It is death that deserves derision, not the disciple who reaches through sorrow for his Lord.
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.

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We bring nothing with us that contributes to the preaching or the hearing of God’s promise to us.
God’s goodness spoke a promise of peace and mercy to the bewildered, a promise that rings out to this day.
Our comfort in this seemingly endless age of crisis after crisis is the inexhaustible hope of Jesus’s reversal.
At the heart of The Idiot is Dostoevsky's confession of faith and the confession of all Christians.
Faith is like a horse with blinders because it only beholds God’s promise. It is obsessed with what God has already said.
Sometimes I think we should be more tempted to laugh at the gospel than we are, not in derision but in sheer surprise and awe.
With Christ as the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, the future is secure already. It’s solid right now, even when the cords seem to be fraying.
History is the painful realization that we aren’t the ones who can save the world but, rather, we’re the ones who get saved.
In Jesus, the most totalizing summary of the law becomes the gospel of the one made perfect through obedience.
Moses is no Jesus but he, like us, is saved by Him. The law cannot enter the promised land, and yet the true and greater promised land is occupied by nothing but lawbreakers.
Through Martin Luther, God would unleash a far greater storm than the one which overwhelmed Luther on July 2, 1505.
With every bone in our bodies, we declare war on grace. We declare war on the gift.