Verse 24, 25. “Being justified freely by His grace through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus: Whom God hath set forth to be a propitiation through faith in His blood, to declare His righteousness.”See by how many proofs he makes good what was said. First, from the worthiness of the person, for it is not a man who doeth these things, that Continue reading
At about 7:45 p.m. Eastern Time today, one of the Newsweek links on the front page of MSNBC.com was asking whether a particular local chapter of Alcoholic’s Anonymous was actually a cult. The link referred to the following article:
The following video was prepared for the 2006 national conference (September 29-October 1) held by John Piper’s Desiring God ministry. The 2006 conference took its name from David Wells’ recent book, Above All Earthly Pow’rs: Christ in a Postmodern World, (Grand Rapids, MI, USA: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2005). Wells (Ph.D., University of Manchester) is a professor of historical and systematic theology at Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary, South Hamilton, Massachusetts.
You can also view this video on Desiring God’s web site, where you will find a page linking to videos of interviews with other conference speakers.
I have been told to reason by the heart,
But heart, like head, leads helplessly;
I have been told to reason by the pulse,
And, when it quickens, alter the actions’ pace
Till field and roof lie level and the same…[Dylan Thomas, excerpted from “Should Lanterns Shine,” in The Collected Poems of Dylan Thomas 1934-1952, (New York: New Directions Books, 1971), 72.]
One day I called someone up and got the wrong number. I apologized profusely but then realized just an apology was not enough. I offered some money as partial compensation and then threw in some stocks and bonds at the last minute. Then I thought, perhaps if I could take their address and send them everything I own, then take a journey to Tibet to acquire wisdom, I could then inform them of the truth, something money could not buy. Naturally they were still indignant, but were at least convinced of my sincerity in wanting to make it right. They suggested that after I go to Tibet, I kill myself, thus offering my last breath as penance. This seemed slightly out of line, but not being a good businessman, I agreed.
So now I’m in Tibet, standing on my head on a llama, thinking ’bout the day I got dat wrong number.
—Steve Martin, “Wrong Number,” from Cruel Shoes, (New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1979), 61-62.
The version I read, which was written before Joseph Ratzinger became pope, goes something like this: Karl Rahner, Hans Küng, and Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger all die on the same day and go to meet St. Peter to learn of their fates. St. Peter approaches the three men and tells them that he will interview each of them to discuss their views on various issues. Continue reading
The first year in which Major League Baseball offered its Rookie of the Year Award was 1947 (at that time there was only one award for both the National and American Leagues). Coincidentally, it was in that same year, on April 15, Jack Roosevelt “Jackie” Robinson debuted for the Brooklyn Dodgers as the first African American Major League Baseball player. He went on to hit .297, lead the National League in stolen bases, and win the Rookie of the Year Award. Branch Rickey‘s gamble had paid off.
Thirty-six years ago (in 1971), in a series of three lectures that he delivered in Mittersill, Australia, D. Martyn Lloyd-Jones asked the question, “What Is an Evangelical?” (You can read them in Knowing the Times [Edinburgh, UK & Carlisle, PA, USA: The Banner of Truth Trust, 2001].)
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A guy comes down to Earth, takes your sins, dies, and comes back three days later. You believe in him, and go to heaven forever. How do you get from that to hide the eggs? Did Jesus have a problem with eggs? Did he go, “When I come back, if I see any eggs, the whole salvation thing is off”?
[Judy Brown, ed., Joke Stew, (Kansas City, MO, USA: Andrews McMeel Publishing, 2000), 135.]
Weariness hung from his facial muscles like lead weights on fishing lines. His hair, recently mauled by the suburban Chicago winds, reflected the gusts of reproach he had just battled. His jaw was set like that of a courtroom defendant whose guilty verdict was still echoing in his ears as he came to lay his pile of frustrations on the counter just long enough to write out a check to the seminary business office and be on his way.
Something told me he was having a rough day. It didn’t take long for me to dig it out of him. I guess he thought I would empathize.
Our Life Is But a Span 