If we truly examine our words and actions, we are forced to admit that we have sometimes echoed Peter’s words: “I know not the man!”
As the family sat down to open Christmas presents, their 7-year-old son began to cry: “Mommy! Mommy! My duplicate is dead!” What could it mean?
Online giving may soon make passing the plate during Sunday morning worship services practically obsolete. But at what theological cost?
During Lent, we stare the awful truth of death directly in the face and contemplate anew the depth of our sin and the magnitude of Christ’s salvation.
Christ alone. It seems so simple, so elementary. Every Lutheran knows and believes that, don’t they? And yet … how often do we forget?
What does love look like? A husband and a wife who lay down their lives for each other. Christ on the cross, dying to redeem His Bride.
Beginning with its epic appearance in the opening verses of Genesis, light is a powerful image throughout the pages of Scripture.
The words of the familiar psalm are more than poetry. They are a confession of faith: With Christ as our Shepherd, we want for nothing.
We do a nice thing and immediately tuck it away in our mental archives for later. “Wow,” we say to ourselves, “would you look at that!” And then we do. Often.
Lasagna and honey ham, lemon bars and snickerdoodles … There’s something heavenly about a potluck.
“Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal, but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven.”
When the unimaginable happens, faith in Jesus is the only thing that will help us through.
“The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few; therefore, pray earnestly to the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into his harvest” (Matt. 9:36).
In its March issue, LW looks at what it means for Christians to live “in the world, but not of the world” — together.
Instead of just bridging the church generation gap, what if we embraced it? From both sides?
In the family of God, we never run out of people to love.