A preacher's nightmare is to be in front of an eager congregation and realize your notes are missing. No wonder one of my favorite Bible stories is about a clergyperson who's rendered speechless.
The Totentatz window was created soon after the Shoah but with no reference to the city's murdered Jews. Two of them were my grandparents.
Fleming Rutledge's magnum opus is many things: a look at the ways the death of Christ has been interpreted, an argument that the how of his death matters, and a protest against Christianity-light.
I’m not one who has any natural inclination to vulnerability, but the suggestions I read that clergy vulnerability should be exercised in the pulpit of all places really make me cringe. I’ve asked Carol Howard Merritt for her thoughts on vulnerability as an element of clergy self-care.
My sixth-grade sex ed teacher held up a worksheet and apologized: “I know this is sort of unromantic.” Books on preaching can leave us similarly cold.
What I miss most is not the preaching itself but the preparing, the rhythm, the demand, and the discipline.
After I preach, I want to relive the moment over and over, soaring away on an ego-driven high. Beforehand, I hide in the bathroom.
Reading Amy-Jill Levine's Short Stories by Jesus, I kept wishing she had published it earlier. It would have saved me some mistakes in the pulpit.
Craddock let the word out that he would be available at no charge for preaching and teaching. Only non-seminary graduates should attend.
After years of wrestling, I settled in a predominately white church. My logic was this: if every white person concerned about racial justice leaves white churches, then there will be few women or men there to help. This Sunday, I worried that Ferguson or other police shootings of African Americans would once again go unmentioned in the sermon or a prayer.