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.
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.

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Sin is a heavy thing to bear. Its jacket is shame, its medals are guilt.
We can interpret "be the Church" as either law or gospel.
This is the sound of freedom. The Eternal One died so that we who are dying might live eternally with him.
He declared you what you might not always feel you are, but what you were from the moment he knew you, before you were you, when he foreknew you.
Your champion steps forward.
He shows up when we are at our worst to usher us back to his side, lead us to repentance, rescue us, and reclaim us as his own.
The number forty calls to remembrance narratives of God’s great acts of redemption, but also our conformity to and participation in those narratives.
There is no AA for legalists. At least not officially. But there ought to be, and it should be called your local church.
We are the fruit that grows from the branch, which extends from the trunk of the tree, which is rooted in the soil that it grows out of, which is all Christ.
Regularly reading and hearing God’s Word helps us to keep a song in our hearts.
What if the dissonance in this calendrical coincidence can be harmonized into a deeper melody?
At the Transfiguration, we say farewell to alleluia and hello to the horrific reality of our lost condition.