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 the younger son, we can return to our Father every time our sinful hearts rebel against him. Like the older brother, we can complain and lament to our Father without fear of being destroyed.
We show up to this crowded sacred shindig on Sundays, all wings and halos and blue jeans, and shimmy our way into the sanctuary, late to church but not late to church, for how can we be late to a service that never ends?
Our very lives as parents and children implicitly proclaim this higher and lovely truth: we have no value to God based upon our usefulness.
God broke into the midst of our pain and allows us to bring our requests to him as those who are counted as “godly.”
When I hear my brother’s name, I will grieve a little. But I will also rejoice, for I know that he is with his Savior.
So long as we entrust death to Jesus, new life is ours. He has lunch ready and he is waiting for us in the power of his resurrection.
Jesus gave His disciples the Lord’s Prayer as a gift. It’s really our prayer when you think about it.
Jesus is a heroic warrior that not even hell can defeat.
Friends are a gift from God, but all gifts flow from God to his children because of his love for us on account of Christ.
Our scars are a reminder that salvation is all gift.
The following is an excerpt from“Where Two or Three Are Gathered” edited by Scott Keith (1517 Publishing, 2019).
This letter is not without controversy—not because of its content but due to questions concerning its authorship and canonicity.