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When I was in middle school and high school I wanted to go to one of the service academies. In order to help secure an appointment, I joined a military cadet program in seventh grade. In many ways it was a good experience, and so I am not naming the specific program here, as I believe it does teach many young people about leadership, self-discipline, and teamwork. But it was also through this program that I had an experience that taught me a lesson I have never forgotten.

As my sweet little church joins me in a Lenten journey through the history, meaning, and purpose of evangelism, I found myself with a peculiar thought in my head. Being a part of a church is a relationship, much like the kind of relationship you have with another soul.

I appeared at a press conference several weeks ago at the state capitol building to support a legislator’s proposed bill to ban assault weapons. The legislator knew the bill wasn’t going anywhere in the house, but she expressed a desire to “start a conversation” about the role of weapons in our culture. She came with life-sized photos of the weapons in question, to ask whether these objects belong in homes.  Immediately after the press conference ended, a representative of the gun lobby swooped in to address the press.

It’s a busy street, Walnut Street. I have to cross it to get to the Shalom Community Center.

I turned 30 earlier this year, and I can see the difference age has had on my body—and not just on my bald head, because, as my loved ones and old friends would tell you, that started over a decade ago.

“You know, in Germany there are hordes of young Syrian men raping German women.” The statement hovered in the air menacingly. I suspected that I was in for an interesting encounter as I watched him stride determinedly toward me after I gave a presentation on the Syrian refugee crisis, and how a group I'm part of has sponsored two families now living in our town in Canada, at a local church recently. His jaw was set and his brow was furrowed. 

It is probably in my top five favorite scripture passages in the whole Bible. We are reading it this Sunday, the fourth Sunday in Lent. It comes up every three years. It is from 2 Corinthians. "So if anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new!"

In a nation where, increasingly, belief in God cannot be assumed, and where Christianity is losing more and more of its sway in public discourse, what does membership in a church offer? Or, to put it another way, how might we say that church matters? I’m curious how faith leaders might answer these questions because I recently ran across a very difficult sort of answer.

For all of my life in church I have noticed that one of Jesus’ basic formulas for the parables was to begin with, “A certain man had two sons . . . ” and, almost inevitably, the story had to do with how the brothers responded differently, and, on occasion, how they responded to each other. I am the older of two brothers.

It’s Super Tuesday. Lots of people are voting today. And if I had to put money on it, I’d bet a large number of people aren’t voting for someone they love, but someone who best reflects their greatest fears back to them.

There's a saying that's come to have popular acceptance in American faith discourse: my faith is between me and God. We've been hearing a bunch of that lately, particularly from those seeking power, who bristle at the idea that anyone has a right to call their assertions of faith into question.

While I waited for my hair appointment, I chatted with two women over the magazines. They mentioned they were sisters, so I said, “How nice to make your hair a family affair.” “It is nice, but it’s not for a nice reason. Our mother died the other day.”

In Luke 13, Jesus tells a parable about a barren fig tree. The tree is planted in a vineyard, which sounds weird, but fig trees were often used as trellises in vineyards. The owner is unhappy because the tree is not bearing fruit. “Cut it down,” he says. But the vintner says, “I’ll dig around it, fertilize it. Let’s give it one more year.” And the vast majority of the commentaries and reflections I’ve read about this story say something to the effect of, “See, God is willing to give us sinners one more chance.”

The two girls I carry below my heart. The three boys who run circles around me all day long. I want them to be mine.  I refer to them as such, of course.

To err is human, Alexander Pope famously said in his Essay on Criticism. Yes, it certainly is. And the more experience I have with this being human business, the more evidence I am afforded of this unpleasant truth. The season of Lent is about self-examination and repentance, so I decided to grit my teeth and take a bit of an erring inventory.

For the last six weeks I wore an orthotic boot on my left foot. I fractured a small bone in my ankle while walking my dog one sunny morning in January. I wasn't doing anything exciting or high-risk. I just stumbled and rolled the foot enough to get a fracture instead of a sprain. I have never broken a foot, ankle, or leg before, so I was unaccustomed to the extra weight of the boot.

Didn't know him. Not at all. Never met him probably, although he might have been in a classroom sometime long ago when I visited his high school. I didn't know his wife or his family either, nor had I ever met them that I know of. But he was just a kid, too young to die. His obit is so lovingly written that I could only hope to do it that well myself.

Many years ago I became an advanced open water diver. If you’ve never been scuba diving, it is the most peaceful, beautiful experience. It’s just you, the sound of your breathing, and all the wonders the ocean has to offer. Two of the reasons I chose to learn to dive are that I am claustrophobic and I am afraid of sharks. You’d think that a person with both these things would avoid diving, right? Yes, except that I cannot tolerate my choices being ruled by fear.

Don’t forget to feast this Lent. In the midst of the almsgiving, praying, and fasting that traditionally mark this season, remember also to feast.

I used to like snow, but I don't any more. At least that's what I keep telling myself. While growing up, I loved it.