Today, we witness Micah's most intimate prophecy as the morning sun rises over the hills of Morisha.

The echoes of divine promise still ring in our ears from yesterday's glorious vision of peace.

But now they crystallize into something even more personal.

A revelation that descends from the cosmic to the intimate, from the mountain of the Lord to a little village where shepherds tend their flocks.

We've walked through valleys of hope and climbed mountains of restoration.

Now we stand before the humble birthplace where God's ultimate answer to human need will take flesh and dwell among us.

Close your eyes and join us once more in the hill country of Judah, where this weathered prophet will unveil the most tender mystery of all.

That the same God who promised global peace now reveals his chosen vessel.

That the Lord who will gather all nations first chooses the smallest town to birth his greatest gift.

Come, let us witness together how divine greatness emerges from human humility, how the eternal word will be spoken through the cry of an infant.

From the promise of universal peace comes the most personal revelation ever given.

A ruler whose origins are from ancient times, yet who will be born in David's city to shepherd his people with the strength of the Almighty.

The pre-dawn air carries a crisp bite as we continue our journey with the Prophet, our breath visible in small puffs that dissipate quickly.

The stars are beginning to fade as the eastern horizon shows the first blush of rose-colored light.

Our sandal feet crutch softly on frost-touched grass, and somewhere in the distance, a rooster's crow pierces the stillness.

My faithful companion, we walk together still.

I adjust my woolen cloak against the morning chill, the rough fabric worn from countless nights under the open sky.

Yesterday we stood together on that sun-warm stone wall, watching the vision unfold, nations streaming to the mountain of the Lord, swords beaten into plowshares, every person sitting safely under their own vine and fig tree.

The taste of that hope still lingers like honey from the comb.

But now, dear friend, the Lord has given me something even more intimate.

Look there.

Do you see that little village nestled among the rolling hills?

Those limestone houses with flat roofs, showing wisps of smoke from morning cooking fires.

That's Bethlehem, the house of bread, where fresh baked loaves mingle with the earthly smell of sheep pens and sweet almond blossoms.

The sound of a shepherd's pipe drifts across the fields, weaving through the morning air like silver thread through rough cloth.

Bethlehem Ephertha.

Such a small place.

You could walk from one end to the other in the time it takes to recite the Shema.

The kind of village where everyone knows everyone's business, where children play in dusty streets barely wide enough for a loaded donkey?

I kneel and scoop up reddish soil, letting it run through my fingers.

This dirt has been trodden by shepherds for generations.

Can you smell that rich, loamy scent that speaks of countless seasons, of life sprouting from death?

This is the soil that will cradle the most important birth in human history.

The Lord spoke to me in the deep watches of the night, his voice like thunder wrapped in velvet, powerful yet tender.

But you, Bethlehem Ephertha, he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice.

Though you are small among the clans of Judah.

I chuckle softly, the sound mixing with morning bird songs.

Small indeed.

When census takers come through, they barely pause to count households.

When tax collectors make rounds, Bethlehem's contribution wouldn't fill a child's purse.

When young men dream of making their mark, they dream of Jerusalem, Damascus, the great cities, not little Bethlehem.

But listen, out of you will come for me one who will be ruler over Israel.

Not from Jerusalem, with its golden temple and marble palaces, not from any mighty fortress city, from Bethlehem.

Little, insignificant, easily overlooked.

Bethlehem.

I began walking again, my staff tapping rhythmically against the stones.

Can you picture the scene that will unfold here someday?

These narrow streets that now echo only with bleeding sheep and children's chatter will witness something that changes human history.

These simple stone houses will shelter the birth of the promised one.

A woman appears in a doorway, shaking out a woven mat, nodding respectfully as we pass.

His origins are from old, from ancient times.

This ruler who will be born in David's city.

His story doesn't begin in a manger.

His origins stretch back beyond memory, beyond creation, beyond the first word ever spoken into the void.

I pause beside an ancient olive tree, its gnarled trunk twisted by centuries of weather.

Touch this bark.

Feel its roughness, its strength.

This tree was old when David was a boy tending sheep here, but the one who will come from Bethlehem?

His roots grow deeper than this ancient olive, deeper than earth's foundations.

Therefore, Israel will be abandoned until the time when she who is in labor bears a son.

Sometimes God must allow breaking before healing, scattering before gathering.

Israel will go through her time of labor, not just physical labor, but spiritual labor of learning to trust, to wait.

Then the remnant of his brothers will return to join the Israelites.

Can you hear the joy?

The reunion, restoration, healing of old wounds?

Like a family separated by war, finally gathering for a feast?

This ruler from Little Bethlehem won't govern like earthly kings.

No ivory throne, no jeweled crown, no thundering chariots.

He will stand and shepherd his flock in the strength of the Lord.

Not sitting in distant splendor, but standing among his people like a shepherd among sheep.

And he will be our peace.

Not just a peace bringer, but peace itself, embodied, personified, walking among us.

Peace won't be something we achieve, but something we receive as a gift.

When the Assyrian invades our land, can you hear the thunder of the war machines, iron chariots, bronze-tipped spears, siege engines that breach the strongest walls?

We will raise against them seven shepherds, even eight commanders, not armies with banners, but shepherds, men who protect what they love.

Then the remnant of his brothers will return to join the Israelites.

Can you hear the joy?

The reunion, restoration, healing of old wounds?

Like a family separated by war, finally gathering for a feast?

This ruler from Little Bethlehem won't govern like earthly kings.

No ivory throne, no jeweled crown, no thundering chariots.

He will stand and shepherd his flock in the strength of the Lord.

Not sitting in distant splendor, but standing among his people like a shepherd among sheep.

And he will be our peace.

Not just a peace bringer, but peace itself, embodied, personified, walking among us.

Peace won't be something we achieve, but something we receive as a gift.

When the Assyrian invades our land, can you hear the thunder of the war machines, iron chariots, bronze-tipped spears, siege engines that breach the strongest walls?

We will raise against them seven shepherds, even eight commanders, not armies with banners, but shepherds, men who protect what they love.

And so we stand here, looking at this little town that will one day cradle the world's hope.

Every stone, every olive tree, every pathway will be part of the greatest story ever told.

When that day comes, and it will come as surely as sunrise.

Remember we stood here together.

Remember we saw with face eyes what others will see with flesh.

In God's economy, the small and overlooked are often chosen for the great and eternal.

Come, dear companion.

The road stretches ahead, and there are more wonders to witness.

But carry this vision.

The ruler from Bethlehem, whose origins are from ancient times, whose greatness will reach earth's ends, will be our peace.

Now, let's take a moment to quiet our hearts and listen to the word itself.

Let these words sink deep into your spirit, bringing comfort, conviction, and encouragement.

Whether you're sitting in a quiet place or out in the world, allow scripture to meet you right where you are.

I hope you have your favorite cup of tea or coffee.

Sit back, relax, and let's step into the sacred text of the Book of Micah 5.

The Book of Micah 5 (NRSV):  We have been walking together for hours, you and I, and I can feel the weariness in these old bones.

But it's the good kind of tired that comes from a day well spent in the presence of the Almighty.

The evening air.

It carries a scent of wood smoke and baking bread from the village below, mixed with the sweet fragrance of jasmine that blooms when the heat of the day begins to fade.

My dear friend, what a journey this has been.

That ancient, comforting rhythm that has marked the end of days since Abraham first set up his tent among these hills.

Do you see it differently now than when we first arrived this morning?

When we started walking these dusty paths together?

Bethlehem was just another small village, the kind of place where nothing important ever happens, where young people dream of leaving for bigger, more exciting cities.

But now, you know what I know.

You have I sit down on a sun-warmed boulder, patting the space beside me, and you settle in like an old traveling companion.

You know what strikes me most about this whole vision, friend?

It's how God delights in using the small things, the overlooked things, the things that don't make sense to human wisdom.

Here's mighty Jerusalem with its gleaming temple and royal palace.

Here's Hebron, where David was first crowned king.

Here are all these important cities with their walls and gates and impressive histories.

And God says, No, I'm going to use little Bethlehem.

A shepherd's boy appears on a distant hillside, his flock spread out around him like scattered pearls, and his simple reed pipe carries a melody across the valley that makes my heart ache with its beauty.

That's the first thing this day has taught me.

And I hope it's burned into your heart too.

When God wants to do something magnificent, he often starts with something that looks insignificant.

That little job you have, that small apartment you live in, that quiet corner of the world where you think nobody notices you, that might be exactly where God wants to plant the seed of something extraordinary.

His origins are from old ancient times.

Every time I repeat those words, they send shivers down my spine like cold water on a hot day.

This child will be born in Bethlehem.

His story doesn't begin with Mary's labor pains or Joseph's worried pacing.

His story begins in the councils of eternity, in the heart of God before time itself drew its first breath.

And that teaches us something profound about waiting, doesn't it?

Israel will be abandoned until the time when she who is in labor bears a son.

Sometimes it feels like God has forgotten us, like he's left us to struggle alone while he attends to more important matters.

But the truth is, he's been working on our deliverance since before we even knew we needed it.

Your rescue was planned before your problem ever existed.

This dirt, friend, this common everyday earth that gets tracked into houses and swept out again, that clings to sandals and stained clothing, this very soil will be the first thing to touch the feet of the Savior of the world.

Not marble floors or golden carpets, but ordinary dirt from an ordinary place.

The evening call to prayer begins to echo from the synagogue below.

Voices joining in ancient words that have comforted God's people through countless generations of joy and sorrow.

He will stand and shepherd his flock in the strength of the Lord.

Can you picture it?

Not sitting on some distant throne, making pronouncements from on high, but standing right there among his people like any other shepherd in these hills, getting his hands dirty, smelling like sheep, knowing each one by name.

That's what true leadership looks like, isn't it?

Not the kind that demands to be served, but the kind that serves others.

Not the kind that stays safely behind walls, but the kind that stands out in the open where the wolves might come.

True authority doesn't come from the power to command, but from the willingness to sacrifice.

And he will be our peace.

Not just someone who makes peace treaties or negotiates ceasefires, but peace itself walking around in human skin.

When this one comes, peace won't be something we have to fight for or work to maintain.

It will be as natural as breathing, as constant as our heartbeat.

But the vision doesn't stop with the gentle shepherding, does it?

When enemies come, and they will come, as surely as wolves come for the sheep, then this same gentle shepherd becomes something else entirely.

We will raise against them seven shepherds, even eight commanders.

Not professional soldiers or hired mercenaries, but shepherds.

People who know how to protect what they love.

Here's what that teaches us about facing the battles in our own lives.

God doesn't always remove our enemies, but he always provides protectors.

Sometimes those protectors look like the most unlikely people shepherds instead of soldiers, servants instead of kings.

But they carry something more powerful than any weapon.

They carry the heart of God.

I pause beside an ancient fig tree, its broad leaves rustling softly in the evening breeze.

And Micah continues.

Have you ever noticed how dew appears?

You go to sleep, and the ground is dry.

But when you wake up, everything is covered with tiny diamonds of moisture.

It happens so quietly, so gently, that you never hear it coming.

But without it, the plants would wither and die.

That's how God's people are supposed to bless the world around them.

Not with great fanfare or dramatic gestures, but quietly, persistently, life-givingly.

You might not think your influences matter much, but you could be the do that keeps someone's hope alive.

The lights begin to twinkle in the village below, like earthbound stars, oil lamps being lit in the windows as families gather for their evening meals.

But there's another side to this vision, isn't there?

Like a lion among the beasts of the forest, like a young lion among flocks of sheep.

When righteousness is threatened, when the innocent need defending, when evil rears its ugly head, then the gentle dew becomes the fierce storm.

The quiet blessing becomes the roaring judgment.

The Lord's final words speak of a great cleansing.

I will destroy your horses from among you and demolish your chariots.

All the things we think make us strong, all the weapons we trust in, all the fortresses we build to keep ourselves safe.

In the end, they're just obstacles to trusting Him completely.

You know what I want you to remember most from this day, dear friend?

It's not just that a great king is coming, though he is.

It's not just that peace will reign on earth, though it will.

It's that the same God who chose little Bethlehem for his greatest work might just choose little you for something magnificent too.

Remember when you wake up tomorrow morning in your own ordinary place, with your own ordinary problems in your own ordinary life?

Remember what we've seen today.

Remember that God's greatest works often begin in the most humble circumstances.

Remember that his timing is perfect, even when it seems impossibly slow.

Remember that he delights to use the small and overlooked for his eternal purposes.

The ruler from Bethlehem is coming, friend.

His greatness will reach to the ends of the earth.

He will be our peace.

And you, yes, you are part of his magnificent story.

Chosen to live in the light of his coming kingdom, called to be his hands and feet and voice in a world that desperately needs to know that help is on the way.

Walk on, dear companion.

Walk on with hope.

Thank you for joining me today as we journey through the Book of Micah 5.

I pray you carry these reflections with you into your day, into your week, and that you find strength in knowing God is with you in every trial, every temptation, and every step of obedience.

If this time in God's Word has encouraged you, take a moment to share it with someone who might need it.

And be sure to join me next time as we continue walking through the scriptures, learning, growing, and staying faithful in the field of life.

Until next time, may you find peace in the quiet, trust in God's call, and rest in his unchanging love.

This is In the Field Audio Bible, where we Listen to the Bible One Chapter at a Time.