Physician Richard Selzer describes a scene in a hospital room after he had performed surgery on a young woman's face: I stand by the bed where the young woman lies, her face, postoperative; her mouth twisted in palsy, clownish. A…
“I’m saying goodbye,” I tell the sheep. “This will be my last Sunday with you all.”They look, but say nothing, maybe waiting for a punchline.“I know, I wanted to tell you sooner, but there’s been a lot on my plate.…
The wind chill this morning hovered in the low 30s, stocking hat and scarf weather, so I tell the sheep that the homily will be brief. That got their attention and I see gratitude in their eyes.“it is a serious…
An eleven-year-old girl lived with her grandmother. Labeled "different," adjustment to school was not easy. Her mother was not a reliable presence. As if life is not tough enough, her father had been recently killed. She knew him only vaguely,…
Some stories are told.Some stories are portals to transformation.When my spirit takes a hit, the piles on my desk can wait, and I settle in to watch As it is in Heaven. The story takes us on one man's journey…
I had zero planned for Sabbath Moment, and at wits end, until Emma Thompson read me a poem. Well, it may not have been just for me, but it sure felt like it.She read Kindness, by Naomi Shihab Nye. One…
“Do you really talk to the sheep every week?” I was asked this week on a Zoom gathering.“I do,” I tell them. Although truth be told, most days I just stand there and listen. They’ve got a corner on something…
“You look sad.”“I am,” I tell the sheep. “A great man died this week. And I miss him.”“What made him great?” a little one asked.“He made us better people.” I like Andrew Young’s take. John Lewis “didn't convince you by…
Some stories are like restorative prayers. They invite (no, they require) retelling, for the healing of our spirit and our soul.In 1942, the Nazis were actively and forcefully rounding up Jews in France. In the picturesque farming village of Le Chambon-sur-Lignon (in southern France), Reformed…
On my walk this morning, I stop at the fence. My congregation, the sheep, are reclining contentedly in the grass. “Well,” their look asked me. “Do you have a story this week or not?”“It’s an old story,” I tell them.…
