The New Testament offers two compelling models for our relationship with money. When translated into a vision for a whole society, each is flawed.
It’s been 100 years since your birth and almost 75 since you entered the abbey. You died with your story unfinished.
Everyone is ready to bow a knee at the mention of Bonhoeffer’s name. Precious few of us have even heard of Ralph Hamburger.
In the 12th century, a Benedictine nun had a vision of Jesus’ humanity. It couldn’t have happened on a better night.
Social microhistories can capture big ideas. I’d like to write one on pickles, which are as fundamental to civilization as anything in Chesterton’s pockets.
The collar says something to parishioner and stranger alike: while this doesn’t have to be the most important conversation of your life, it can be.
There is a black lab—a student's guide dog—lying on the floor during chapel. As I preach, I wonder what the dog is thinking.
I can see my dad's manuscript: the title centered in caps, the body double-spaced and marked up by hand. But I can't remember the words.
What if the agreed daily wage is forgiveness and eternal life?
Psychologists describe a "middle knowledge" of the reality of death. How much of this knowledge is good for us?
It appears that my friend Steve Hayner doesn't have long to live. It is breathtaking to watch him prepare to die as he lived.
What does it mean to "turn to faith"? To gather in the like-minded and bar the door? Or to take a riskier move outward?
The debate about Scottish independence fits neatly into the categories the academic discipline of ethics likes to produce.
At a historical art exhibit, I read that the images on display were intended for private devotion. Would it have been subversive of me to pray?
Empathy made it big in an era some call the "me generation." By discovering my feelings inside you, even you are about me.