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I'm not crazy about the idea that my imagined existence as a yeoman famer turns out to be nothing more than three prison guards in a trench coat. I'm even less enthused by the realization that Nelson Rockefeller doesn't give a damn about me.

To quote Public Enemy's Chuck D, "My wanderin' got my ass wonderin' where Christ is in all of this crisis." The eschaton, it seems, has been delayed.

It may take a minute, or an hour, or a lifetime to fully wrap your head around something so unimaginable. It may take a minute to stop looking for the life in a tomb.

Satan has done all he can. The whole thing is played out. There's a darkness in the house that's got the best of us, and there's a darkness in this world that's got us too.

There is a promise inherent in the way we talk about God which gives meaning to our lives. The promise is that we are going somewhere, and all of this is going somewhere.

God, if this is not going to work, let's try something else.

Who then, if they have it within their power to protect a space in which joy is shared, would willingly crack the crystal dome over the joyous before circumstances lift it of their own accord?

You can almost picture two A&R men of Mediterranean descent walking up to Danny Federici and saying "We want to meet Bruce."

Remember, Jesus is non-violent. A bruised reed he will not break, and Judas is a bruised reed if there ever was one.

Jesus sees it coming. He is the venerated edifice and the wrecking ball has reached the apex of its backswing.

A poem for Wednesday in the Fifth Week of Lent

The first quarter of the eyeroll might be devoted to the idea that numbers — number of people attending a service, number of people viewing a service online, number of people participating in mission work, number of people being served by mission work — that …