When you remember your baptism, you're not recalling a ritual. You're standing under a current of divine action that has not ceased to flow since the moment those baptismal waters hit your skin.
“The fear of the Lord” is our heart’s awakening to and recognition of God’s outrageous goodness.
The women at the tomb were surprised by Easter. Amazed and filled with wonder at Jesus' Easter eucatastrophe. And so are we.

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Like Isaiah and John, we look forward to that great and glorious day, trusting the resurrected One will return as He promised.
In Genesis 1-2, the Lord reveals—or, at a bare minimum, starts dropping some big hints—that he will be quite comfortable becoming a human being himself someday.
In the Lord’s Thanksgiving Supper, we are not served turkey, green bean casserole, and cornbread. We are served Christ.
That's how true faith talks. It doesn't talk about itself. It says "Thank you!" to the one who gives healing and salvation.
Thanksgiving utters a confession of dependence, an acknowledgement of the gift of something not earned or deserved.
The oddness of this moment, at the beginning of Advent, is God’s way of saying, “The reason I’m here...”
The youths that mock Elisha are representative of Israel’s collective contempt and disregard for all things relating to their One True God.
Trust in the midst of trouble. That is what our Lord calls us to experience today.
We won’t use the right words, but the Holy Spirit is interceding with and for us, as we pray.
Fourteen years ago, drowning in the muck of dark despair, in the middle of a life gone terribly wrong, I wrote in my journal, "I wonder how, once this is all over, how I’ll be, how I’ll turn out…” Now I know.
Everywhere we look, there is suffering. But Jesus is not calling us to look. He is calling us to listen.
A Sermon on Psalm 130:3–6.