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I distinctly remember one visit to a church youth event in my teens. 

As I sat down with a student I was discipling, she boldly said, “It’s okay; I don’t need to worry about my job, because God knows the plans he has for me, and they’re for me to prosper and what not.”

A Pharisee and a tax collector walk into the temple.

For the last five years, I’ve been a part of a religious community that prays the —Mary’s song of praise upon finding herself pregnant with Jesus—twice a day. 

Among the recurring stress dreams commonly reported by people, perhaps this is the most familiar: you show up at school only to realize that you’ve forgotten about a quiz or final exam.

The goal of disciplined piano practice is not to master the piano.

If I, a woman, were to write the gospel of the entry of God into the world as one of us, I’m pretty sure I would not start with his human genealogy, as Matthew does. 

Advent is a season of anticipation. Anticipation for a Savior to bring light into a dark world. But it has a melancholy tenor to it. It’s the time before the joyous celebration of Jesus’ birth that we remember at Christmas. A time of uncertainty.

The Nicene Council decided that the triune Godhead is fully present in Jesus, in whom the reality of God’s love for humanity is demonstrated. Furthermore, and most importantly for our understanding of missional Christianity, the incarnation implies our participation in this fallen world’s healing.

For the time being, I’m ignoring the toys and socks strewn across my living room to sit on my couch and drink tea.