The incense of myrrh is made from “tears” formed when the sap of the myrrh tree hardens after cuts in the trunk expose the sap to air. Myrrh comes from tears.

When we see John’s accounts of Mary Magdalene as a throughline from her bearing witness to Jesus raising her brother Lazarus from the dead, to anointing Jesus’ feet with pure nard, and then staying steadfast at the foot of the cross, and then — come Easter morning — refusing to leave the Garden when the tomb is found empty, demanding, even, of a man she mistakes as the Gardner “Where did you put my Lord?” so that she might go rescue his mutilated corpse — when you see this throughline of this disciple, this leader, Mary Magdalene, we see why she is called Mary the Tower.

It calls back something in Jacob, about the blessing that he stole, the one that caused the rift between him and his brother, that sent him into exile for twenty years. That’s not this one. This blessing is for him. It’s really his. He is finally worthy of his own blessing.

Within the Bible’s many pages are texts that sanction military violence, impose limits on its use, and imagine a world beyond it. Given the diversity of social settings—and the more than thousand years over which these texts were composed—this should hardly surprise us. The Bible’s reflections on war are every bit as complicated as our own.

Queerness was (and is) much more than about the gender of people in a relationship – it was about changing everything society expected about race, money, and identity. Queerness also created (and creates) a community where people made sacrifices to protect and encourage others without personal gain. Queerness is embracing the fullness of oneself no matter how that may manifest (or at least an ongoing attempt towards it) as well as how that manifests in relationships with others.

Each week, we’ll offer a curated selection of blog posts that speak to the upcoming lectionary texts to help spark your imagination and serve as a thought partner for you. We hope these musings meet you right where you are with a fresh, bold, and faithful witness.

Young people know, in the wake of lockdown and in this current political nightmare, that we really need incarnate community. We are desperate for analog spaces. We live far from our families and miss being a part of intergenerational life. We want a third space that isn’t measuring us for company cuts or expecting a tip. Young folks are actually really hungry for church. The church just had to be ready for us.

Here and now—in the “in between” time of human governance—God’s rule is bracketed. The Lord’s kingship in the past has been rejected and the Lord’s rule in the future is not yet. In this “in between,” God’s rule feels absent, if not altogether impossible. This “in between” is nothing less than a God-shaped vacuum, into which step more and more petty, power-hungry kings and kinglets, queens and queenlets, replete with their entourages made up of foolish, vulgar advisors, all of whom want to fill that vacuum, assume God’s position, arrogate to themselves that kind of authority.

The closeness of the royal palace to the Temple was (and is!) unacceptable to God. That situation can stand no longer. Idolatry, of gods and of powerful human beings, must be put away. The only way for God to reside among the people forever is by enacting “No Kings!” for the same interminable duration.

The truth is, Christians have been subverting and challenging the heteronormative standard for centuries. In fact, it was the early church’s queerness that caused it to grow and spread so rapidly. The earliest Christians were known for their radical acceptance of people from every status, gender, and culture. They were chastised for the ways they redefined family, defied status markers, and cared for the poor and needy.

 America’s revolutionary rejection of oppressive rulers is no doubt why “No Kings!” has been applied to many a political leader ever since the 18th century. But whatever one thinks of this slogan—its aptness or inaptness with reference to politicians, whether current or long gone—those of us who care about Scripture should think immediately, first, and foremost of the Bible when we hear it.

Each week, we’ll offer a curated selection of blog posts that speak to the upcoming lectionary texts to help spark your imagination and serve as a thought partner for you. We hope these musings meet you right where you are with a fresh, bold, and faithful witness.

Each week, we’ll offer a curated selection of blog posts that speak to the upcoming lectionary texts to help spark your imagination and serve as a thought partner for you. We hope these musings meet you right where you are with a fresh, bold, and faithful witness.

Each week, we’ll offer a curated selection of blog posts that speak to the upcoming lectionary texts to help spark your imagination and serve as a thought partner for you. We hope these musings meet you right where you are with a fresh, bold, and faithful witness.

When I feel the most joyless is when it is most essential for me to practice joy, to seek out this Godly abundance. Not to disassociate. Not to demean my own suffering or the realities that have brought me low. But because God calls — compels — us to remember: the things that speak death over us don’t get the last word.

Many of us today approach faith with both longing and skepticism. Some of us grew up in church and are reexamining inherited beliefs; others are discovering spiritual practices for the first time. Many of us are deeply invested in questions of justice, community, meaning-making, and how ancient Scripture speaks into our own lives (or even if it does).

Each week, we’ll offer a curated selection of blog posts that speak to the upcoming lectionary texts to help spark your imagination and serve as a thought partner for you. We hope these musings meet you right where you are with a fresh, bold, and faithful witness.

Our egos won’t allow us to open our hands and release the power that we have to empower others to do the work.

The Jesus comparisons, the Truth Social imagery, and the Caesar-like symbolism all point toward a troubling trajectory: a national careening toward a distinctly American form of emperor worship, one clothed in the language of white Christian nationalism.

Florence’s dome should not exist, and yet it does. It stands as a testament not only to the nearly limitless possibilities of human ingenuity, but also to the practical necessity of fiscal support to make such artistry possible.