It can feel like a feeble offering to pray, but I find it harder not to.
Selected posts from around our network of affiliated bloggers
The Spirit didn’t come down at Pentecost. Eyes were opened to God’s presence.
This is not a unblemished body rising to heaven. This is Jesus in the flesh, God carrying embodiedness through to the end.
We go to church to worship, not just to be polite.
Our son told me his strategy for getting to safety. I hate that worst-case scenario planning is his reality.
Rachel’s work changed the trajectory of American Christianity, but she was always grounded and generous.
Before I could say the customary words, she reached for the pottery chalice and took drink after drink.
Our spiritual lives are like kintsugi pottery—mended with gold leaf along the cracks.
We’re preconditioned for self-gain and not for self-sacrifice. We need God’s help not only to do better but to want to do better.
In a world of whittled attention spans, perhaps the greatest gift I can offer my children is also the simplest.
Tsunetomo and Thurman both say death is not to be feared for those who understand their purpose in life.
He shows me a ceramic ram, duck, and eagle: “At night I see them wrestling with each other.”
Perhaps no one really believes giving up coffee or cookies forgives their sins. But do we see a Lenten discipline as an act of will?
A historian contacted us about a tour of sites where mobs had lynched people—including the locust tree across from our sanctuary.
Mystics understand what moralists do not: God pulls us like a magnet to our essence.