This is the third installment in the 1517 articles series, “What Makes a Saint?”
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.

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The kingdom I seek is the lower-case realm ruled over by the almighty upper-case Me.
When it comes to God’s word, our help only obscures his power and grace.
Is there anything abiding, anything long-lasting that can inspire us to hope again?
The enemy comes with his wounding, haunting words, and I stand behind my advocate Christ the Lord. He gives me more words, better words, truer words.
God doesn’t permit me to write you off regardless of who you are or what you may have done. Nor does he allow you to dismiss me because I might not fit your image of a vessel of God’s mercy.
We are meant to serve in love both our neighbor in need as well as the neighbor who doesn’t think they need us.
Our use–or disuse–of language reveals a deeper need than a bubbly carbonated soda. It highlights a gift given and a gift fallen, and it leaves us thirsting for a gift restored.
God will keep his promises, but how he keeps them is often quite surprising.
It is through the locatedness of the Church that one anchors faith in Christ and the sure hope we are not alone, and God is for us and with us through Jesus.
The Psalms do anything but present a sugar-coated presentation of the Christian life. In fact, they are decidedly real about the missed expectations we face so often.
In the middle of the spring, on a run-of-the-mill Thursday, the ascension interrupts the mundane to herald the extraordinary: Christ is in charge and is present on earth as he is in heaven, guiding history for the sake of his church.
In his last novel, Islands in the Stream, Hemingway shows us what we get when we look to nature for ultimate truth: death.