When we despair of ourselves, we repent of these self-justifying schemes and allow ourselves to be shaped by God, covered in Christ’s righteousness, and reborn with a new heart.
This is the first in a series of articles entitled “Getting Over Yourself for Lent.” We’ll have a new article every week of this Lenten Season.
We can’t remove our crosses or the reality of our deaths. Only Jesus can.

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People everywhere, every day, feel God’s wrath—and not as merely an afterlife threat but as a present reality.
Baptism does not promise us chocolates or flowers, but something far greater: life in Christ.
Confession isn’t a detour in the liturgy. It’s the doorway.
His provision always flows downward, furnishing and filling us with his grace and truth right where we are.
This is the first in a series meant to let the Christian tradition speak for itself, the way it has carried Christians through long winters, confusion, and joy for centuries.
The crisis is not merely that people are leaving. The crisis is that we have relinquished what is uniquely Lutheran and deeply needed.
The story of your life stretches beyond the dash on the tombstone.
“Comfort, comfort my people, says your God.” That word isn't just for Israel; it's also for you.
To know the cure is not to become immune to sorrow.
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.
Illness is not romantic. It is not a test, a metaphor, nor a blessing in disguise.
The unity of God’s people is grounded not in lineage nor land but in the promise of the coming Christ.