The defining word for the early Church. And us?

Seeing the young fledgling Church in action in the book of Acts leaves you amazed; the pace of the story makes you wonder if it is actually Mark writing! But it’s Dr Luke, and in Acts 1:14, he’s at odds from all his in-depth research to inform us that the disciples “with one accord were devoting themselves to prayer.” It’s easy to skim past that line. But linger for a moment. It’s important. Luke is not filling up his written assignment word-count quota. That word devoted means more than showing up.

It’s far more than what is alluded to in Olivia Newton-John’s “Hopelessly Devoted to You” song from the film Grease. Far from it, this is intentional, not fawning and speaks of a steady, unrelenting pursuit. Not half-hearted. Not convenient. The early Church weren’t passing time. They were clinging to promise.

And the reason they could do that? Jesus had done it first.

Before the Upper Room, before Pentecost, there was Gethsemane. And before Gethsemane, there was a life – a life marked by audacious, relentless and unwavering devotion. Christ’s obedience wasn’t abstract or whimsical. He walked it out in sweat, in tears, in blood. “I do as the Father has commanded me,” he said, “so that the world may know that I love the Father” (John 14:31, ESV). That’s devotion—not as sentiment, but as substance. The real thing.

He didn’t retreat when the crowds misunderstood him, close down his website, delete his X account, and remove books from publication. He didn’t abandon his life-call and mandate when friends fell into a deep sleep. And then, in that terrible moment of darkness when the cup of wrath was placed in his hands, he drank it – not because it was easy, but because his love (for us) was utterly relentless. “Not my will, but yours, be done” (Luke 22:42). That’s the kind of devotion that moves mountains – and saves souls.

When we read that the disciples “devoted themselves to prayer,” we’re not looking at Clark Kent super-saints. We’re looking at men and women shaped by the devotion of Christ himself, stirred by the new life that has flooded their previously sin-saturated beings. Their obedience didn’t earn the Spirit. It responded to grace. And that’s the pattern still, we don’t draw near to get God’s attention – we draw near because we already have it. By the bucket load.

Let’s be real. In our world, clickbait distraction is currency. We’ve got WhatsApp pinging, TikTok looping, and Instagram feeding us a thousand versions of what life should be. It’s a challenge our grandparents never knew; devotion in this age can be seen as a prophetic act. Every time you open your Bible instead of going on unsocial media—yes, even on your phone – you’re making a declaration: his voice matters more. Every time you pause the scroll and pray, you’re pushing back the fog and making room to hear.

And that’s where maturity grows. Not in the spectacular, but in the steady. You want to discern his voice in the noise? Incrementally start by listening in the quiet. It’s entirely a personal choice, but for me personally Facebook and X were a distraction, so I deleted them. Like an addict, for a few weeks I found myself still picking up my phone to check on what someone’s restaurant dinner looked like or their pictures of snow, aware I might be missing something important – or even boring! Nevertheless, it has to be said that devotion trains your ears, deepens your roots, and forms the kind of obedience that isn’t swayed by applause or circumstance.

It’s not a solo journey. Acts 1 speaks of all of them, devoted together. Devotion is communal. It sharpens us. It humbles us. And in that unity, God breathes. If you’re called to speak prophetically – and in Christ, we all are to some extent – you don’t need louder words. You need deeper roots.

Here’s the truth: Jesus is still devoted to us and to the Father. He still intercedes. He still speaks. He still calls. So we respond – not out of obligation, but out of wonder. Devotion is the soil where revelation grows. It won’t make headlines. But it will make you ready.

Ready to hear. Ready to obey. Ready to walk in the power of the Spirit. Not because you’ve earned it – but because he already gave everything for it.

but it doesn’t always make sense.

There’s a story in Genesis that feels a lot like waiting on a cold winter’s morning in a bitter wind. You see your breath, try not to look like a dragon, and clutch your coat tighter, hoping for some sign of movement in the distance. You’ve waited what feels like an eternity for the bus. Then, in the distance, finally, it comes. Not one, but three. No, four! But as they draw closer, your hope turns sour – not a single one is going your way.

That’s the sort of moment Joseph lived through.

“Then Midianite traders passed by. And they drew Joseph up and lifted him out of the pit, and sold him to the Ishmaelites for twenty shekels of silver. They took Joseph to Egypt.” (Genesis 37:28)

Like England in the 1966 World Cup final, he must have thought it was over. The pit was dark, the air thick with silence and betrayal. His brothers, flesh and blood, had thrown him in with no more regard than when someone discards a broken light bulb. Then, just as suddenly, unexpectedly, he was pulled out. You can imagine the first breath he took, the sudden rush of light, the elation, the hope rising in his chest… freedom, maybe? Perhaps they had changed their minds, remembered that they were family.

But they hadn’t. The hands that lifted him out were not hands of mercy. They were hands of profit. He wasn’t being rescued. He was being sold.

Twenty shekels of silver. That was the going rate for a slave. That’s what they thought he, their precious brother, was worth.

There’s a cruel kind of whiplash in that moment. Pulled from despair, only to be thrown into deeper captivity. It takes your breath away. It’s the sort of twist that makes you question everything, and perhaps ask the questions you could never imagine asking. If God is present, why this? If He’s powerful, why permit it? It’s the kind of moment that can break a believer – unless, that is, he or she knows something about the purposes of God. Joseph didn’t know the promise we can easily forget: “And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose.” (Romans 8:28)

What Joseph didn’t know, and what we often fail to see in our own pain, is that the pit was never the end of the story. Nor was the betrayal. Nor the chains. God was writing something larger than Joseph’s immediate comfort. He was shaping a man who would one day interpret dreams in Pharaoh’s court, feed a starving nation, and say to the very brothers who betrayed him, “As for you, you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good.” (Genesis 50:20) And the path to doing and accomplishing all these things – these necessary and important things – was that pit.

The gospel that rescued us is not tidy. It rarely comforts us with quick fixes or polished answers. Instead, it calls us to trust in a God who uses pits and prisons and betrayals to forge the kind of character that can carry kingdom purposes. It’s not a quick pull-up on the ramp, make some adjustments, test and go fix. The gospel carries the narrative that this is the God who allowed His own Son to be lifted up – not out of a pit but onto a cross. Sold for silver. Abandoned by friends. Forsaken so that we would never be. Ever. Emmanuel; God with us.

Joseph’s story is a shadow and echoes the shape of redemption for you. Death, then life. Descent, then rising. A dream shattered, only to be fulfilled in a way no one expected. And if we’re honest, many of us are caught in that middle place. We’ve felt the pit. We’ve known the sting of betrayal, of emotional hurt. Maybe we’ve even tasted that brief flicker of hope, only to find it dashed. And yet, the Lord is not absent. He is not indifferent.

Psalm 105 tells us that God “sent a man ahead of them, Joseph, who was sold as a slave” (Psalm 105:17, ESV). Not a random act. Not a divine oversight. God sent him. Sent him in chains. Sent him through the pain. Because purpose often walks through fire before it ever sits in a palace. That’s probably your story?

So if you find yourself pulled from one darkness only to fall into another, do not assume the story’s done. God is not finished with you. The very chains you wear today may be, figuratively, forging the kind of strength that feeds nations tomorrow. And the tears you shed may one day water someone else’s redemption. Don’t underestimate what God is doing in, through and with you.

Keep walking. He is still with you. And the cross reminds us, He knows what it is to be sold… so that we might be free. For freedom Christ has set us free (Galatians 5:1).