Apart from the confession that Jesus of Nazareth is the Christ of God who suffered and died for the forgiveness of sins and rose again to justify the ungodly, there is no Christian faith.
We are called to believe in the church even when we don’t believe in the church.
The great lie of addiction is that suffering must be fled, must be numbed, must be drowned out by any means necessary.

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The great lie of addiction is that suffering must be fled, must be numbed, must be drowned out by any means necessary.
The addict’s condition speaks a hard truth: that we are all beggars before God, every one of us bent toward the grave.
Addiction is the warped fruit of a good tree: a sign that the heart longs for transcendence but has sought it in places too small, too finite to hold such hunger.
In Simeon's hands and Anna's gaze, we are reminded of God's promise—not distant, not fading, but alive.
Belief at Christmas is neither neat nor safe. It is the path that leads to the manger and, from there, to the cross.
The world rushes forward, lighting up screens and decking out storefronts in a mad sprint toward the next thing, but Advent pulls us back.
Instead of a “how-to” manual, the Bible is a “what-you-didn’t-do” story.
One Christ rules over all of it. He is the constant, the root that nourishes every estate and every vocation.
Salvation doesn’t hang in the balance of a voting booth.
Jesus Christ is relentless. He does not give up. And with him comes the certainty of redemption.
Let your soul grieve, yes, but don’t let it be eaten alive by worry.
It is the story of a God who is not distant, not indifferent, not doing anything in half-measures, but who is here, now.