Sometimes, I know I'm hanging onto a part of my life that I'll eventually need to let go of...but not just yet.

A new disease, without any cure, is pushing us apart. And, yet, we cannot escape one another. We need one another. Whether I acknowledge it or not, the guarantee of safety does not exist.

Jesus had no political power. He lived his whole life in the shadow of the Roman empire, and that empire killed him. Yet Jesus healed the sick, he listened, he moved among the ordinary people, in the lowly places.

I’m confident in our human ability to together muscle our way into renewing our world.

“Game” is no longer the proper metaphor to guide my thoughts and actions. We are—all of us—in liminal space, at a threshold confronting immediacy, shrouded in fog.

Years ago, I did one of those mud run obstacle races. There were eight physical obstacles on the course, but my biggest learning was that we all had a ninth obstacle.

In this community, we hold hope close. We don’t always know what comes next, but that cannot dissuade us. We don’t always know just what to do, but that will not mean that we are lost in the wilderness. We rely on the certainty beneath, the foundation of our values and ethics. —Rev. Theresa I.

We all have our foibles; pieces of ourselves that we both admire and occasionally revile. These gifts and struggles exist in tandem.

Before I birthed my baby, he was a possibility, a kick against my insides. With that first cry, first breath, he became a person in the world.

If we aren’t willing to ask the important, uncomfortable, and even scary questions, we won’t get to larger and deeper truths.

A lot of us feel like our lives should have come with instructions. Or maybe they did, but we lost the only copy a long time ago.

We have so many opportunities to bless each other in this world, but they don’t always announce themselves as moments of profound transformation.

Surround yourself with skillful teachers. Let them teach you, but don't let them do it for you. That learning is yours to do.

When you’re the only black man in a sea of whiteness, purses still get clutched, and people still cross the street, and hellos still get lost in the void.

We are never numbers to be tallied for turnout. We are more than a sum. Together, we are the hope and courage.

One of my most treasured New Year’s traditions is coming up with a word for the year: a single word that I want to be the theme for my entire year. When I’m questioning what’s the right thing to do, I will look to my word of the year for guidance.

Every year, I tell the congregation not to worry about mistakes because there aren’t any; there is only us, telling an old story about love getting born into this aching world.

It was disruptive and strange to know that someone had died to bring this hope, and to wonder how the donor’s family mourned at the same time we rejoiced.

With a single generous gesture from my older child, her sister's belief in Santa stayed intact that year.

The crisis was an opportunity to learn to be fully me and love it, inner turmoil and all. I learned that strength comes from authenticity, never from perfection.