It was during my sophomore year at the Christian college I was attending that I got my first sense that something was wrong with this picture. I wasn’t exactly sure how to articulate what was wrong or even what “this picture” was. But something inside of me said “This isn’t the Way of Jesus.” The guest chapel speaker was telling some compelling stories about how he and his fellow missionaries were furthering the Kingdom of God in remote villages around the world. He told one

Our staff meeting was filled with grumbles before the meeting even officially started. Several people caught wind that Father Scott might be responsible for another prayerful exercise that involved looking into each other’s eyes. The squirming began. I found the sight a bit amusing, but must admit that I didn’t love the idea of looking into another person’s eyes and lingering there for longer than a quick glance. But as we chanted and prayed, something happened. I remembered

It was at a Black Lives Matter protest that I saw an image that struck me—one I knew I would not easily forget. I saw 2 women who wore the clergy collar participating in the protest. Their presence was felt and never questioned, yet they held the space in a way that stood out. They almost seemed to be in prayerful protest. John’s Gospel has this really interesting scene in it that I managed to overlook for nearly 10 years of my life as a Christian. Maybe it was overlooked bec

The birthing tub was full. Our midwife was in our living room readying her supplies and orienting her assistant. My daughter’s beloved Nonna was staying mostly silent, seemingly praying. I held Nicole as she swayed her body from side to side, listening to her inner voice, listening to our soon to arrive child, listening to the energy of motherhood so naturally present within her. It was within this moment of intense beauty and vulnerability that I heard it—the Song of Our Bei