Little Hills Church

We tend to equate complex with superior. But that can deceive us into missing the truth.

You can spend hours in an old adventure game, testing gems in random combinations, unsure whether the puzzle has any answer at all. That sounds familiar because we wonder the same thing about life. Isaiah 40 speaks to people wondering if God has left us with a random jumble of puzzle pieces and assures us there’s something more.

As daylight fades earlier each evening, familiar rooms become harder to navigate—and life can darken just as predictably. In 2 Corinthians 1:7–11, Paul refuses to minimize an affliction so crushing that he despaired of life itself. His words confront the question that surfaces when relief does not come: where can hope rest when personal strength is gone?

It is easy to look at a life that way and decide you are not ready to speak for God—too inexperienced, too uncertain, too likely to say it wrong. Jeremiah 1 opens with a prophet making exactly that case — and God’s answer to him.

When things feel overwhelming, you reach for comfort food—a buttery potato, a square of chocolate—knowing none of it will fix the job or the diagnosis. In 2 Corinthians 1:3–6, Paul calls God “the God of all comfort” while placing that comfort squarely in the midst of affliction, not beyond it. When God does not remove the pain, could comfort be arriving in a form you did not expect?

Before a new phone reaches stores, case makers stake a year’s work on a mold they cannot verify, hoping every opening lands in the right place. Genesis 15 places Abraham in a sharper uncertainty: God has promised descendants and worldwide blessing, but no son has appeared. What does faithful action look like when the promise is clear and its fulfillment remains invisible?

When repeated failure makes a person look like a lost cause, writing them off can feel less like cruelty than common sense. Yet Paul opens 2 Corinthians 1 by addressing a fractured, correction-resistant congregation as “the church of God” and “saints”—then speaking grace and peace over people who appear to deserve neither.

A child at a pond knows the drill: rod, reel, line in the water. Then something tugs. Knowing how to cast is not the same as being ready for the catch. In Matthew 10, Jesus takes his “Fishers of Men” and gives them further preparation for an even more important catch.

If we’re all fools, what’s it matter if one fool hurts another? Does anything matter? To God, the answer is it does — and not all fools are alike because of Him.

We often wait for someone else to step into the work God has placed before us. In Matthew 9:37–38, Jesus calls us to recognize the harvest, pray for laborers, and listen for where the Lord is sending us.

When corruption seems everywhere, it is tempting to imagine that the world just needs a few good people willing to play Batman and set things right. But Psalm 14:3–4 says everyone has turned aside, forcing a harder question: What happens when the same sin we fight in others begins corrupting our own good intentions?

It’s a relief when a warning light disappears—unless the problem under the hood is still there. In Matthew 9:35–36, Jesus heals sickness, preaches the good news of the kingdom, and looks with compassion on people who are helpless and without a shepherd. What does his compassion say about the immediate burdens we bring to him and the deeper need we cannot afford to ignore?

We know the word fool, but do we recognize who the fools are? Do we recognize when we’re the one playing the fool? Psalm 14 helps us better understand real foolishness.

A mute man speaks, and the crowd says nothing like this has ever been seen in Israel. The Pharisees watch the same moment and reach for another explanation. Matthew 9 puts those two reactions side by side.

We all want our lives to mean something—to make a name for ourselves that people will actually remember. The builders at Babel in Genesis 11 wanted exactly that, and the choice they made raises an uncomfortable question for anyone who’s ever chased significance: is the tower you’re building any different from theirs?

Saying the right things about Jesus can feel like a low-risk move until He keeps walking and we have to follow. The next part of our journey in Matthew 9 leads us to face the uncomfortable junction of faith and faithfulness.

Babel feels counterintuitive: if God wants to bring people into peaceful unity, doesn’t the consequence He applies to the tower building effort actually work against what He intends? Not necessarily.

We see lots of details but miss the main point when we come to Jesus mainly to eliminate problems here and now. In Matthew 9:18–26, two people reach out to Jesus with needs very much like the ones we have and must wrestle with the deeper point of Jesus’s ministry — just like we do.

A tourist reads a mistranslated volcano warning about “mermaids” when it really means sirens—absurd until you realize it points to something humans do constantly. Genesis 11 shows people with genuine talent and ability choosing to build a tower not for survival, but for their own glory. How easily do we wrap our ambitions in a report cover and call it achievement?

We’ve all felt the pull to add one more pious act—fast a little longer, pray a little harder—convinced the right combination will finally make us right before God. In Matthew 9, John’s disciples bring that same assumption directly to Jesus, and his answer reframes not just the practice of fasting but the question of what season we’re actually living in.

Maybe you had a childhood toy that took your voice and sent it back distorted and amplified. Small choices work the same way in Proverbs 3:34-35 — God reciprocates what we put out into the world, amplifying our foolishness so we see it clearly, or honoring our wisdom in ways that matter eternally.

Most of us know our own dirt isn’t the curated kind—and suspect it may be too much to clean up. In Matthew 9, Jesus walks past everyone with the polished-for-consumption sob story and stops at a tax collector’s booth, a man whose sin was public knowledge, and says simply, “Follow me.”

When we try to live by “Don’t Be Evil,” we find that we end up being evil in the end. There’s a better way.

We scramble to fix what’s broken, certain we know the one restoration that matters most. But when friends lower a paralyzed man before Jesus in Matthew 9, desperate only to walk, the first words he hears are “Take heart, my son, your sins are forgiven.” Do we trust Jesus enough to receive what he says we actually need?

When we try to live by “Don’t Be Evil,” we find that we end up being evil in the end. There’s a better way.

We've all known someone's birthday was coming, kept it in the back of our minds, and then realized two weeks too late that we never said a word—recognized it, but never responded. In Matthew 8, the demons who meet Jesus call him “Son of God” with more clarity than almost anyone else in the Gospel, yet that recognition leads somewhere unexpected and deeply unsettling.

Most of us feel satisfied if we manage not to do evil—if we avoid the obvious wrongs, the cruelties we can see. But there’s a quieter failure Proverbs 3:27–28 names: the moment when you know exactly what good you could do, right now, and you choose not to do it. Google once promised not to be evil as it rose above other tech firms, yet the real challenge—for companies and individuals alike—comes in everyday decisions about whether to give good or hold it back. When does restraint from wrongdoing become complicity with harm?

Listening to Jesus is one thing; trusting him when the waves are coming over the sides of the boat is another—and most of us know the difference from the inside. In Matthew 8, seasoned fishermen who have already followed Jesus into the storm find their faith put to exactly that test.

We can gather up what feels like security, but are we actually secure? Proverbs challenges to make sure we have the right point of security.

It is easy to want Jesus for the healing, peace, and confidence he gives while keeping the rest of life safely under our control. In Matthew 8, however, the One who heals the sick also tells would-be disciples that the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head. What does it mean to follow him rather than merely watch?

Can we choose our own adventure wisdom? The Bible says “no” for a very important reason.

We think status, heritage, and credentials make us a somebody or a nobody, yet those are not what God values. In Matthew 8 a Gentile centurion—nobody by race—approaches Jesus with a suffering servant, forcing the question of what actually makes anyone able to approach God’s kingdom.

We have a lot of things we think are signs of the “blessed life”? Proverbs has a clear answer that challenges our assumptions.

We’ve sung it since childhood: He’s got the whole world in his hands. Yet when the personal “you and me” gets stripped away, what’s left is a distant abstraction. In Matthew 8 a leper kneels and forces the real question—does the Lord who can hold everything actually will to hold him?

God’s discipline isn’t a topic we like talking about or facing in any way. It feels intimidating and leaves us wondering if God is angry at us. But Proverbs gives us a different story.

Even as a Christian, you can feel the yips—that moment when shame from old sins creeps back in, making you wonder if you’re really free, if God’s forgiveness is truly yours. Romans 6:23 speaks directly into that weight: the wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Most people instinctively know the difference between ordering at a restaurant and eating at a friend’s table—yet that same distinction somehow disappears in how they approach God. Proverbs 3:9 calls believers to honor the Lord with their wealth and the first fruits of all their produce, not as a business transaction or a path to guaranteed earthly blessing, but as an act of worship that reshapes what winning actually means.

We crave freedom, but Bob Dylan was right when he sang, “You Gotta Serve Somebody.” No matter how strong that craving, we’ll find ourselves serving either righteousness or unrighteousness.

We can say things like “In God We Trust,” but what do we mean? Do we really trust?

When the old broken software finally gives way to something that works, the last thing you'd do is press every button just to break the new one on purpose. Yet that same impulse faces us in the Christian life, and Paul confronts it head-on in Romans 6:14-15: since we are not under law but under grace, shall we sin?

God’s way doesn’t always look the most successful in the moment, but it is the path to true success.

Even good things we pursue can drift from their real meaning into empty gestures that change nothing. Sin whispers the same trade—“focus on me and I’ll give you what you want”—yet Paul answers it in Romans 6: do not let sin reign in your mortal body so that you obey its desires, but present yourselves to God as those brought from death to life.

When it feels dark, we need the well trod paths of God’s Word to strengthen us so we don’t lose hope.

We think, “If only I had enough money, my life would change forever,” yet even a life-altering jackpot can't easily eliminate the old self. Romans 6:10 tells us the death Christ died, He died to sin once for all, but the life He lives, He lives to God.

In a snowstorm, the signs showing miles to safety keep you moving even when relief feels hours away. You eat, you sleep, you feel better—so you believe that’s where strength comes from. But what happens when food runs out, rest doesn’t help, and the world keeps breaking? David pleads the same in Psalm 13, cutting to the real source of life: “Look at me, answer me, oh Lord, my God, revive me, or else I will die.” When personal storms and world chaos collide, what keeps hope alive?

We long for fresh starts, yet even after coming to Christ we can feel the pull to return to the same old sins and familiar ways. Romans 6:6–9 says our old self was crucified with Christ and that death no longer rules him—so what does that new standing mean for believers still facing temptation, failure, and the daily work of living for him?

You arrive early at the restaurant and order an iced tea while waiting for a friend whose advice you desperately need. One refill comes, then another, until the condensation has left the table damp and the agreed time is long past. An hour and a half later, you leave more dejected than when you arrived. Psalm 13 asks the same question that fills that silence: How long, O Lord?

When evil seems to be prospering, the temptation can be to find a backup plan instead of God’s way. Do we need one?

We know we're going to die—it's as inevitable as buttered toast landing face-down—but Romans 6:5 asks whether that death has to mean the same thing it did before Christ.

A voyage to the moon can feel finished once splashdown comes and the pictures stop, yet those who flew it insist it is only the start. Romans 6 challenges us to see the same of Easter: we're not at the end of our old debt, but the beginning of our new life in Jesus.

Easter is God’s profound statement that He not only listens, but He also saves.