Let us live by walking with Jesus, so that our Neo-Pagan neighbors, the witch, and frankly a lot of us Christians, can put down our crystals, our superstitions, our vision boards, and our bound sage in order to live out a liturgy of life, with rituals, practices, and behaviors that reflect who we are as followers of Christ.
As Jesus hung on the cross there would be no last second escape. No Greek goddess would swoop in to rescue him. He suffered alone. And yet even in that suffering he declared his victory on the spiritual battlefield to be your victory.
God can handle grief, rage, and cries for justice. God can handle the victim who cannot yet forgive. God can handle the prayer that comes out jagged and wounded. The good news is that God is holy and merciful enough to handle all our prayers.

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This Savior’s love for His church is no small thing. He gives up His own life so that she will live.
This is the first of seven words of Christ from the cross.
The greatest joy of Lent is failing at it only to find Jesus has already done it for us.
Christ’s flesh and blood is light that the darkness cannot comprehend.
Whenever I read the Genesis account of Abraham, I’m more impressed that he’s often a clumsy, mess of a man than that it’s “faith that’s accounted to him as righteousness.”
In God’s eyes, we cannot be too fat or ugly, mean or selfish, shamed or abused, corrupted or inadequate for him not to love us.
The Law must attack because nothing outside of Christ can enter Heaven—nothing!
Now, resurrection can only follow upon death. The good news is, it will!
I cannot recall how many times I sang along to this theme song, punching and kicking as a kid in the 80s. But much of my desire to join the Marine Corps had its genesis in the 80s cartoon “G.I. Joe: A Real American Hero.”
Jesus’ sacrificial death is the perfect sacrifice because He is sinless, the spotless Lamb, and it is for you.
God has given us a way out of our plight of “ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” It is the way of the cross.
“The strongest person in the room doesn't win the fight," she said, "it’s whoever's the meanest…” I was fifteen years old when my aunt taught me that.