The Passover wasn’t just Israel’s story; it’s ours.
God makes us pure saints by planting us back in the earth we imagined we needed to escape.
Salvation is not merely to be put in “safety” but to be put into Christ.

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I take out the broom, spray bottle, and trash can. For the hundredth time this week, I find myself sweeping up the mess of a Christmas to come.
The church cannot stop singing of the joy of the Incarnation. Here is another hymn to add to the long list of poetry focused on Emmanuel.
Is there no sweeter sound than Immanuel? Christ’s name, God with us. Those three words heal an ocean of hurts, give courage to the weakest heart, and lifts the head of the weariest pilgrim.
We have heard of the man born to be king. Here in Bethlehem, by divine condescension, the King—the King of kings—is born to be man.
Jesus isn't Superman. He's not from another planet. He's from Earth.
God coming to us at Christmas encapsulates the essence of Christian faith: we don't make ourselves strong and then work our way up to a strong God.
He created us with an eye on recreating us. He made humanity in his image because one day he would assume that image. The Creator would become a creature while remaining Creator.
This time of year, Christmas time, the world isn't so much Christ-expectant as it is Christ-haunted.
Over and over, generation after generation, sinners repeat the same mistake. "How is it possible that God can be a man," we ask.
For those of you unfamiliar with the Richter scale, our friends over at Wikipedia define it as a 1930s invention that "is a base-10 logarithmic scale, which defines magnitude as the logarithm of the ratio of the amplitude of the seismic waves to an arbitrary, minor amplitude."
We shrink away from God’s godness and almightiness, and so shrink down our prayers. Perhaps it is a lack of faith. We don’t trust God to give what He himself has promised to give.
Today, if you look closely at my left eye, you’ll see one tiny speck of powder embedded in the whiteness.