As I lie awake, it seems right to join those who address God with different names than I use.
To insist on a narrative of forgiveness is dehumanizing and violent. It goes against the very nature of lament.
What deep desire do my sourdough starter and jade clippings represent?
Last week in Louisville, I went to church.
During the pandemic, our church’s justice work has gone online.
I hope our little flock survives. But the church is nonessential to God’s redemption of the world.
Shortly after his ordination, a home visit unexpectedly throws a new pastor in the deep end.
The idea of this place is incarnation. When someone here gets sick, so does everyone else.
I almost always find something good that I didn’t know I needed.
We’re too often blind to what God sees.
We gave our readers a one-word writing prompt: “Plate.”
Call their names. Tell their stories. Confess our role.
After the resurrection, the disciples’ words failed too.
What am I to make of your singular desire for milk?
I'm standing by Lake Michigan for the first time, but it already knows me.