Living by faith has never been about what we bring to the table. It has always been, and always will be, about what God does for us when we can’t do anything for ourselves.
The entire history of Protestantism is downstream of a goldsmith in Mainz figuring out how to cast identical pieces of lead type in less than a minute.
When we despair of ourselves, we repent of these self-justifying schemes and allow ourselves to be shaped by God, covered in Christ’s righteousness, and reborn with a new heart.

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Three Lenten songs express the same astonishing wonder of a Lord who willingly suffers and dies.
News of Kilmer's death hit me like a freight train because his Doc Holliday stirred something in me about friendship—both the earthly kind and the divine.
The Psalm now is this: as Christ suffered and then was exalted, so we are also in him.
Sometimes the old story is the one we need to hear again and again.
Lent isn't simply a season. It's the Christian life in microcosm.
Apart from the confession that Jesus of Nazareth is the Christ of God who suffered and died for the forgiveness of sins and rose again to justify the ungodly, there is no Christian faith.
The great lie of addiction is that suffering must be fled, must be numbed, must be drowned out by any means necessary.
To be happy is to be the object of God’s love in Christ and to love God and others with the love of Christ.
You cannot sever the saint from the sinner. Christians remain both simultaneously.
Despite the mathematical incongruity, the church confesses that Christ is one hundred percent human and one hundred percent divine.
In grace, God chooses to love his people.
Christians don’t need a bucket list. We’ve got the whole bucket: the Word fulfilled, life fulfilled, and life in full.