Fly the W
If anyone in contemporary America can sympathize with the frustration of first-century Christians awaiting the imminent return of Christ, it’s we Cubs fans.
If anyone in contemporary America can sympathize with the frustration of first-century Christians awaiting the imminent return of Christ, it’s we Cubs fans.
Where moments before had been only a slew of green speckles, I could suddenly see a crouching frog. It had been there all along; I just hadn’t had the skill, the “sight,” to notice it before.
Because of my extension, my tax deadline fell in a period of the liturgical year called Ordinary Time, which seems more apt than the traditional timing of Tax Day, so close to Passion Week.
Hi. My name is Cassie. There’s forever a part of me stuck in the loop of crawling in and out of bed.
Because I am, and “I AM,” and love is, and there must be more love out there—“the greatest of these.” For these reasons, I follow in the long tradition of abiding with God in silence.
Eventually we’ll we end up here, at Martha’s, on a Tuesday, past our bedtime. For sweet treats, those blessed and treacherous confections.
The character becomes too old, too practical, or too jaded to believe in the thing that once brought him so much joy. That world, the thing he loved so much and invested so much time in, dies. And something inside him dies, too.
Maybe by the time I’m ninety-six or ninety-seven I’ll see things differently. Maybe I’ll see divine love in the allowance of racial violence, torture, and marginalization.
Christians shouldn’t be surprised that people think we’re assholes. As a collective, we’ve thrown our weight behind some pretty misguided causes.
I thought, if I just touch the wood of the casket, maybe God will bring him back. What if that happened? How amazing would that be? Then everyone would believe in God.