Today is a day of holy becoming. Nearly sixty young people stand before God and this congregation to confirm the vows spoken at their baptism—claiming for themselves a faith that has claimed them from the beginning.
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My husband and I have become collectors of pottery over the years—bowls, mugs, pitchers, chalices, and patens.
My first pastoral appointment out of seminary was a tiny church tucked deep in the Catskill Mountains of New York.
I live with an artist. Which means I also live with canvases in various stages of becoming—brushstrokes that look like riddles, sketches taped to walls, color palettes smudged on every available surface.
The other day in a checkout line, I noticed a stranger—nothing special, just a person waiting with the rest of us.
Every year for about a decade now, one of my Epiphany traditions has been offering every member of the congregation a single word—a “star gift.”
There are so many ways to start a story. “Once upon a time…” “It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.”
In the fourth Gospel, there is a disciple simply known as the one whom Jesus loved.