The poetry of Genesis 1 invites us into a sort of palliative care for the earth.
creation
Rowan Williams sees creation through the human, divine Christ
The incarnation doesn’t require a miracle; it reveals one that’s already there.
God called all of them good. Humans are rapidly destroying them.
Crossing the boundary between theology and science
Essays that consider the natural order as God's creation—in a way scientists might recognize.
Two new (very different) Old Testament translations
Is it man or humanity? Ark or chest?
In the face of unprecedented assaults on planet Earth, what good is poetry?
Paradox at the heart of poetry
The Still Pilgrim—seemingly Angela Alaimo O'Donnell's alter ego—reflects joy and longing.
Agrarian agape
Norman Wirzba views theology and ecology through 1 John 4:8, "Whoever does not love does not know God."
Redemption revisited
Faith is formed in us by the Spirit and the life of the church. It renews our elemental confidence and creates our disposition toward the world.
People do not float through life in the bubble that is their skin. We are grounded, dependent beings that live through the lives and deaths of others.
Modern cosmology indicates that the universe cannot have been created without any constraints. So where do we find the elusive nihilo?
Creation ex amore
Ian McFarland's book on the doctrine of creation is a book about nothing. It has a lot to say about it.
What is it called when we complete a sermon, art, poetry, song or writing, and there is a bit of our soul that takes form and shape? Wisdom takes on paint. Beauty becomes clothed in letters. Depths of emotion become suffused in photos. When something ephemeral inside of us takes on a concrete quality that can be shared. When our art lives on after we have departed. What is it called?
That Ken Ham guy is pretty slick with words. This was clear before his evolution v. creation debate with Bill Nye last night, including in his preamble at CNN.
We don’t know which experiences specify our humanity. But the Abrahamic faiths agree that we are made of dust and ashes, a bit of clay or a mere clot.