While ambiguous “Christ-centeredness” by its very nature fragments Christianity by way of its subjectivism, Christological commitments beget unity or, at least, move strongly in that direction.
The Word seems like it is so little, like five barley loaves and two small fish, but it is all that God used to create the heavens and the earth.
You’re permitted to call on “Our Father, who art in heaven” at all hours of the day and night with whatever you like.

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The danger is not destruction. It is reduction.
We don’t flinch at sin. We speak Christ into it.
The Church speaks not with the cleverness of men, but with the breath of God.
You are a soul. Not an algorithm. Not a hashtag. A soul knit together by a God who does not mock, does not abandon, and does not lie.
The Church needs mystics again. Not fringe figures, but saints ablaze with love.
The Christ who rescues does not wait for you to be clean. He comes to clean you. He does not need your strength. He brings his own.
Christ does not hide his wounds. He offers them.
The great lie of addiction is that suffering must be fled, must be numbed, must be drowned out by any means necessary.
The addict’s condition speaks a hard truth: that we are all beggars before God, every one of us bent toward the grave.
Addiction is the warped fruit of a good tree: a sign that the heart longs for transcendence but has sought it in places too small, too finite to hold such hunger.
In Simeon's hands and Anna's gaze, we are reminded of God's promise—not distant, not fading, but alive.
Belief at Christmas is neither neat nor safe. It is the path that leads to the manger and, from there, to the cross.