We don’t flinch at sin. We speak Christ into it.
One might say that the first statement of the Reformation was that a saint never stops repenting.
Wisdom and strength require bootstrap-pulling and the placing of noses to grindstones.

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Professional historians frequently assert that "miracles" are not a proper subject for historical investigation.
Fairy tales are but one chapter in the book we call storytelling. We may prefer reading other kinds of stories (mystery, science fiction, and so on).
The essential Christian claim is that God came to earth in Christ and died for men to take care of their problem of sin and evil.
It is often the case that when dealing Divine, we find ourselves befuddled. For as relatable and surprisingly vulnerable God is as the man Jesus, he seems, at times, to retain a certain aloofness, a type of distance.
Before long I was deeply involved in the trilogy (the reader is invariably "drawn into" the story in a unique way, and for a good reason as we shall see).
Years ago I picked up a used copy of Thomas Á Kempis’ Imitation of Christ at a second-hand bookstore.
We all began by hearing the truth, and then speaking the truth and believing the truth. That truth came to us on the lips of another.
As the story unfolds we see Luther’s Heidelberg theses on display, even before the Fellowship leaves Rivendell.
He has wandered away into the darkness of his doubting, got lost in his grief, confused by the pains he’s suffered. It happens. Shepherds sometimes become lost sheep as well.
Hus was burned at the stake in his early 40s, Luther lived to a fairly ripe, old age, but why?
But on the mountain in Galilee, where we encounter a very different side of God, doubts overtake us. Why?
Before you ever know what happened, Satan has taught us to doubt the promise of the crucified and risen Christ.