Christian faith is never a solitary possession. When the congregation confesses, the old speak for the young, the strong for the weak, and the clear-voiced for the trembling.
Living by faith has never been about what we bring to the table. It has always been, and always will be, about what God does for us when we can’t do anything for ourselves.
The entire history of Protestantism is downstream of a goldsmith in Mainz figuring out how to cast identical pieces of lead type in less than a minute.

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We can’t remove our crosses or the reality of our deaths. Only Jesus can.
Baptism does not promise us chocolates or flowers, but something far greater: life in Christ.
The Promised Land invites us to laugh at how relatable it is to be exhausted and exasperated by all the people, and the egos and opinions they bring with them, that come with living.
Christmas is not only about a cradle in Bethlehem, it’s also about a cross outside Jerusalem where salvation was won for us.
Merry Christmas, Christ has spoken, and his verdict stands.
Christmas is not for remembering, thinking, pondering, trying to make sure you are really celebrating it properly, or for wondering whether you truly have faith.
The anticipation of Advent is supposed to build us up, not make us exhausted.
Lewis once pointed out that Christianity does not begin by telling us how to behave, but by telling us what is wrong.
To know the cure is not to become immune to sorrow.
Seek moments of silence, and use them to listen and ponder.
Christianity doesn’t start with our speculation about God. It starts with God’s self-revelation.
This ancient “tale of two mothers” concerns far more than theological semantics—it is the difference between a God who sends and a God who comes.