The Century invites readers to submit first-person narratives (under 1,000 words) on the topics character and wilderness.
Here in Washington State, there is roughly the same number of churches as there are prisoners.
Pope Francis calls us to internalize the planet's pain.
In 1947 and 1948, respectively, Christian scholars C.S. Lewis and Reinhold Niebuhr appeared on the cover of Time magazine. Since then, commentators have bemoaned the disappearance of the Christian intellectual.
We cannot be expected to make an informed, soulful decision about the general election when the very process of sharing information drowns out the thing we most need to hear: the voice of God.
Why is Pokemon Go so captivating? At least partly because it re-enchants the world.
I see the people I'm protesting against when I get my mail, or sort my laundry.
Here in Cambridge, England, I pray in the mornings, read St. Paul, walk in the afternoons—sometimes through soft English rains—and sip hot tea with cream.
“Make America Safe Again,” said the signs and speakers on the first night of the Republican National Convention. The desire to feel and be safe crosses political boundaries; it informs a litany of human actions. Yet the very concept seems unexamined. What makes for safety? Is it the same as feeling safe? Is it the same as comfort?
What’s a miracle? How can we (frail human creatures that we are!) separate contingency—what’s possible but unpredictable, an event that seems unlikely or unintended—from miracle?
American civil religion is dead, to paraphrase Nietzsche. We have killed it.
Nice, on France’s Mediterranean coast, now joins a long list of cities, on four continents, where Islamist terrorists have perpetrated gruesome attacks, mercilessly killing hundreds of innocents. And those are just where some of the highest-profile outrages have occurred, the ones that attract headlines.
America does not have a problem with racial tension. Racial tension is simply the fever indicating the disease. America has a problem with racism.
I had work to do the other day, but I set it aside to reread Elie Wiesel’s Night as a way to mark the great man’s death and remember his life. While I was struck by passages I anticipated, like his account of how his belief was shattered upon seeing the furnaces of Auschwitz—“Never shall I forget those flames which consumed my faith forever”—it was an unexpected line that caught me, given a current news story I’d been following.
Elie Wiesel has died. Reading the obituaries, the thing that astounds me is the thing that has always astounded me: how young he was. Eighty-seven now, in 2016. I’ve been burying World War II veterans throughout my years of pastoral ministry. How could Wiesel only be 87?