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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As C. S. Lewis, in "The Magician’s Nephew", has Aslan sing the world and all its beautiful intricacies into existence, so the Lion of the tribe of Judah, our Lord Jesus, hymns the heavens and earth into being.
Our Father does not bid us to turn inward, but outward, to the Son who is himself our unending Sabbath rest.
Left to ourselves, we are like Adam and Eve; we sew together fig leaves of self-righteousness and hunker down behind trees of flimsy excuses to hide in vain from a judgment we deserve.
When we begin singing the opening hymn, our voices blend with those of angels in heaven, who have been belting out hymns long before we rolled out of bed that morning.
As Luther’s efforts at reform began to build, so did the vacancies in monasteries and convents across Europe as monks and nuns motivated by evangelical teaching left their orders for other vocations and opportunities, including marriage.
If there was a proclamation of grace, it was an afterthought, given in the sense of “just in case anyone needs this.”
Sometimes the only obstacle to the church accomplishing its goals is when God gets in the way. And he has an irritating habit of doing just that.
Nevertheless, we believe, teach, and confess that this unlikely King advents weekly to meet with His people in the Divine Service through His Word and Sacraments.
(This article first appeared in Modern Reformation and is posted here with permission.)
Getting ready for church is an exhausting exercise for a lot of people. By getting ready, I don't mean making wardrobe decisions.
Just how should we think about our good works in the Christian life of faith as we live that life before others... and before God?
In the tiny Texas town where I grew up, sleeping in on Sunday morning was as inconceivable as rooting for someone besides the Dallas Cowboys on Sunday afternoon.