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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I have found that Gandalf’s words above ring true, not only in Middle-earth, but in our world as well.
The soles of the holy feet of God traverse the soil of the holy land of promise.
I once heard a grad school professor say that America really is a polytheistic nation since so many people believe in so many different gods.
The kind of peace Jesus points to can't be achieved with words.
What about the question, “Are you a Christian?” Does this one belong to that second category, where we must explore our hearts, test our actions, focus inside ourselves to get to the right answer?
She had obviously heard about Jesus previously, maybe even from off-handed comments or even rumors. Her daughter was sick so she sought the gossiped-about Jesus as he was leaving for Tyre and Sidon.
When I’ve dipped my brush in the midnight black of lust or greed and smeared those sable sins all over the walls of my life, he’s come along with a bucket of paint and covered over that black with a white so bright it blinds the eyes.
Folks who have done missions in third world nations come back with stories about how they were transformed by the experience, and yet often there is no reference to Christians proclaiming the good news of Christ’s death and resurrection for the forgiveness of sins.
In The Journal of Neuroscience, there was a man referred to as E.P. He was an 84-year-old retired lab technician. E.P. suffered from one of the most severe cases of amnesia ever documented.
What James really desired was to be beside his Lord Jesus. He wanted to sit not twelve seats away, not six, but smack-dab beside him.
If Abel’s blood is spilled all over the ground or if a mere speck had been lodged in the fabric of Cain’s shirt, that blood cries out. It has a voice and it will speak to whomever is willing to listen.
When I was a kid, I roamed the alleys and nearby fields with a pocket full of pebbles and a slingshot in hand. My grandfather had carved me the slingshot from the fork of a mesquite tree, native to our New Mexico soil.