We can’t remove our crosses or the reality of our deaths. Only Jesus can.
People everywhere, every day, feel God’s wrath—and not as merely an afterlife threat but as a present reality.
Faith, for Peter, is not suspended in religious abstraction. It is tied to something that happened in time and space.

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The acrostic psalms do not hold because of their perfect structure. Nor do our lives.
The Reformation isn’t just a chapter in church history. It’s a reminder that the gospel remains forever good news.
The Protestant milieu was pervaded with the announcement that God and God alone is the active agent in the salvation of sinners.
When faith seeks understanding—when belief is grounded in revelation and open to the light of reason—truth can travel.
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.
Faith takes God at his word and holds his promise to be true for me because I know God would not lie to me.
Fideistic Christianity may look bold, but it is fragile.
He doesn’t consume us, even though that is what we deserve. Instead, Jesus comes down to us and consumes all our sin by taking it on himself.
The Antichrist offers another continual presence. It is every whisper that tempts us toward autonomy, that tells us to carry it alone, that insists suffering is meaningless.
The “mystery of faith” entails the article of faith: Incarnation, Crucifixion, Resurrection, Ascension, and, finally, his Parousia.
Children are not meant to carry crowns. They are not meant to rule. The burden crushes them in slow, invisible ways.
Tetzel peddled righteousness for gold, but God gives it freely through faith in his promised Word, the person and work of Jesus Christ.