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A movie about a school shooting hits theaters this week, a tragically timely release. The film documents the aftermath of a school bus shooting in which three girls were wounded and one of whom almost died.

The rich man was a good man. From not stealing to honoring his parents to loving God (and more), he hadn’t merely memorized the essential commandments of his faith. They were the benchmarks of his daily life.

Every morning my son goes off to school. He slings a giant shark backpack over his tiny shoulder, and he waves to me as I drive away from the carpool lane. And every morning as he turns into the school’s open door, the same fear catches my heart. What if that is the last time I see him?

Hope is sinewy, tenacious, and determined. It gives us strength when ours is gone, carries us into the future when we’ve been knocked-off our feet by the disappointments of the present, and makes it possible for us to trust that God is with us even when we feel alone.  We can’t produce hope for ourselves.

Three years after the publication of Sabbath in the Suburbs, I continue to speak to groups about our family’s experience of taking a day each week for rest and play (which looks very different now than it did during the year-long experiment, but that’s another post). People who’ve read the book will notice that we didn’t spend the day doing “holy” activities.

God is a metaphor. Or so goes a particular line of thought, as it struggles to make the idea of God meaningful. 

One afternoon I got a "friend" request from someone on Facebook. I did not recognize the name, for a variety of reasons, one of which was the name was written in Chinese script. I saw that we had one friend in common, another missionary friend of mine from 30 years ago when I lived in Japan. Still, I really did not recognize the name. I couldn't pronounce the name. I no longer read Japanese. So, I sent this person a message, asking them, "Are you one of my former students from Japan?"

It was probably one of those Internet memes that flits about the ether, and gradually enters the aggregate stream of quotes and pop inspiration that we collectively contribute to and maintain. This one, however, had the ring of truth to it. I don’t know the source, but it was something to this effect: Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.

“Don’t ask what the world needs,” says Howard Thurman. “Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.” This was the guiding quote of a church visioning retreat I led recently.

In what was already the most widely anticipated speech of Pope Francis’s pastoral visit to the United States this week, the Pope’s references to two American models of Christian living—the renowned author and Trappist Monk Thomas Merton and co-founder of the Catholic Worker movement Dorothy Day—have surprised many.

I'm nearing the end of my time as an M.Div. student at Perkins, and I've been thinking about my the experience of taking seminary classes. Part of my own reflection process has involved reading the essays I wrote for admissions and scholarship applications from four years ago. In these documents, I almost always brought in my passion to develop my theology—I remember writing something along the lines of “our worldview shapes how we live.” I would then tie this into how admission into Perkins would equip me to accomplish this through a well-rounded, liberal education. I’m sure the admissions committee ate this up.

I'm embarrassed to admit it, embarrassed because it took graduate school to teach me something it's hard to imagine I didn't learn much earlier. I don't want to blame my teachers. I don't think of them as nincompoops. If I didn't learn what I should, I probably wasn't listening. But I'll never forget working on some graduate school research paper—probably something about John Milton—and stumbling on history so elementary I was embarrassed I didn't know it.

I have three fantastic student interns this year who are learning about the hard work of welcoming. At our college’s Presbyterian House we host a “Dinner and Devotion” program every Sunday that we advertise as “All Students Welcome.” Of course, not all students feel welcome attending a religious and spiritual life program, unless you work hard to let them know that you mean it—that they really are all welcome.

The recent furor about the closure of the religious studies department at the University of Stirling in Scotland made me think again about the value of studying theology at university. In response to something a friend posted about this on Facebook, I remarked that it was not for nothing that theology was called “the Queen of the Sciences,” and it probably does a better job of equipping people for management than an MBA.

They can’t pay you enough money to do a job you hate. I have a lot of lasting memories of my grandfather—homegrown tomatoes, “Heart and Soul” duets on the piano—but that’s the primary piece of wisdom I remember him passing along to me. And it’s a good one.

Two of my frequent routes include an arcade of trees. Neither is very long—one just a block, the other maybe a quarter-mile. But even when the branches are bare, the trees form this graceful archway that we drive through. As I went though one the other day, I started wondering about the person or persons who planted those trees.

I’ve seen a few people on Facebook share an image from theologian Benjamin Corey and I have to say that it bothers me.