May the words that I speak remind others that they are beloved.

Death is a regular part of my job, which makes small talk weird for me at parties.

Just as I can believe in others, I also believe in me.

Sometimes we need someone to witness the pain in holy stillness.

Let us imagine washing the feet of someone who has wronged us. Their feet, too, are calloused and muddy from the road.

None of us are mission-making machines.

May we release ourselves from the need to fit every truth neatly into our own language.

I miss the way things were, and I know they’ll never really be the same.

What I do know for sure is that hope matters. One of the best things we can do is to hold hope for someone when that person cannot hold it for themselves.

A haircut, a cup of coffee, or just an honest “How are you?” can be transformed into a powerful moment between two people living in a hard world.

Surrender is the last thing, often the only thing, available. And so we give ourselves to it. We fear it is our end. Sometimes—with grace or luck—we find it is our liberation.

Someone whispered to me, “Can you pray?” I had no earthly clue what to say. It was a profound gut-level panic. It was the moment I learned to speak the truth as best I understand it, and to hold space for it to bloom.

Gilead, by Marilynne Robinson, is a novel that takes the form of a letter or journal that a dying, elderly Congregationalist minister in Gilead, Iowa, writes to his 7-year old son in 1956 – written so that one day the boy will know something about his father’s life and character. In this passage...

First Reader: We come to you with our hopes and our fears. Will you lead us in building a welcoming religious community, tolerant and appreciative of our differences, loving and compassionate of heart, courageous and independent in spirit? Ministers: We will....