What is our part in spiritual formation? “Spiritual formation is…God the Holy Spirit forms Christlikeness in us.”1 If the Spirit does the work in us, what is our part?
Our part is to show up, ready to receive. The practices that follow are not techniques to control God, but ways to notice what God is already doing. Read More
What do you pray in your own “private prayer”? After World War II, John Baillie, a Scottish pastor, published A Diary of Private Prayer, a month of his morning and evening prayers. Private, yes—but not isolated from his world, the public square, or the needs of “the other.” His prayers called him to love others, often expressed through compassion for the suffering and just, generous practices toward the sick, blind, and prisoners—including those oppressed by injustice.
We learn to pray best when we are in the presence of pray-ers and prayers. Baillie’s diary becomes a classroom of instruction on prayer. Listen first to his posture before God—and then to his four petitions.
“Oh, divine love who dost everlastingly stand outside the closed doors of the souls of humankind, knocking ever and again, wilt thou give me grace to throw open all my soul’s doors?”1
“We don’t have to understand a crowbar before we put it to use.
Understanding comes with use.”1
—Eugene Peterson
The sentence made me laugh. At no time in my life—as a seminary student, pastor, or professor—did I ever think about a crowbar as a metaphor for any part of the spiritual life. A crowbar, as I used it, was for the only construction skill I possess: demolition. I am not a builder, but I can take things apart. My college roommate and I once worked for ManPower on a Saturday morning, disassembling a bakery oven in a local grocery store. We became covered in flour and crumbs from its years of use. It took us almost all day, but we didn’t use a crowbar.
They will call me Doubting Thomas or just plain Doubter.
I already know that.
History likes its shorthand, and faith prefers its heroes uncomplicated.
But if I am honest—if I speak now without defending myself—I was never trying to be difficult. I was trying to be faithful and honest.
Resurrection did not begin with a sermon. After the shock of the empty tomb, after fear and disbelief, after locked doors and unfinished conversations, Jesus Christ does something so ordinary it is almost anticlimactic.
He makes breakfast.
Bread.
Fish.
A charcoal fire.
Morning light.
Tired bodies.
Hungry souls.
This is how resurrection announces itself—not as spectacle, but as presence.
“The surprising thing about biblical spirituality is that God is present in the ordinary, daily, common, and concrete realities of life.”1
“God is forming us into a new people. And the place of that formation is in the small moments of today.”2
Resurrection doesn’t pull us out of the world; it restores us to it. And here, on the beach, resurrection smells like smoke and fish and fishing nets. What we are invited into, as were these disciples, is resurrection breakfast—the most dramatic event in human history captured in quiet, small, and ordinary things. Read More
On Good Friday, the gospels ask us to notice who remained. Not the crowds who shouted. Not the disciples who promised loyalty and then scattered into the shadows. The ones who stayed were the women—standing at a distance, close enough to see, close enough to grieve, close enough to be marked forever by what they witnessed.
John’s gospel writes with almost startling simplicity: “Standing near the cross of Jesus were his mother… and Mary Magdalene.” 1 Matthew and Mark quietly confirm it: when the others scattered, these women stayed.2 Good Friday is not only about Jesus’ suffering, but it is also about the courage of presence. It is also about the courage of those who refused to look away.
I’ve never met someone named Judas. John, Peter, Matthew, Thomas, Levi—these are people whom I know. But never Judas. His story is an enigma, an outright confusing puzzle, not because of what he did, but because Jesus chose to invite him to follow. In Luke’s list of disciples, he names him “Judas Iscariot, who became a traitor” (Luke 6:16). Not who was a traitor—but who became one. Jesus chose him before the ending was known, before betrayal hardened into history.
Jesus didn’t gather admirers or spectators. He called followers: people who would walk with him, walk alongside him, and walk forward into the mission of God. Which raises a troubling question: Why then would Jesus choose one who would “become a traitor?” Perhaps this is the wrong question because we could say of Thomas: “Why would Jesus choose one who would become a doubter?” Of Peter: Why would Jesus choose one who would become a denier?” Lent presses us to notice not only those who fail—in truth, almost all the gospel stories show us that all the disciples failed, misunderstood, or fell short one way or another. Read More
"Practical. Insightful. In my 50 years as a pastor, I’ve read many of these. This is THE best. I ordered 12 to give as gifts.”
