When I finally noticed her, she didn’t glance away. Her stance gave me the impression that she had been glaring at me for a while. You see, the crammed In-N-Out didn’t have bathrooms; none of the restaurants did. They relied upon public restrooms located in an alley next to a segue rental, which spilled wide-eyed tourists into the alleyway, rolling around at the speed of newborn turtles.
We had deftly dodged the segues and keyed-in the code to the bathroom as a haggard voice in waders sing-songed the numbers to us like some boardwalk siren. He sat there and smoked and offered everyone the secret combination, irrespective of their patron status. I thought it funny he waited in waders. Read more “Here in the shade”
I’m not sure what led me to it – perhaps some combination of mustacheod woodworker commercial and that one conversation with the aspiring barber at the bar – but after a stellar career of 14 years, my beard met oil.
The beard oil came in a small bottle and complimentary dropper, which I used to deposit three mounds of liquid on the tips of the index, middle, and ring fingers of my left hand, palm facing ceiling in ritualistic praise. It smelled good. Really good. First contact [cue Close Encounters theme] changed everything. Time melted and I was sitting on my high school gymnasium stage, responding to the cute JW twins, “ya, I use conditioner because my hair is so curly.”Read more “I Tried Beard Oil”
Ancient literature once chronicled the history of Mammon, a conniving god whose allure of wealth concentrates power and inspires devotion, but few speak of it as openly as Jesus or Milton — at least in this area of the world since its invisible hand took hold of a fledgling nation.
I have been thinking a lot lately about why I call myself a progressive Christian. It could be that I’m getting close to ordination in a progressive denomination, or that I’ve spent the past two years hosting a “post-evangelical” podcast, or maybe it’s this election and the distance that I feel from the conservative church I once called home, a distance I feel sharply whenever I scroll through a Facebook news feed.
At any rate, I’m thinking and so I’m writing. (and, secretly, I probably hope to close the growing distance a little)
I’m progressive because Jesus said his followers would be.
Not in those terms, of course, but clearly.
In the Gospel of John, Jesus is depicted comforting his disciples in preparation for his departure “to the Father.” He promises not to leave them orphans, commands them to trust in the miracles he did whenever they doubt his words and, with a hand under their chins (as I imagine it), he lifts their heads and says, “Verily truly, I tell you, the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these because I am going to the Father” [John 14:12].Read more “Greater than Jesus”
Your neighbors are grieving in the aftermath of the election.
… hold on, let me back up.
I am a post-Evangelical, a progressive Christian. Folks like me ventured away from the Evie camp for matters of conscience and theology. While we may have journeyed to the Left, we do not hold malice toward you. We are thankful for the foundation you gave us.
The grief that I and many progressives are experiencing right now is not rooted in some sense of party or generational entitlement.
It is rooted in the knowledge that people we love are scared.