This is an excerpt from the introduction of Stretched: A Study for Lent and the Entire Christian Life by Christopher Richmann (1517 Publishing, 2026).
We can bring our troubles, griefs, sorrows, and sins to Jesus, who meets us smack dab in the middle of our messy mob.
Confession isn’t a detour in the liturgy. It’s the doorway.

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Overcrowding on Mount Everest betrays what our culture worships. We bow down at the altar of the impossible to be seen as the conquerors, the champions.
My past, littered about this tiny island, resurrects itself when I draw near, but it never does so alone. It is always accompanied by the Savior.
Martin Luther is not–or, at least should not–be the object of our affection.
These treasures show us that, no matter how well we think we know this poem, there’s always more layers to uncover.
Everything was perfectly teed up to move the needle on the baptism metric, but I just couldn’t do it. I told her she shouldn't get baptized.
In truth, forgetting transgressions has little to do with forgiving others who wrong us.
My ego just couldn't accept that I preached the Christian and him improved and not Christ and Him crucified.
“I love you” is great, as long as whatever commitment I may or may not be intimating is mutually beneficial and causes the least amount of emotional strain to me.
It was during one of these garbage burns, however, that I was bathed in a fresh remembrance of grace.
They cannot know that I am already a father, but, this side of eternity, I won’t ever meet my child because of a miscarriage.
Shame is shameful. That may seem obvious but ponder this observation from the authors of Scenes of Shame: “Shame, indeed, covers shame itself—it is shameful to express shame.”