This is the first in a series of articles entitled “Getting Over Yourself for Lent.” We’ll have a new article every week of this Lenten Season.
We can’t remove our crosses or the reality of our deaths. Only Jesus can.
People everywhere, every day, feel God’s wrath—and not as merely an afterlife threat but as a present reality.

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Of all the Inklings, Williams was certainly the most enigmatic. His mind and body were always moving.
In A Hobbit, A Wardrobe and a Great War, Loconte meticulously analyzes both Lewis and Tolkien with one eye on their immediate historical context and the other on their works, letters, and diary entries.
God knows that when we face insurmountable odds in our moments of weakness, we are more likely to turn to him in trust and reliance.
If poetry elevates its subject, we could also say the reverse: the subject, in this case, the Most High God, elevates the language.
Luther actually expected the Catechism to be taught in the home.
Even at Lewis’ graveside, Havard was a faithful friend, and a friend full of faith in Christ, confessing his hope in the resurrection.
Attempting to escape the errors of medieval Catholic thinking, Agricola ended up making the same mistake of conflating law and gospel.
Charles V, for all his power, his lands, and his riches, was ultimately unable to hinder the spread of the precious Gospel.
We know that death does not have the last word in Christ.
Dyson demonstrated a pious persistence with Lewis, something we can emulate in our own friendships and conversations.
The Lord assures Jeremiah he has not forgotten him. He is there and will rescue him.
The Lord has remembered to help his servant Israel, to fulfill his promises to Abraham and to his offspring forever, not mostly or mainly because of his mercy, but exclusively so.