We rejoice that this urchin is now at rest in the arms of his known God who binds up the broken hearted and sets the captives free.
When your child asks about what we believe, and why we believe it…answer.
The reason Christians argue so much about the sacraments is because, deep down, they matter.

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Jesus lives amidst the twisted metal and smoking ruins of lives gone bad. It’s where he does his best work. Christ is the ultimate first responder.
Dual narratives are unfolding in our lives at every moment. There’s the story we’re writing, and the one penned by the Spirit.
When I was a boy, I wanted to be a trashman. Little did I know that I would grow up to need a God who was a trashman.
Jesus tears down every “but” that people try to build between us and God. He died and rose for us, and—not but—He makes Himself our Lord and Savior.
She was the kind of woman in whom I see myself, in whom thousands of us see our own reflections. So often our lives seem pointless, a vain existence in a world that worships vanity.
When I was a kid, punchdrunk in church by all the legalistic blows to my head, I stumbled into a warped state of mind about what’s going to happen when Jesus crashes the world’s party at the end of time.
No one twisted Jesus’s arm to make him enter Mary’s womb. No one tricked him into being born into a world strung out on the meth of sin. He came in with his eyes wide open.
In an age when the phrase “new and improved” applies to everything from phones to marriages, when we as a nation mimic juveniles, lustily pursuing the next new thing, the worst decision a church can make is to cater to this weakness.
Our little congregation is part of a much larger church—the body of Christ, both here on earth as well as in heaven. And that church worships 24/7, never ceasing in its adoration of Jesus our Savior.
The empty space in our hearts that we try to fill with stuff is filled only by the Maker of all things. An iPhone won’t fill that gap. Only a crucified and resurrected God fits in there.
We strive, in short, to master the art of swatting mosquitoes. And all the while, we remain blind to the fact that in pulpit after pulpit, the Gospel of Jesus Christ is as rare as Merry Christmas inside a synagogue.
What happens when our children are taught to read the Scriptures as evidence that God is a heavenly Santa Claus? When happens when they think God rewards or punishes them depending on whether they've been naughty or nice?