Worship never existed as escape from the world, but preparation for life within it.
For many years, I held piety as my god.
The reasoning was always the same. The gods were angry. The gods were hungry. The gods required payment.

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The Protestant milieu was pervaded with the announcement that God and God alone is the active agent in the salvation of sinners.
We can lay down our sledgehammers of moralistic performance, which aren’t effective anyway, and we can trust that we are his and his life is ours.
You’re permitted to call on “Our Father, who art in heaven” at all hours of the day and night with whatever you like.
Tetzel peddled righteousness for gold, but God gives it freely through faith in his promised Word, the person and work of Jesus Christ.
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 way of the cross is the actual way of victory. Jesus absorbs the worst of what humanity and even the devil can do to him, and he spurns the shame of it all.
‘Peace’ means “I have forgiven all those sins against me.”
As soon as people understand what crucifixion means, the cross becomes offensive.
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?
This story is not meant for six-year-olds, but it is meant for us, though we should hardly handle it.
This is the first installment in the 1517 articles series, “What Makes a Saint?”