No matter how many times we hear this good news, it never stops being good news.
Our faith is precisely where Paul puts it, namely, in the blood of Christ.
Just as trick-or-treaters arrive at doorsteps as beggars, we come to the Lord’s table with nothing to offer but our sin and need for forgiveness.

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There is no evidence whatsoever that Christmas was or is, by some outlandish stretch of the imagination, a pagan holiday, or a semi-pagan holiday, or that it doesn’t pass the “smell test” for paganism.
Come, Lord Jesus, and steal our navel-gazing worship, and replace it with love for our adversaries, ears to listen and mouths to shut up, and hearts brimming with compassion for all.
We are still so much closer to Peter in our flaws than his virtues, and Christ is still our rescue.
When we look to Jesus nailed up on that cross, that's God's final goodbye to our sin-blasted survival methods. No more unanswered questions. No more long goodbyes.
Here is truly illustrated the truth that no one comes to Christ except the Father draw him; and with what power, what delicious sweetness, the Father allures!
The kingdom of God is not a place, a thing, a concept, a philosophy, a spiritual force, or a state of being. The kingdom of God is a person.
God comes to fix what is broken by being broken himself. He abolishes death by dying. He subsumes sin by being made sin itself.
The stilling of the seas is not so much a parable of words but a parable of actions. Jesus shows his apostles that they were seeing but not perceiving, hearing but not understanding who he was.
As I sat there in the dark, empty church with my hands buried in the guts of a copy machine I was powerless to fix, I couldn't help feeling sorry for myself.
When a king dies and his throne is up for grabs, we worry about what will happen next. But, heaven's throne is always occupied by the One who was raised from death for us.
True love isn't a thing. We can't find true love in our souls, soul mates, or safe spaces. We can't marry true love, buy it, or create it from scratch.
We show up to this crowded sacred shindig on Sundays, all wings and halos and blue jeans, and shimmy our way into the sanctuary, late to church but not late to church, for how can we be late to a service that never ends?