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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We are continuing our summer series on a theology of worship through the lens of language. Before moving forward, let me highlight a few points by way of review.
It’s a miracle anyone believes the Gospel. It goes against everything else we believe in.
Why was Jesus crucified? Not to save victims, but to save sinners.
The time constrained authoring of the Augustana caused great angst, for the part of Melanchthon that was never satisfied with his own literary output.
The dying words of Jesus were not, “Make it worth it,” but “It is finished.”
No, when the Lord is ready for battle, of all creatures, he commissions Mary’s little lamb.
Like any language, the liturgy has syntax—a structure that provides order and intelligibly communicates meaning through all that is said.
A crisis of faith always occurs when we begin to believe that God has betrayed us.
I became like God’s child David, whom the Lord pardoned of his adultery and murder. I became like Noah, Abraham, Judah, Aaron, Gideon, and so many more wayward children.
Stephen Fry, the English actor, author and game show host once disparaged the “grammar Nazis” who felt it necessary to enforce all the rules of language but who had forgotten, or just didn’t care, about the joy of language.
We're of little faith. Or rather, we have big faith, but it’s in something else. Our faith is in our ability to control situations, manipulate them to our advantage.
I'm in the middle of a series on Paul's letter to the Ephesians.