Literary belief is always metaphorical, not actual. What about religious belief?
Captain Phillips emphasizes the larger story: long before they meet, the lives of the pirates and the captain are already bound together.
When a man with an AK-47 entered her school, Antoinette Tuff prayed—and convinced the man to lay his weapon down.
Case by case
Read Ellen Blue's fictional narrative first.
Religious communities have long helped cultivate humanistic practices. We don't often think of ourselves in this way—but what if we did?
The Song of Songs is about cherishing everything that makes another human being distinctive. It's the opposite of indiscriminate violence.
Reviewers of the Piero della Francesca exhibit seem to want to hold the Renaissance painter's genius close but his religion at arm's length.
The journals of Merton, Woolf and others encouraged me to see my birthday as a new beginning—and to live my 50th year as a year of jubilee.
What are university churches for? Are they nostalgic relics, settings for academic rites, anomalies in uneasy relationship with schools' priorities?
Faith and doubt are often posed as opposites. Yet Thérèse of Lisieux and Virginia Woolf are part of the same history.
Photographer Noel Vicentini captured the end of the Shaker paradise, Eden going to seed. He seemed especially interested in places of joining.
Faith, as Marcelo learns in Franciso X. Stork's young-adult novel, is following the music when we don't hear it.
During spring break I made a pilgrimage. With my husband and my daughter, I traced the path Virginia Woolf took through Italy in 1908.
As a graduate student, my father visited the Abbey of Gethsemani. His experiences there entered him in some permanent way.
When I first came to Harvard, the weekly
worship service was recognizably Protestant but flexible and welcoming. Over the years, our students have urged us toward
new ways of gathering.
Can I be a minister for others, many students wonder, if my own beliefs are in flux?
The gospel in seven words or less
When my daughter was confirmed in the Christian faith
last spring, I gave her Emily Dickinson's poem, "I dwell in Possibility."
For many women, the hijab has become a symbol of striving for gender and racial justice.
Our service ended with a Eucharist, celebrated at an
imposing altar. I
learned to make my gestures big, to open my arms wide, to lift the cup
above my head. What I never quite got the hang of was the chanting.
I wasn't sure how many people I would find at our first weekly Eucharist
of the term. Driving was impossible, even if one mustered the will to
dig out one's car for the third time in three weeks.
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