You knew about weakness before you took the vows of ordination. Yet something in your soul made you get out of the boat and try to walk.
Those who heard the disciples preach on Pentecost comprehended the message in their own language. But that was only the beginning.
Pentecost offers a vision for Europe: not one megastate or one system for everything, but a model of diversity as peace.
Each year I ask my students to devise arguments for God. They respond less like well diggers than like beachcombers, gathering bits of evidence.
If the church is the bride of Christ, then Jesus is married to both Rachel and Leah—to the church he wants, and to the church he has to take.
At the least-visited museum in Rome, a marble cross caught my attention. It depicts the Madonna and Child and the warm tangle of their intimacy.
The exiled people of Judah turned to their stories—and found the belief that God would save them as before. Centuries later, Christians did the same.
Every New Year's, every Easter, every anniversary of his wife's death, Samuel Johnson took stock and prayed for the grace to try again.
The mainline Protestant church has to stop fretting about its future and sacrifice itself to mission.
Learning a language requires us to focus our attention on something outside ourselves. It's a lot like learning to pray.