When I told my parents about the altar call, my mother patiently explained that for some of us conversion is an ongoing process.
As two new biographies and a massive collection of poems show, Denise Levertov's distinctive work and life remain relevant and rewarding.
Ordinarily I don't like to write about Fred Phelps and his family. When a group's main goal is to say hateful things and draw attention to itself, I don't want to help out with that project in any small way. But Megan Phelps-Roper, Phelps's granddaughter, is another story.
My first thought upon learning that Chris Haw had written a memoir about his journey to Catholicism was, Oh no—not another one.
I've always been drawn to people like Larry. Whether they realize it or not, they are searching for a mainline church that makes sense in their brains and a difference in their lives.
Proclaiming good news ought to in some way lead to a response. Otherwise it can be an exercise in cheap grace.
In my 45th year, I “came to my senses in a dark forest." Somehow my life had once again veered out of control, though not in the usual sense: not morally. In that sphere, I was looking pretty good. I was teaching at a university and was a published writer. After a challenging stint as a single mother, I’d made a go of it with a new marriage. Most important, after a decade of deliberate, repetitive sinning, I’d repented and returned to the church. I was bashfully pleased with myself and content with my life.