The passage in 1 Corinthians 11 where Paul instructs women to wear head coverings in church is one that raises questions about how much of it applies today, but the underlying principle it is built on has not changed at all. In the culture of Corinth, a woman’s head covering was an outward sign of her submission to male leadership. It was a visible symbol that communicated something real about the order God had established. The symbol may look different today, but the principle behind it is not cultural; it is rooted in the way God created men and women to relate to one another.
I believe Paul’s concern was not the specific clothing custom itself but what it represented. A man covering his head in that setting would have reversed the order, and a woman removing her covering would have been a public act of rejection toward God’s design. Today’s cultures use different outward markers to communicate similar things, and Paul’s point is that whatever those markers are, believers should not use their appearance to send a message of rebellion against God’s order. The submission itself, grounded in how God made human beings, is what matters, and nothing outward should contradict it.
Do you disagree? Please leave comments below.
But I want you to understand that Christ is the head of every man, and the man is the head of a woman, and God is the head of Christ.
The number 144,000 in Revelation 7 refers to a specific group of Jewish believers, 12,000 from each of the twelve tribes of Israel, who will be sealed by God during the tribulation. This period falls between the rapture of the church and the return of Christ to establish his thousand-year reign, and it will be marked by a series of escalating judgements on the earth, described in Revelation as seven seals, seven trumpets, and seven bowls, each more intense than the last.
Running alongside that judgement will be a worldwide proclamation of the gospel. Angels will carry the message through the skies, martyrs will be raised back to life to testify, and these 144,000 Jewish men will go out from every tribe to preach. The tribal records were lost when Jerusalem was destroyed, so most Jewish people today have no way of knowing which tribe they belong to, but God knows, and he will call out and ordain these men for this specific mission. The salvation of the nation of Israel as a whole is also part of what Revelation indicates will take place during this remarkable period.
And so we are left with this breathtaking truth: that even in the earth’s darkest hour, when the seals are broken and the trumpets sound and the bowls of wrath are poured out, God will not leave himself without a witness, because he never has, and he never will.
saying, “Do not harm the earth or the sea or the trees until we have sealed the bond-servants of our God on their foreheads.” And I heard the number of those who were sealed, one hundred and forty-four thousand sealed from every tribe of the sons of Israel:
Some songwriters doesn’t chase the spotlight so much as build the stage for everyone else to stand on. John Darin Rowsey has spent decades doing exactly that, first with New Journey, then Karen Peck & New River, and for the last dozen-plus years as the songwriting engine behind The Guardians, the southern gospel quartet rounded out by Pat Barker, Paul Lancaster and Dale Forbes. Their new project, Where Healing Happens, might be the most personal thing he’s ever put his name on.
“You know, it was really a labor of love,” Rowsey says. “I feel like the songs that are on this project speak my heart more so than just about any project I’ve ever been a part of.” He pauses on the why of it, landing somewhere true: “I guess it’s because we all walk through seasons that are difficult. We walk through seasons of joy. Every season is different, and different songs come out of those seasons.” The album, he explains, was built to meet people wherever they are, grief, gratitude, doubt, all of it: “We were able to pick songs on this project that help you walk through every season of your life.”
What catches Rowsey off guard, even now, is what happened once he handed the songs over to his bandmates. Writing them was one thing. Hearing them sung back was another entirely. “The guys took the lyrics and sung them, it was way above my expectations,” he says. “I thought I knew they would do a great job, but I never dreamed that they would interpret the songs the way they did.” There’s real surprise in that admission, the kind that only comes when collaboration outpaces even a songwriter’s own vision for his work. “I think this record means more to me because of that than any I’ve ever been a part of. So I’m really thankful for that.”
That gratitude tracks with everything The Guardians have built their identity around. Three Dove Award nominations, a string of number-one songs, Fan Awards, and still the group’s mantra traces back to John the Baptist in John 3:30: “He must increase but I must decrease.” It’s a strange thing to hear a quartet with this much chart success talk about diminishment as the goal, but that’s the tension that seems to animate the group, ambition in service of something bigger than themselves.
Occasionally they’re joined onstage by founding member Dean Hickman, a man who’s logged more than 60 years in southern gospel music, a living thread back to the genre’s roots standing next to a group actively reshaping what it sounds like now. It’s a lineage thing, the old guard blessing the new, and it fits the arc of a group whose newest record is, by its own songwriter’s account, less a product than a testimony.
Where Healing Happens isn’t trying to be everything to everyone. It’s trying to be honest about the seasons people actually live through. For Rowsey, that honesty is the whole point.
Consider what it means to be given time you do not deserve. Not earned time, not time secured by virtue or by vote, but time extended by a patience that transcends all human reckoning. That is precisely where many believe we find ourselves today. A reprieve. A pause between what we deserve and what we have thus far received.
2 Chronicles 7:14 speaks with startling clarity into such a moment. God addresses his people, not the nations around them, not the empires that press against their borders, but his own people, those who bear his name. And the word he brings is both sobering and luminous with hope. “If my people who are called by my name humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven and will forgive their sin and heal their land.”
It is worth pausing here to clear away a common misunderstanding. This promise was never issued to a political state. It was not a national policy. It was a covenant word spoken to covenant people, those whom God had formed for himself through Abraham, through Moses, through the long and winding story of redemption. To lift this verse and paste it over any modern nation as a blank cheque is to misread it entirely. Canada is not Israel. America is not Israel. No contemporary nation holds the covenant position that ancient Israel held.
And yet the word is not without its reach. Those who trust in Jesus Christ, those who are joined to him by faith, are the heirs of covenant promise. The new covenant, as Jeremiah announced it and as Christ enacted it, carries the same relational thread: I will be their God and they shall be my people. So when God says “if my people,” the ears that ought to lift are Christian ears. The hearts that ought to stir are church hearts.
This matters enormously, because the temptation in seasons of cultural decline is to look outward. We observe the degradation around us, the fracturing of families, the coarsening of public life, the erosion of what was once considered self-evident decency, and we point. We diagnose. We lament. But the ancient word does not begin with the surrounding culture. It begins with us.
Think of it as a physician examining the body before prescribing a cure. Before anything can be healed outwardly, the condition inwardly must be honestly assessed.
The four conditions God lays down are not burdensome novelties. They are, in fact, the ordinary rhythms of genuine faith. First, humility. Not the performance of humility, not its costume, but the actual interior posture of a person who has stopped pretending. The prodigal son in Jesus’s parable did not become humble by announcing it. He became humble when the famine came, when the pigs ate better than he did, when the distance between who he was and who he had imagined himself to be became impossible to ignore. Then he came to himself. That phrase is worth sitting with. He came to himself. Somewhere in the hunger and the shame, he remembered his father’s house.
God still uses hard providences to bring his people to themselves. Drought in the text is not merely meteorological. It is the wasting away of what we counted on, the moment when the accounts no longer balance, when the bag has holes in it and we cannot understand where the provision has gone. In those moments, before we blame the economy or the government or the shifting winds of culture, we are invited to look upward and ask, “Is God speaking? Is there a message in this hardship I have been too busy to receive?”
Second, prayer. Not casual prayer, not the prayer that checks a box before sleep, but the prayer of a person who actually believes that God hears and God responds. The Baptist Puritan John Bunyan said it plainly: you can do more than pray after you have prayed, but you cannot do more than pray until you have prayed. There is a sequence here that we perpetually want to reverse. We exhaust our own strategies, and then, in the remnant hours, we pray. God says: begin there.
Third, seek my face. This is the condition that presses deepest into the interior life. To seek God’s face is to desire him, not merely his provision, not merely the restoration of comfortable circumstances, but God himself. It is the difference between approaching a parent for money and approaching a parent for love. Both are legitimate. But one is nobler, truer, more in keeping with the relationship. The Psalmist cried, “My soul thirsts for you; my flesh faints for you, as in a dry and weary land where there is no water.” That thirst is what God is after. He will not be used merely as a divine vending machine, consulted in crisis and forgotten in comfort.
Fourth, repentance. Turning from wicked ways. Not simply feeling sorrowful, not merely regretting consequences, but turning. Changing direction. This is where sincerity is tested, because repentance that does not alter behaviour is really only remorse wearing repentance’s clothing.
When these conditions are met, not perfectly, but genuinely, God makes three staggering promises. He will hear. He will forgive. He will heal. Each of these deserves its own meditation, but consider especially the middle one. Forgiveness means that the offence is not merely minimised or overlooked. It is removed. The new covenant word through Hebrews is breathtaking in its scope: “I will remember their sins no more.” Not managed, not archived, not held in reserve for a future reckoning. Gone. That is the mercy that awaits a people willing to come honestly before God.
And the healing, while it carried specific land promises for Israel in its original context, speaks to a principle that holds across every age. God restores. He makes whole what was broken. He revives what was dying. The church, wherever it has humbled itself and sought God in earnest, has found him to be exactly this kind of God.
We live in a moment that feels precarious. The moral scaffolding of Western life is under considerable strain. But the appropriate response for those who bear Christ’s name is not despair, and it is not merely political engagement. It is the ancient and irreplaceable work of humbling ourselves, praying, seeking God’s face, and turning from whatever in our own lives has drawn us away from him.
The hope for any culture has always flowed through a revived and repentant people. Not through legislation alone, not through the rise and fall of particular leaders, but through those who carry the light, choosing to let it actually shine.
Now is the accepted time.
Therefore if anyone is in Christ, this person is a new creation; the old things passed away; behold, new things have come. Now all these things are from God, who reconciled us to Himself through Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation, namely, that God was in Christ reconciling the world to Himself, not counting their wrongdoings against them, and He has committed to us the word of reconciliation.
Amber Lynn has spent years writing songs that speak to faith, hope, and perseverance. But her latest release reaches into a place far more personal, inviting listeners into a chapter of grief that continues to shape her life.
The Sonlite Records artist, who also serves as the lead vocalist for Southern Gospel trio 11th Hour, wrote the song alongside Kenna West, Lauren Talley, and Michael Farren. At its heart is the loss of the child she and her husband, Garrett, lost in 2021, a story she says remains impossible to separate from her faith.
Provided to YouTube by Syntax Creative Till We’re Together · Amber Lynn Till We’re Together â„— 2026 Sonlite Records Released on: 2026-07-10
“This song was written by myself, Kenna West, Lauren Talley, and Michael Farren, in loving memory of the precious child my husband and I lost in 2021,” Amber Lynn says. “Losing a child is a heartbreak that never truly leaves you, it’s a grief we will carry in our hearts for the rest of our lives.”
Rather than masking that pain with elaborate production, the recording embraces simplicity. Built around Tim Parton’s piano with only subtle atmospheric accompaniment and produced by Roger Talley, the performance leaves room for every lyric to breathe. The result is an intimate meditation on loss, one that acknowledges the weight of unanswered questions while holding tightly to the promise of reunion.
“Yet even in the deepest sorrow,” she says, “we hold onto the hope of Heaven. The hope that one day we will finally say hello to our baby… and will never have to say goodbye again.”
That hope echoes throughout the song’s lyrics, which reflect on milestones that never came, a first smile, first steps, bedtime routines, and the lingering ache of a life imagined but never lived on earth. Rather than offering easy explanations, the song gives voice to emotions many grieving parents quietly carry.
For Amber Lynn, that honesty was essential.
“This song,” she says, “is for every mother and father who knows this pain, for every parent who carries both love and loss in the same breath. You are not alone.”
Her willingness to tell that story grows out of a lifetime shaped by faith and music. Raised in Sterlington, Louisiana, as the daughter of a pastor, Amber was surrounded by gospel music from an early age. As a teenager, she sensed a calling to write and minister through music, a journey that eventually led to the formation of 11th Hour.
She has since written more than 200 songs, with recordings by 11th Hour and artists including The Martins and The Whisnants. Along the way, she has earned recognition as both a vocalist and songwriter, while also completing a diploma in Christian counseling that allows her to minister at women’s conferences and concert events.
Today, Amber and Garrett are raising their son, Vinny, and daughter, Penny, while serving at their home church, Trinity Baptist in Asheville, North Carolina. Their family story now includes both profound joy and profound loss, realities that coexist in the message of her latest recording.
The song does not attempt to resolve grief. Instead, it offers something quieter: the assurance that sorrow can exist alongside hope, and that faith can sustain people through questions that may never be answered.
For Amber Lynn, that is the message she hopes listeners carry with them long after the final piano notes fade. “You are not alone.”
Texas Gospel Canada Southern Gospel Radio 