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I remember when I started reading Eugene Peterson. I was five years into full-time pastoral ministry, and the entirety of my church experience to that
Ave Crux, spes unica. Hail Cross, our only hope. — Edith Stein On one episode of the irreverent sitcom It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, Charlie,
“What are the ashes about?” The question was sincere. My church has never done Ash Wednesday before — at least not with ashes, anyway. And
I walked out of Rust and Wax, my neighborhood vinyl store, a happy man last week- I’d scored a copy of the War on Drugs’
“It doesn’t really feel like Christmas, Dad.” My daughter tugs sharply at my shirt to get my attention, and gestures dramatically down our street. She’s
By Jared Ayers A few weeks ago, I pulled my worn, sand-scratched copy of Moby Dick off the shelf in the fiction section of my
I have vows on my mind. Today, I spent a bit of time working on a wedding service for a dear friend whose upcoming, COVID-19-altered
“Pray for friends, and fun.” The day before we drove 1100 miles to our new home and congregation in Palm Beach, Florida, my wife and
“Child,” said the Lion, “I am telling you your story, not hers. No-one is told any story but their own.” -Aslan, in C.S. Lewis’s The
