It’s not every Sunday that a journalist from the New York Times visits your church. At least not the church I serve, tucked away in

When I step off the bus, I’m immediately greeted by the distinct smell of a crush of humanity–30,000 homeless people crammed into six square blocks

I’m almost finished with the new book by my friend and fellow blogger Jeff Munroe, Reading Buechner: Exploring the Work of a Master Memoirist, Novelist,

The same night he got up and took his two wives, his two maids, and his eleven children, and crossed the ford of the Jabbok.

Every couple months I try to gather my parishioners who are residents in our local retirement home for a time of fellowship. There’s no agenda

The cabin of the plane is quiet except for the low, steady hum of the engines. It’s mostly dark, a few reading lights scattered here

I’ve been preaching now for nearly twenty years. That’s in three congregations, the last two of which have multiple Sunday morning services. You tally it

I watch through the large window as he slowly passes by the front of the coffee shop, cane in hand, head bobbing up and down