The crucified and risen Christ comes to renew, restore, and build up.
The world rushes forward, lighting up screens and decking out storefronts in a mad sprint toward the next thing, but Advent pulls us back.
In Scripture, laments are raw expressions of grief, but they always point to hope. What if our culture’s obsession with holiday lights is an unconscious way of crying out, “We need good news, and we need it now”?

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The reason that God’s commandments are not burdensome is that Jesus has fulfilled them.
Walking in the light doesn't entail a spotless moral record but rather an honest appraisal of who we are.
With every bone in our bodies, we declare war on grace. We declare war on the gift.
Because of Jesus, God always hears our prayers, and he always responds to them in love–regardless of the quality or quantity of the one speaking them.
The world we inhabit is wrong in so many ways, and a holistic approach to this “wrongness” traces its cause both to sin itself and to the effects of sin.
God’s candle is not so easily extinguished. His promise is not some vague light at the end of the tunnel that we may or may not reach. In fact, God’s light has a name: Jesus Christ.
Without the sacraments, God’s grace is simply an artifact behind a glass-case in a museum. We might be able to describe and even admire it, but we never get firsthand access to it.
God’s love is axiomatic; it just is. It’s a truism without a logical explanation.
Only when we’re ready to accept the impossibility of human perfection can we move beyond the paralyzing myth that we are capable of anything good apart from Christ.
All of my theological endeavoring will not squeeze one more ounce of grace from God.
Since the law is our mother-tongue, we naturally assume it’s the only language that exists; this ceaseless, damning voice reminding us that we are not all that we should be.
As human beings, we usually think that mercy should have limits; that it should never exceed its confines. This attitude is rooted deeply in the human heart.