It’s time to start giving back. After years of researching, writing, reading, and studying in the fields of psychology, theology, philosophy, ethics, and spiritual formation, I have decided to become a spiritual life coach for men. My personal conviction is that coaching is modeling. And modeling is coaching. My heart is to see Christian men…
…the linguistic problem hammers the last nail in the coffin of the traditional setting of “the inn” being some sort of hotel. In Greek, katáluma is translated “lodging place,” “upper room,” or “guest room.”[6] Only a few translations call it something other than “the inn,” which lends itself to misinterpretation by Westerns who think of “the inn” as a kind of hostel or motel.[7] But Matthew’s gospel makes it clear that the Maji entered a “house”: “And going into the house, they saw the child with Mary his mother, and they fell down and worshiped him. Then, opening their treasures, they offered him gifts, gold and frankincense and myrrh.”[8] So, the traditional telling of “no room for them in the inn” should be translated “no room for them in the guest room upstairs.”
When Josh Brolin gave Thanos a humanity, it sent shock waves not only into the Marvel Cinematic Universe but also into ours. That is, when personified evil is torn over killing half the world’s population but sees it as a necessity, his character becomes believable, which is terrifying to watch. After accomplishing what he thinks…
THE SHROUD OF TURIN is the most investigated archaeological relic in history. If it’s real, it’s no trivial matter: the resurrection of Jesus Christ is supercharged with physical evidence. It’s no longer just a propositional truth claim found in scripture but measurable proof that can no longer be ignored. The linen shroud’s existence captures the light,…
Thoughts cannot be reduced to chemical reactions in the brain. To say otherwise is to greatly undermine the multifaceted nature of cognition and consciousness. Let’s take terms like “thoughts,” “consciousness,” and “mind” for example. To a substance dualist like me, who believes the mind is a metaphysical substance just as real as the material brain,…
Kernels of gold sowed in sweat. Embodied husks designed to protect. Multicolored grain, a heavenly harvest. The plague in the Garden— one locust started— the Reaper ransoms to forget. A rotted ear only hears the screams of its own dissection, an eternity of introspection. Rows of corn restless with guilt. The cup of wrath…
Christmas for Ginny has always been the most important day of the year. It’s a magical day when anything is possible, like the unprecedented miracle of God taking on human form; it’s when a supernatural star led the Magi to the infant God-man, lying helplessly in a symbolic feeding trough; and it’s when men met God face-to-Face in a humble manger to worship him and feed from him. Ginny loves Christmas for both its majestic beauty and historical truth. She understands, however, that this sacred day has been tainted with folklore and commercialism, but experience and wisdom enable her to see these gilded traditions as a way to bridge the gap between the sacred and the profane. For Ginny, a gift for someone special on Christmas is a reminder of the greatest Gift ever given. So naturally Ginny wants to give Brad something special for Christmas. But she, too, finds herself without two pennies to rub together. Then, suddenly, an idea flashes across her mind that makes her eyes water, feeling the internal warmth that comes with giving wholeheartedly.
Ten years ago, my parents, Robert and Sheila, were killed in a car accident on Christmas Day. A head on collision with a drunk driver took them away from me. It turned out that both front airbags were defective. They were coming back from looking at Christmas lights. My seven-year-old daughter was in the back seat. She was not wearing her seatbelt. She was thrown from the wreckage. She died instantly.
“You need me! Without me … you’re nothing! I keep you alive.” “Are you kiddin’ me? This isn’t living.” “How dare you interrupt me! You entitled, insecure, unappreciative little brat! I give you hope. I give you purpose. I give you meaning. If you leave me now, you’ll die. You’ll have nothing to get you…
When you were young, before my siblings and I were born, before you kissed our father— elevating him from bachelor to prince— you made shadows of figure 8 patterns with your shoulders and head on the Nicaraguan dirt. A pendulum swing of brown cascading pigtails and a homemade skirt that made all the rich…