Christianity does not locate freedom in radical autonomy. It does not tell either men or women that happiness consists in escaping obligations arising from relationships we did not entirely choose.
Jesus never promised me a World Series championship. He never promised that my children would always succeed or that life would go according to plan. He promised something better.
In Jesus, God acted first, even when we were dead in our trespasses and sins (Eph. 2:5).

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Christmas is not for remembering, thinking, pondering, trying to make sure you are really celebrating it properly, or for wondering whether you truly have faith.
The anticipation of Advent is supposed to build us up, not make us exhausted.
Lewis once pointed out that Christianity does not begin by telling us how to behave, but by telling us what is wrong.
Christianity doesn’t start with our speculation about God. It starts with God’s self-revelation.
This story points us from our unlikely heroes to the even more unlikely, and joyous, good news that Jesus’ birth for us was just as unlikely and unexpected.
Illness is not romantic. It is not a test, a metaphor, nor a blessing in disguise.
While Thoreau’s Walden is seen as a central text of that most American of virtues—self-reliance—quiet ambition as envisioned by Tinetti is exactly the opposite: dependence on God.
For the Christian, the iron gate of death was opened by the blood of Christ and the empty tomb.
When we fail, our first impulse is the same as that of our spiritual ancestors: to sprint headlong into the bushes.
Something Reformation Christians ought to do is familiarize themselves with Roman Catholic theology.
The Reformation isn’t just a chapter in church history. It’s a reminder that the gospel remains forever good news.
Grace isn’t fair. It’s reckless and lavish and handed out freely to those who don’t deserve a thing.