Today marks the feast of Joachim and Anne, the parents of Mary and the grandparents of Jesus. They don’t appear in canonical scriptures; lacking source material, generations of Christians have looked for them in themselves.
A morning not long ago, I was walking my dog in the woods near my house. It was my day off, so I was out later than usual. The summer sun was already high in the sky; light streamed through the trees in the most dazzling way.
My daughter has a book about unusual animal friendships. It hits every mark for cuteness: miniature animals, golden retrievers, implausible successe. Rather than being sticky sweet, though, the book offers a generosity of spirit
Getting ready for Holy Week, I’m struck, as always, by how jarring the Palm Sunday liturgy is. One minute we’re all shouting “hosanna, hosanna!” (Greek for “save us”) and then the next thing we know, we’re shouting “Crucify him.” It’s emotionally wrenching; hope and expectation give way to fury and fear. No settling in, no probing depths. Our liturgy moves us from place to place, scarcely able to take a breath.
Every year my sermon for Ash Wednesday comes down to one thing: this business of smearing ashes on our faces? It’s for us, not for God.
In terms of my life circumstances, I couldn’t possibly have less in common with the ammas who fled to the desert for spiritual growth and exploration. I have a marriage, a parish, and two kids. And a dog. And chickens (maybe they had chickens in the desert?).
“What do you remember about last night?” “Just being cold and wet.” I was talking with my nine-year-old daughter while
There is a quilting group at my church that has been meeting every week for almost 60 years, working off of
When the sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices, so that they
The scribes and the Pharisees sit on Moses’ seat; therefore, do whatever they teach you and follow it; but do
