As time went by, I found myself growing bitter toward Mary. She was a woman, but she had no idea what it was to pray for a baby and then not be able to conceive one. She received divine intervention without even asking for it.
There is no question that I am the disciple asking if we can make a dwelling, to try to live inside the fleeting moments when I feel the very palpable love and presence of God.
To arrive at Pentecost, we should go through the Tower of Babel. The arrival of the Holy Spirit rhymes with that story on purpose—so let’s take a moment and follow a story we might not have thought about in years.
As I sipped my coffee this morning, my son and husband were hunched over the New York Times. We all were discussing the deliberation of the Derek Chauvin trial. Soon we begin listing the recent cases of police brutality in our country.
Excavating the story of Saint George is a dizzying trip through western literature and English history—layer below layer below layer
Lately I’ve been praying through my spiritual past, letting memory guide me through how I became a Christian in a non-Christian family, how I traversed fundamentalism to later become Episcopalian, and how the Episcopal Church dared to ordain me both deacon and priest
I live in Newport, Rhode Island where there is a small but mighty Irish population that has been celebrating Saint Patrick’s Day with vigor for 65 years.
I grew up in New Orleans, a city with a strong Roman Catholic presence. A lot of the kids I knew attended Catholic schools. Statues of the Virgin Mary adorned every third front yard. Fridays in Lent meant that someone was always holding a fish fry.
‘Humility.’ We can use the word in such ugly ways, but humility simply means to be real, to be honest, to be ourselves. If you’re doing Lent, it’s a good Lenten word.
I love thinking about Simeon holding Jesus in the temple singing about how his eyes have finally seen God that light to enlighten the nations.
