Infamy allows us the opportunity to hone one of our favorite skills: to shrink a 343-page life story down to a single paragraph that narrates what happened on one day, at a certain hour, and in a certain location. We can whittle an entire biography down to a single Tweet.

There is no perfect, divinely chosen, just-waiting-for-you-to-figure-it-out job for you. The Lord will use you to serve others in whatever vocation you choose. You’re not only his child but his priest. So, wherever you work, there is your altar.

Jesus didn’t simply vacate the tomb to end death. He brought up from that grave the seeds of a brand new start at life. Genesis 1 all over again, with no chance of Genesis 3.

When Lamech named his newborn son Noah—which means “rest”—he said, “This one shall give us comfort from our work and from the toil of our hands arising from the ground which the Lord has cursed”

Since God is most high, He can only look down. Nothing is above Him. No one is more exalted than He is.

The prophets of old were right: we do resemble what we revere. Our anthropology is hijacked by materialism. We become just stuff who consume stuff and hope to have enough stuff to make life worth it.

One of my jobs in high school was helping local ranchers work cattle. We’d vaccinate, cut off horns, castrate, mark their ears, and brand them.

Pastors are built from the same stuff as everyone else. That’s good, and that’s bad.

I finally climbed all 109 mountains. My journey began out of desperation, fueled by anger, fear, resentment.

We have at least one thing going for us: we know the first of these two days —our birthday.

Our American ethos trumpets the ideal of the rugged individual who doesn’t need anyone else. But that’s not only a lie; it’s also the recipe for disaster.

Just as we believe ourselves to be forgiven because God sees us in Christ, so to forgive others is to see them as God sees them in Christ. To forgive, in other words, is to put God’s eyes in our eyes and our eyes in God’s eyes.