In the face of unprecedented assaults on planet Earth, what good is poetry?
Standing at the graveside with the last lingering family members, time seems thick.
Walking together through Sussex and To The Lighthouse.
The truth of God's grace is always messier than appearances let on.
I've stopped trying to climb over it or knock it down. Now I just sit there.
We don't need arguments from the pulpit. We need living water.
To resist the kind of society we don't want, we have to cultivate the kind we do.
When Sean O'Callaghan joined the IRA, nationalism was his religion. Later he saw how it poisoned his soul.
A church on my street fed food-insecure kids while schools were closed. The work of justice flowed outward from the table.
After college, my friends and I chased fulfillment like it was the Holy Grail.
Peer-led discussions among young Muslims, Christian experiments in communal living, and pop-up Shabbat meals embody common yearnings.
If you have to choose between offering false hope and the truth, go with the truth.
Good Friday gives way to Easter. We live our lives on Holy Saturday.
The preacher maintains a sacred conversation between God and the congregation.
On the feast of St. Paul's conversion, Google kept reminding me that it was also Virginia Woolf's birthday.