Katherine Willis Pershey

What if someone released all our e-mails and texts? It would make the Ashley Madison hack look quaint in comparison.

I’ve been reading the Chronicles of Narnia to my daughter at bedtime. As a kid I only read as far as The Voyage of the Dawn Treader; the endless shelf of Babysitter’s Club books distracted me from the Narnians. We’re on The Silver Chair now, and while I’m still not sure about that Jill Pole, I continue to marvel at C. S. Lewis’s masterful Christian allegories. I’ve always loved Aslan, but I am newly convinced that the lion really does capture the essence of Christ.

I want the kingdom of God to be civilized. If possible I'd like to be able to keep sleeping in my own bed.

I read Lauren Winner's new book with the sort of joy one feels when watching someone utterly hit their stride.

A few weeks ago, I was feeling nostalgic. It was the fifth anniversary of my family’s pilgrimage from Southern California to suburban Chicago for my interview weekend at First Congregational Church of Western Springs. It feels odd to call it that, though; it wasn't so much an interview as a time of holy conversation, prayer, worship, laughter, feasting, and fellowship. The terms of my call were unofficially worked out at a kitchen table while the Super Bowl droned on in the other room.

Many people will remember Borg as the person who made space for them to return to—or remain in—the Christian faith. It's a wonderful irony.

There are many people with whom I have not had an affair. Billions. There is also one man in particular.

The story goes that God got a body. I’ve often pondered the relationship between incarnation and pain.

I got "saved" at a Carman concert when I was 12. It wasn’t the first time. But it was the first time I asked Jesus into my heart publicly, at an altar call. My friends and I became disciples overnight. I wasn't, however, a disciple of Jesus—at least not directly. If I was discipled to anyone in middle school, it was to the pop stars of the contemporary Christian music scene.

Micha Boyett writes tenderly about her Southern Baptist background, even as she grafts herself into a more liturgical expression of the faith.

I realized that she wasn't looking for my help finding a way out of officiating her friends' wedding. What she wanted was my blessing.

I tried to talk myself out of selecting a young adult book published in 2012. How could John Green possibly be shelved alongside Tillich in the pastor’s study?

A few years ago, my family started sponsoring a child through World Vision. I knew that the organization was generally evangelical, and that we are generally not. But this massive parachurch organization does good work, and I trusted them enough for a minuscule portion of that good work to be on our behalf. For 35 dollars a month, we’ve been contributing to the health, education, and general welfare of a little girl in Haiti, who was born the same day as our older daughter. Whatever theological differences I have with World Vision seem immaterial to this. Theological differences may be slightly more material for some of the organization’s conservative supporters.

As with many memoirists, Bolz-Weber's personal faults beget literary ones. Yet our regard for the narrator becomes less important than our regard for Christ.

I entered parish ministry with a fair amount of idealism, particularly liturgical idealism. Inconveniently, the liturgical proclivities I picked up in seminary were not especially popular with my first congregation. This became clear as a sleigh bell during our first Advent season together.