My visceral grief after the murders in Pittsburgh made me feel like a stranger in my own congregation.
I blunder through life in selfish and stupid ways that no mountain scene—however inspiring—can heal, forgive, or reorient.
An enigmatic verse from the prophet Amos stuck in my soul’s craw.
I wish the risen Christ hadn’t shown Thomas proof. Women had already testified to the resurrection.
“It’s the absolute worst when this happens,” says the man laying gravestones, unable to speak the words baby or dead.