True faith is not the absence of doubt but dependence on the One who never fails. It’s not the strength of our grip on Jesus that saves us—it’s the strength of His grip on us. Jesus meets weak, trembling faith with strong, unshakable grace.

Then, before the eyes of the crowd, Jesus rebukes the unclean spirit, saying, “You mute and deaf spirit, I command you, come out of him and never enter him again.” The boy convulses violently and appears dead. But Jesus takes him by the hand, lifts him up, and he arises. That word—“arises”—is the same word used for resurrection. In this moment, we glimpse the power of the gospel: Jesus not only delivers from evil, He raises the dead. He enters the darkness, confronts evil head-on, and restores life where there was none. The same Savior who lifted this child will soon be lifted on a cross to defeat sin and death forever.

Later, when the disciples ask why they couldn’t cast out the demon, Jesus tells them, “This kind cannot be driven out by anything but prayer.” They had tried to act in their own strength, forgetting their dependence on Him. Prayer, Jesus reminds them, is the posture of true faith—it’s the expression of weakness leaning on divine power. The story ends not with the disciples’ failure but with Jesus’ victory. And that’s the point: our hope is not in the measure of our faith, but in the might of our Savior. In your weakness, bring your doubts, fears, and failures to Him—because the same hand that lifted that boy still lifts those who come in faith today.

When Jesus led Peter, James, and John up the mountain in Mark 9, He gave them a glimpse of His divine radiance. The veil of His humanity was pulled back, and the disciples caught a momentary vision of His eternal glory—His face shone like the sun, His garments gleamed beyond description. Moses and Elijah appeared beside Him, representing the Law and the Prophets, both bearing witness that every promise and every prophecy finds its fulfillment in Christ. And as a cloud overshadowed them, the voice of God declared, “This is my beloved Son; listen to Him.” For a brief moment, heaven broke into earth, and the disciples saw what every heart longs to see—the unveiled majesty of Jesus.

But this glory was not an escape from suffering; it was preparation for it. Luke tells us that Moses and Elijah spoke with Jesus about His “departure”—literally, His Exodus—the redemptive work He would soon accomplish at Jerusalem. The Mount of Transfiguration pointed forward to another mountain, Golgotha, where Jesus would not shine in radiant light but hang in darkness and shame. There, His garments would not be dazzling white but stripped away in humiliation. The voice from heaven would be silent, and the voice of a soldier would declare, “Truly this was the Son of God.” Glory and suffering have always been intertwined in the story of redemption. The King of glory would conquer by the cross.

This moment on the mountain was meant to anchor the disciples’ faith when storms of doubt and despair came. Like an anchor holding a ship steady against the waves, this glimpse of glory would remind them that Jesus—though crucified—remains the radiant Son of God. And it serves the same purpose for us. When trials come and faith feels faint, remember that you follow not a moral teacher but the risen Lord, the One who radiates the glory of God and upholds the universe by the word of His power.

One day, we will see what Peter, James, and John only glimpsed. The veil will be lifted forever, and we will dwell with Jesus in the fullness of His splendor. Until then, let this vision of Christ’s glory strengthen your faith and steady your heart. Fix your eyes on Him, embrace the cross He calls you to carry, and long for the day when faith becomes sight—when the radiant Christ, the Son of God, welcomes His people to dwell with Him in glory forever.

What is the most important test you will ever take? This morning, Mark 8:27–9:1 presents that test—not with multiple-choice questions, but with three simple, life-altering questions. Jesus asks His disciples, and now asks us: “Who is Jesus?” “What has He come to do?” and “How will you respond?” The hinge of Mark’s Gospel comes here: because the King bore the cross for us, we take up our cross and follow Him. At Caesarea Philippi, a city filled with false gods and pagan worship, Jesus presses His disciples to see Him clearly. Peter’s confession, “You are the Christ,” is more than a correct answer—it’s the recognition of the promised Messiah, the long-awaited King who comes not merely to reign, but to redeem. Noble opinions about Jesus are not enough; true faith sees Him as Lord and Savior.

Once Peter confesses Jesus as the Messiah, the second question emerges: what is His mission? Jesus makes the first of three bold predictions of His suffering and death. He will be rejected, killed, and will rise again. This was a shocking truth to His disciples, who expected a conquering warrior, not a suffering King. Peter’s misunderstanding illustrates the danger of partial vision—seeing Jesus as Messiah, but not seeing the cross He must bear. Jesus corrects him sharply, revealing that any vision of a crossless Christ is influenced by Satan himself. Salvation does not come through comfort or human expectation; it comes through the suffering and substitution of the Son of Man.

Finally, Jesus calls each of us to respond. “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me” (Mark 8:34). Denying ourselves means renouncing self-centered ambitions, crucifying our desires, and trusting the King who first bore the cross on our behalf. Taking up our cross is radical—it may involve shame, sacrifice, or even suffering—but it is the path to true life. Following Jesus is daily, intentional, and total. To cling to the world’s approval or seek comfort over obedience is to risk losing what truly matters: our souls.

But the good news is that we do not take up this cross alone. Christ has already carried it for us. He lived a life of perfect obedience, endured suffering for our sin, and conquered death through His resurrection. Because He bore our guilt, shame, and failure, we can walk in freedom and hope, empowered to follow Him. This week, reflect on the three questions Jesus asks: Who is He to you? What has He done for you? How will you respond? Non-believer, the invitation is before you: turn from sin, trust Christ, and find eternal life. Christian, the call is clear: take up your cross and follow the King who has already gone before you.

Mark 8 opens with a second miraculous feeding—this time among Gentiles. Jesus’ provision overflows to all, showing that His compassion isn’t bound by geography, culture, or prejudice. Where the disciples saw a problem—too many mouths, too few loaves—Jesus saw opportunity to reveal God’s heart for outsiders. His care and power stretch beyond Israel; He feeds those who simply came to hear Him. In our own lives, we too must let His compassion expand our vision of who He is. The One who satisfies our hunger is also Lord over those we might overlook.

The scene shifts back to Jewish territory, where the Pharisees test Jesus by demanding a sign. They have witnessed miracles but refuse to believe unless He performs one on their terms. Their testing grieves Him deeply—Mark uses a rare word meaning “to sigh with pain.” It exposes how unbelief often hides beneath religious respectability. Many still demand proof before trusting Christ. But faith begins when we stop setting conditions and simply take Him at His word.

Then, in the boat, the disciples misunderstand Jesus. They worry about having no bread even though they’ve just watched Him feed thousands twice over. Jesus warns them about the “leaven of the Pharisees,” but they miss the point entirely. Their spiritual eyesight is still dim—they have eyes but do not see, echoing the prophets’ rebuke of Israel. Jesus’ rapid-fire questions (“Do you still not understand?”) reveal not anger but patient teaching. The Pharisees refused to see; the disciples struggled to see. Both are blind, yet one blindness is curable.

Finally, in Bethsaida, Jesus heals a blind man in stages. He opens eyes—sometimes slowly. It’s the only two-step miracle in the Gospels, and it’s no accident. It mirrors the disciples’ gradual awakening: sight comes, then clarity. Following Jesus means moving from partial to full vision, from recognizing Him as a teacher to confessing Him as Lord. Jesus’ touch restores sight not only to the man before Him but symbolically to the followers beside Him.

Mark 8:1–26 invites us to ask: Who do I say Jesus is? Am I still waiting for proof, still focused on my lack of bread, or learning to see Him more clearly? No spectacular sign will be given—only the quiet sign of an empty tomb. The Christ we need is not the one who comes down from the cross to prove His power, but the one who stayed on it to open our eyes.

Few stories capture the tragedy of lost hearing like that of Beethoven. The great composer gave the world breathtaking music, yet could not hear his own creations. But the man we meet in Mark 7 faced an even deeper tragedy—he was both deaf and mute, cut off from the sounds and voices around him. His story, however, is not just about physical silence; it reveals a deeper spiritual reality about all of us. Sin has made us deaf to God’s voice and mute to His praise. The question that arises from this story is both personal and profound: Who can open what sin has closed?

When Jesus enters the region of the Decapolis—Gentile territory once hostile to His presence—He is met by friends who bring this deaf and mute man to Him. Their faith is simple yet bold: they beg Jesus to lay His hands on the man. In a beautiful display of compassion, Jesus pulls the man aside, touches his ears and tongue, looks up to heaven, and sighs deeply before speaking a single Aramaic word: “Ephphatha,” meaning “Be opened.” Instantly, the man’s ears are unstopped, his tongue released, and he speaks plainly. This miracle fulfills Isaiah’s prophecy that when God comes to save, “the ears of the deaf shall be unstopped and the tongue of the mute shall sing for joy.”

Beneath this physical healing lies a spiritual truth. Just as Jesus opened the man’s ears and loosened his tongue, He alone can open our spiritually deaf hearts and free our tongues to speak His praise. We cannot hear or understand the gospel unless grace first breaks through our deafness. And when Christ opens our ears by His Word and Spirit, our natural response should be to proclaim what He has done—just as the once-mute man and the people of the Decapolis could not keep silent about His mercy.

The crowd’s response says it all: “He has done all things well.” Their words echo God’s declaration in Genesis 1, affirming Jesus as the divine Creator who restores what sin has shattered. This same Savior still does all things well today. Even in suffering, disappointment, or silence, He is working all things for our good and His glory. The miracle in Mark 7 points beyond itself to the cross, where Jesus became silent for our sake so that our tongues could be loosed to sing of His redemption. Whatever you face today, you can trust this truth—Jesus does all things well.

The passage centers on Jesus’ encounter with a Gentile woman in the region of Tyre and Sidon, a place considered unclean by Jewish standards. Her daughter is possessed by a demon, and in her desperation, the woman seeks out Jesus, believing He is the only one who can help. This illustrates real need—a deep, personal crisis that drives someone to seek divine intervention. The story emphasizes that such need is not foreign to our own human experience today; this woman’s situation mirrors the struggles of countless others.

Her response to Jesus reveals real faith. Despite being a Gentile and a Canaanite—groups historically viewed with disdain by the Jews—she approaches Jesus with humility and persistence. She acknowledges her unworthiness, asking not for what she deserves but for mercy. Even when Jesus initially seems to reject her, she continues to plead, demonstrating unwavering belief in His power. Her faith is not based on entitlement but on trust in Jesus’ ability to heal, showing that true faith is marked by dependence, humility, and perseverance.

The story culminates in a demonstration of a real God—one who is omniscient, omnipresent, and omnipotent. Jesus heals the woman’s daughter. This act reveals His divine nature and authority over evil. The narrative underscores that while God may not always respond in expected ways or timelines, He is capable, compassionate, and attentive to the cries of those who seek Him.

Discussion Questions: Theme 1: Real Need 1. How do we respond when we feel helpless or overwhelmed by circumstances? 2. Can you relate to a time when you felt a deep need and had nowhere else to turn but to God? What did that experience teach you about dependence and trust?

Theme 2: Real Faith 3. What does the woman’s persistence and humility teach us about approaching God? 4. Why do you think Jesus initially responded with silence and then a challenging statement? How might God use silence or difficulty to deepen our faith?

Theme 3: A Real God

5. What does this story reveal about the character and power of Jesus? 6. How can we hold onto faith when God doesn’t answer our prayers in the way or timing we expect? What truths about God can help us remain hopeful and prayerful?