Why I Don’t Translate Ioudaioi in John’s Gospel
The Word became flesh, which means words matter. Handled without love, they become weapons. Handled with reverence, they can become bridges.
Christopher's letters to the congregation — over a decade of pastoral writing.
The Word became flesh, which means words matter. Handled without love, they become weapons. Handled with reverence, they can become bridges.
They came in the dark to do what the Sabbath had interrupted. Mary Magdalene and the other Mary brought spices because that is what you do when someone is dead and you loved them.
On that boat, rising from His cushion in the stern, Jesus had asked them why they were afraid. But why not? How could He have been so calm in the middle of the storm?
At noon, when the sun is highest and shadows have nowhere to hide, the light fails over Jerusalem and remains for three hours.
Though he was in the form of God, Christ emptied himself of all but love.
What we attend to, slowly and steadily, makes us who we are. The woman attended to Jesus. The servant in Isaiah attended to the Lord God.
While it was still dark, God is moving in the direction of morning, and we cannot always see it yet.
In order for the chief priests to accept Christ as Savior, they had to agree with God’s diagnosis of their problem, and therefore accept that their own imperfect righteousness could never justify them before God.
By the time Jesus arrives in Jerusalem, the distinction between relationship and ritual has blurred past the point where anyone notices.
He comes in exactly as he is, on a borrowed donkey, just as Zechariah promised six centuries earlier, heading straight toward a cross he has already predicted three times.
Lent’s scrutinies invite us into the hard middle where faith takes real shape—testimonies without hedging, questions without answers, and the slow work of unwrapping grave clothes.
January’s ice taught us that traction requires direction, not velocity—God is more interested in our alignment than our acceleration as we lean into Lent.
Paul’s confidence that God finishes what God starts invites us into partnership—grateful for what has been, clear about our mission, faithful in follow-through.
Isaiah promises people who walk in darkness will see great light—Advent asks whether we’ll notice the light, tend it, and share it with those still walking in darkness.
As we remember saints who came before, we also see new life among us—God’s work is continuous, passed from generation to generation through grace and faithfulness.
Jesus reminds us that branches cannot bear fruit by themselves—we must abide in him, trust his life flowing through us, and learn to rest in God’s tending.
Philippians 1:6 reminds us God finishes what God starts—the invitation is to move from observing God’s work to participating in it with courageous trust.
August brings our orchestra and choir back—when community singers return, something rises in us all, and gathered worship becomes fuller, richer, more alive.
When Jesus ‘set his face’ toward Jerusalem, he showed us that following God means choosing direction with intention—sometimes boldly, sometimes quietly, always with trust.
Ordinary Time isn’t boring—it’s ‘numbered’ Sundays when discipleship unfolds in sustained ways, growth happens through depth rather than fanfare, roots deepen for what comes next.
No letters match your search.