I almost didn't finish this one. Not because it's bad. Because Andrew Murray has this infuriating habit of being right about everything, and sometimes a man just wants to grade papers at 11 PM without being spiritually convicted.
Let me explain. Murray wrote this in 1895 as a sequel to "Abide in Christ," and the premise is deceptively simple: Christ isn't just our Savior, He's our pattern. Every chapter—and there are thirty-one of them, clearly designed for daily devotional reading—takes one aspect of Christ's character and asks: what would it look like to actually live this way?
The Problem With Being Challenged at Midnight
Here's what Murray does that I both love and resent. He doesn't let you off the hook with abstract theology. He's not interested in you nodding along about how lovely Jesus was. He wants to know why you're not more patient with your students. (My words, not his. But the implication was clear enough.)
The chapter on Christ's humility particularly wrecked me. Murray writes about how Jesus "made Himself of no reputation"—and I'm sitting there thinking about how I mentioned my podcast subscriber count in the opening paragraph of this review. Forty-seven listeners. I literally just told you that. The man has been dead for over a century and he's still calling me out.
Christopher Smith's Steady Hand
Smith narrates with the kind of clear, measured delivery that devotional material requires. No theatrical flourishes, no dramatic pauses for effect—just faithful reading that lets Murray's prose breathe. At 7 hours and 43 minutes, this isn't a quick listen, and Smith's consistency matters. His pacing allows you to actually sit with each concept rather than rushing through to the next spiritual gut-punch.
Is it exciting narration? No. But it shouldn't be. This is LibriVox production—clean, straightforward, exactly what the material calls for. Smith understands that he's not the point. The text is the point. That kind of narrative humility (there's that word again) serves the book well.
What Murray Is Really Saying
This reminds me of what Hemingway said about writing—that the dignity of movement of an iceberg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water. Murray's chapters are short, accessible, almost deceptively simple on the surface. But underneath each one is this massive theological weight about union with Christ, about the Holy Spirit's transforming work, about what it actually means to be conformed to the image of God's Son.
The prose deserves to be savored. Murray writes with the kind of Victorian clarity that we've lost—sentences that build carefully, that assume you're paying attention, that reward slow reading. Or in this case, slow listening. I kept it at 1.0x because the author chose those words, and because speeding through devotional material defeats the entire purpose.
Who Should Listen (And Who Should Run)
Let me be direct: if you're looking for light spiritual encouragement, this isn't it. Murray assumes you want to be changed, not just comforted. He assumes you're serious about sanctification in a way that might feel intense to casual listeners.
But if you're the kind of person who reads the classics because you believe old books have something to teach us that new ones often miss—this is your territory. Murray stands in a tradition that includes Thomas à Kempis and Brother Lawrence, writers who understood that following Christ is less about emotional experience and more about daily, grinding, beautiful obedience. It's the opposite of what you'd find in something like God Is Not Great, which tears down rather than builds up—though both books demand you reckon with what you actually believe.
My students would hate this. I love it.
Skip it if you want theological entertainment. Grab it if you're ready for thirty-one days of being gently, relentlessly confronted with who you could be versus who you are.
Class Dismissed
I finished this on a Saturday morning walk along the lakefront with Denise. She asked why I was so quiet, and I didn't have a good answer except that Murray had given me too much to think about. That's the mark of devotional writing that works—it doesn't just inform you, it forms you.
Is the production fancy? No. Is the narration award-winning? Probably not. But the content? The content is why we still read the classics. Because some books aren't meant to entertain you. They're meant to change you. And this one, if you let it, will.
