“You might think you’re hot snot on a silver platter,
but you’re really just cold boogers on a paper plate.”

A cup of tea and good conversation with Julia Child back in 1966 gave my early career a boost.

I spend the earliest morning shift willing myself to stay alert, tracing the endless yellow lines that slice through the dark, and praying for the

The New Testament on resurrection is multiple, layered, giving us first one perspective and then another.

Lately, my waking has been difficult. The world has changed. I thought I would always feel safe, free, and cared for in Canada, my country.

What if we took our richest theological gains and counted them but loss? What if we let the vastness of the moment pour contempt on

After such a majestic buildup, what would we expect to come next? An action of some glory and power worthy of Christ’s universal sovereignty, of

Uncovering hidden Christs in rests, like they were Easter tombs.

As a Pilate disliker, I always resented his presence in the creeds. He felt like such an inappropriate presence, a festering sliver, an interloper.