An enigmatic verse from the prophet Amos stuck in my soul’s craw.
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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.
During the groaning evil of the Thirty Years War, a pastor wrote the hymn “Now thank we all our God.”
In the messy web of identity and associations, I’m weary of arguing about beliefs, practices, and labels.
Whatever else the Kaepernick ad is, it's a symptom of the confusion that characterizes our cultural moment.
Is our outrage only creating a sense of justice for ourselves?
The word missionary makes me cringe a little. But I was one, and it taught me a lot.
Like breastfeeding children, we are fed from Christ's own body, the 14th-century mystic wrote.
Souls aren’t easy to bare, particularly in jail.
There's an uncomfortable truth for us pastors: we're not academics with sacraments.
Questions that begin this way rarely have to do with the mission.
Sarah Huckabee Sanders was denied a meal at a Virginia restaurant. I wonder who's welcome at our table.
Jonah wants God to hate his enemy as much as he does.
"Is this feeding your souls?" I asked after we slogged through another biblical bloodbath.
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