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 we walked to school about […]
There is a quilting group at my church that has been meeting every week for almost 60 years, working off of donations from cleaned out linen […]
When the sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices, so that they might go and anoint him. […]
The scribes and the Pharisees sit on Moses’ seat; therefore, do whatever they teach you and follow it; but do not do as they do, […]
My daughter looks exactly like me, down to the shape of her nose and the freckles liberally scattered over it. Her hair is a bit redder, […]
I want to be enough of a roadblock to convince them to think a little more deeply.
Sexuality and gender seem unique in their capacity to elicit terror in adults and embarrassment in children.