My liturgical tastes used to tend toward the simple, but they’ve recently turned toward the chaotic.
In prewar Syria, I found a place of beauty, peace, and coexistence that most Westerners either never knew of or have already forgotten.
Reducing faith to political checklists can neither lift Christianity above the superficiality of bourgeois religion nor reverse the disaffiliation of the young.
Does Montaigne resemble the contemporary essayist who writes about faith? The short answer is that he does not—at least not in easily recognizable ways.
In Hebron I learned that the facts on the ground in the Palestinian-Israeli conflict tell a story Americans intent on "international diplomacy" don't want to hear.
While my husband snapped photos of the flag, I stood in silent debate with Big Ed. And then I spied another Confederate flag; an unwelcome sensation came over me.
Chicago, 1932. The night before he would knock Ernie Schaaf unconscious, the second time a fighter would die from one of Max’s blows. We were standing at the bar.
These idle moments when we used to be alone with our thoughts are being decimated by devices. A casual but crucial meditative dimension in our lives is disappearing.
Often the way our society treats "senior citizens" assumes that as bodies age, individuality decreases. But aren't whiskers and white socks a sign of unique wisdom?
Worshipping with families of Antiochian Christians in Philadelphia, you are an interloper. At the coffee hour, they pile your plate with pastries—"you are new, yes?"
Despite hard work, sound planning, lifestyle adjustments, and unusually well-behaved Irish genes, I find myself—to paraphrase Yeats—“where all the ladders” end.
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