This is an excerpt from the introduction of Stretched: A Study for Lent and the Entire Christian Life by Christopher Richmann (1517 Publishing, 2026).
We can bring our troubles, griefs, sorrows, and sins to Jesus, who meets us smack dab in the middle of our messy mob.
Confession isn’t a detour in the liturgy. It’s the doorway.

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Unprompted, without any warning, for no reason at all, without any instigation say, "I love you." And that will wash over your parents like a beautiful absolution.
A Christian is a man who desires to enter heaven not through his own goodness and works, but through the righteousness and works of Christ.
Reading includes, on some level, striving. Hearing, on the other hand, remains passive.
His love for you is so deep that in his mercy, while you were yet a sinner, God sent his only begotten Son to die for you.
Zephaniah has given us something more visceral to help us understand the love of God: the sound of salvation.
God has the power to take that which is small, that which is overlooked, that which is despised, and use it to create something wonderful.
Rightly distinguishing between law and gospel, as Paul helps us see in 2 Corinthians 3, is, quite literally, a matter of life and death.
Even as he was dying, the heart of God poured itself out for the sake of sinners.
I hope your people expect and even demand this of you. But how we proclaim the central message, that can (and probably should) vary.
I think the problem with the idea of eternity is that we do not have any direct experience of it, but we encounter enough of its possibility to be unsettling.
The further up and further into the season of Epiphany we get, the bigger the grace of God in Christ is, the brighter the Light of Christ shines, and the more blessed we are in Jesus' epiphany for us.
Morons though we all have been, there is nothing we need that Christ hasn’t given us.