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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We follow the example of creation and her Creator, wasting our love quite prodigally in fulfilling our callings, whether we’re thanked or spurned, applauded or ignored.
In him, retribution is set aside. Forgiveness comes. A new order begins. Remember that God’s mission will prevail, because grace is in, with, and under the fabric of human history.
Jesus lives amidst the twisted metal and smoking ruins of lives gone bad. It’s where he does his best work. Christ is the ultimate first responder.
Dual narratives are unfolding in our lives at every moment. There’s the story we’re writing, and the one penned by the Spirit.
In Adam and in us, life has been wrapped in death. But in Jesus, God has wrapped death in life.
But another possible translation for the Greek word we translate as ‘overcome’ and one maybe more consistent with the context is ‘comprehend.’
We are dangerously good at focusing on our exciting, or boring, walk of faith.
Only the poor are in need of a Savior, and only the dead need faith, hope, and love delivered to them by the hand of the Almighty.
Only a god could be wise. We are seekers, lovers of divine wisdom, but it is forever beyond our grasp due to human limitation.
Jesus tears down every “but” that people try to build between us and God. He died and rose for us, and—not but—He makes Himself our Lord and Savior.
Even now we sing as we live in His gifts, and await His second Advent—His second-coming.
The text says there was no room for them. And this should give us cause for a little head-scratching.