When you step into the Lord’s house, he gives you a liturgical imagination to see with eyes of faith all of his goodness and grace.
The thief is the prophetic picture of all of us, staring hopelessly hopeful at the Son of God, begging to hear the same words.
The Solas are not just doctrinal statements. They are the grammar of Christian comfort.

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How many times in our lifetime must we sigh, floundering through this world with our sins, sorrows, struggles, frustrations, fears, and foes?
This story is not meant for six-year-olds, but it is meant for us, though we should hardly handle it.
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.
They were still praying, trusting, and hoping. Why? Because they knew who was with them and who was for them: the risen Christ.
In Christ, you are bound. Bound to mercy. Bound to grace. Bound to a God who won’t let you go. And because of that, you are free—gloriously, joyfully free.
The baptized do not celebrate sin—they grieve it.
When Jesus ascends, he does so, bearing gifts for you.
The Church needs mystics again. Not fringe figures, but saints ablaze with love.
The women at the tomb were surprised by Easter. Amazed and filled with wonder at Jesus' Easter eucatastrophe. And so are we.
Sometimes the old story is the one we need to hear again and again.
In the liturgy, Christ is present, self-giving, and ever-addressing his people.
Luther’s famous treatise contains great consolation for Christians struggling with grace, suffering, and hope.