Hope is one of the strangest things about being human. We cannot see it, measure it, or prove that it is justified. It is a part of our consciousness, that part of us that science has no explanation for. And yet we live by it. We make plans because of it. We endure difficult seasons because of it. We plant gardens, raise children, make friends, fall in love, begin again and look toward tomorrow because somewhere inside us is the expectation that tomorrow is worth reaching for
There is a particular sadness that comes with getting older. It is not simply that we have fewer years ahead of us. It is that we finally understand the value of some of the years behind us. Time has a way of moving forward without asking our permission. It carries us along while we are busy living ... raising children, working, making plans, worrying about money, rushing to the next appointment, the next season, the next thing that needs to be done. We imagine there will alw
Every once in a while doubt arises, usually with a raised eyebrow and a tired sigh: What if we made it all up? What if Jesus is a beautifully crafted myth ... an ancient con job, polished by centuries of repetition? It’s a fair question. Healthy even. Faith that can’t survive honest daylight isn’t faith; it’s superstition with better manners. But here’s the thing. When you actually look at the story we’re supposedly accusing of being fabricated, it behaves very badly for a li
