The Church speaks not with the cleverness of men, but with the breath of God.
I always imagined dying a faithful death for Christ would mean burning at the stake. Now, I suspect it will mean dying in my bed of natural causes.
How many times in our lifetime must we sigh, floundering through this world with our sins, sorrows, struggles, frustrations, fears, and foes?

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The preacher does not merely send out the raven. From the pulpit flies forth the dove of the Gospel.
I grew up with a great deal of guilt. It still keeps me up at night. For one reason or another, I was convinced I hadn’t done enough to be loved by God.
Hers is not a beauty of breathtaking cathedrals, stained glass, or towering arches, but of a body.
It is the strangest of morgues—people arrive dead as doornails and leave alive.
My eyes soaked in the midnight view. Stars crowded the sky.
Old Testament narratives foreshadowed the gifts that our Father gives us in baptism.
It's coming. Can you feel it? It's creeping up on us like a quiet predator. It's hiding behind the Christmas trees and stockings hung with care. It's getting ready to strike.
The arrangement was made with Abraham when God claimed for Himself all of his being, and put the seal of His promise upon the most personal member of his anatomy.
Can one still find a church that teaches that Christianity, and the Christian life, can be summed up as: "We are saved by grace alone, through faith alone, in Christ alone?"
by Fredrik Sidenvall, translated by Bror Erickson
In his Gospel account, Luke challenges us to play "Where is Jesus?"
God spoke into the black depth. “Let there be light."