One month into my junior year of high school and four months after my dad’s sudden death, I declared to my closest friends over school lunch mystery meat that I was quitting church, and, by extension, God.
Twelve years ago, I packed up my beloved Virginia home of nearly a decade and moved to New England. 72 hours later, amid a sea of boxes, I called my best friend Merritt—2,000 miles away—certain that I had made a mistake.
Everyone told me that visiting Iona, a small island off of the western coast of Scotland would be a magical, otherworldly experience.
The origin of one of my most beloved Ash Wednesday traditions can be traced back to Game 7 of the 1988 NBA finals between Isaiah Thomas’s Detroit Pistons, and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Magic Johnson’s Los Angeles Lakers.
As a priest I probably shouldn’t admit to this, but I know next to nothing about James and Philip, the two saints whom we honor today. To be fair, none of us can claim to know much about them either.
While in college, one of the best parts about my summertime subway commute to work was the 50 minutes of uninterrupted reading it afforded me every day. To stave off any potential conversations, I always boarded the train with my book in hand, head down.
This year I celebrated Easter at an auto show. In celebration of my godson’s 12th birthday, his parents surprised him with a trip to Washington’s annual car show and invited me to come along.
‘They forgot to bring Joseph!’ I frantically whispered to one of the ushers last Christmas Eve
Dear Thomas, As we celebrate your feast day today I can’t help but cringe when I think about the number of times I’ve heard people chide the use of your modern-day nickname “Doubting Thomas.” As much as I’d rather not admit it, I, too, have declared from the pulpit that it’s demeaning and unfair to emphasize your apparent skepticism surrounding Jesus’ resurrection.
As much as I like to imagine myself as a rule-breaker, the truth is I’m more inclined to contentedly walk
