Wesleyan Accent is World Methodist Evangelism’s online magazine of resources in the area of discipleship, evangelism, leadership and theology. Through articles, book reviews, and interviews, WME features leading and emerging voices of the Wesleyan Methodist world.
It took a while to realize what I was missing. It does sometimes. It took sitting in a pew to allow the revelation to dawn on me. Everyone needs to be led sometimes: especially leaders. I loved pronouncing the opening line of the call to worship; I loved welcoming the faithful and the not-so-faithful to the communion table; I loved
When I first arrived at seminary, I was astonished at the number of Wesleyans I met. Wesleyans everywhere! Having grown up in the small but active Wesleyan denomination, I was gratified to see it represented so fully. Then, about a week into the semester, I began to realize something – all the Wesleyans I was meeting were Wesleyan, not Wesleyan.
To die, to sleep— no more—and by a sleep to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to—’tis a consummation devoutly to be wished! To die, to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub, for in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal
“Now we see dimly; then, face to face.” Not, perhaps, the most utilized portion of I Corinthians 13 at the ubiquitous summer wedding – but oddly, one of my favorite parts of the familiar chapter. It seems to distill the essence of faith: trust that we will eventually see “face to face” what we now discern only dimly, in fragments
As a grown-up, I traveled to a hospital once to visit a friend who’d had surgery. A mutual friend accompanied me. I watched his anxiety with amusement. He was anxious about how to find the elevators, anxious about reading the hospital map, anxious about the visit itself. I discovered that this otherwise rational, intelligent adult was uneasy and uncomfortable in
I’ll bet there are roads you could drive blindfolded if you really needed to. Maybe it’s the road from your house to the entrance of your subdivision, or the route you take to work, or the circuitous path you carve in your daily routine – stop, start, turn, pause, start again. The rhythm of acceleration, brake, the swing of the
“Too big to fail.” A few years ago – and it doesn’t matter what your personal political opinion was on the government bailout of American automakers – this phrase rang repeatedly in American consciousness. These businesses were too big to fail. We couldn’t afford to lose them, no matter the cost. They were essential to our identity and our economic
I’m a Yankee. Specifically, I was born in central Michigan, where the air is scented with pine needles and damp sand. I live in northeastern Texas – a region known for its own Piney Woods – but a world away from the cornfields of the Midwest, where I grew up. It may seem like a small question, but how does
I was thirty-two years old when a woman took my advice on how to die. Sitting in her low living room banked with windows that overlooked butterfly-laden bushes, I watched her shallow breaths. She had lost strength and energy: her frame seemed diminished, as if her soul were clinging to her body by mere tendrils. While disease sapped her vitality,
On a recent hot summer day, I pulled down the flap of my mailbox and discovered an official-looking summons. For the first time in my life, I had Jury Duty – those dreaded words that bring pained expressions to millions of Americans every year. Being a woman of a thousand and one opinions, however, I immediately waved the paper under
It took a while to realize what I was missing. It does sometimes. It took sitting in a pew to allow the revelation to dawn on me. Everyone needs to be led sometimes: especially leaders. I loved pronouncing the opening line of the call to worship; I loved welcoming the faithful and the not-so-faithful to the communion table; I loved
When I first arrived at seminary, I was astonished at the number of Wesleyans I met. Wesleyans everywhere! Having grown up in the small but active Wesleyan denomination, I was gratified to see it represented so fully. Then, about a week into the semester, I began to realize something – all the Wesleyans I was meeting were Wesleyan, not Wesleyan.
To die, to sleep— no more—and by a sleep to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to—’tis a consummation devoutly to be wished! To die, to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub, for in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal
“Now we see dimly; then, face to face.” Not, perhaps, the most utilized portion of I Corinthians 13 at the ubiquitous summer wedding – but oddly, one of my favorite parts of the familiar chapter. It seems to distill the essence of faith: trust that we will eventually see “face to face” what we now discern only dimly, in fragments
As a grown-up, I traveled to a hospital once to visit a friend who’d had surgery. A mutual friend accompanied me. I watched his anxiety with amusement. He was anxious about how to find the elevators, anxious about reading the hospital map, anxious about the visit itself. I discovered that this otherwise rational, intelligent adult was uneasy and uncomfortable in
I’ll bet there are roads you could drive blindfolded if you really needed to. Maybe it’s the road from your house to the entrance of your subdivision, or the route you take to work, or the circuitous path you carve in your daily routine – stop, start, turn, pause, start again. The rhythm of acceleration, brake, the swing of the
“Too big to fail.” A few years ago – and it doesn’t matter what your personal political opinion was on the government bailout of American automakers – this phrase rang repeatedly in American consciousness. These businesses were too big to fail. We couldn’t afford to lose them, no matter the cost. They were essential to our identity and our economic
I’m a Yankee. Specifically, I was born in central Michigan, where the air is scented with pine needles and damp sand. I live in northeastern Texas – a region known for its own Piney Woods – but a world away from the cornfields of the Midwest, where I grew up. It may seem like a small question, but how does
I was thirty-two years old when a woman took my advice on how to die. Sitting in her low living room banked with windows that overlooked butterfly-laden bushes, I watched her shallow breaths. She had lost strength and energy: her frame seemed diminished, as if her soul were clinging to her body by mere tendrils. While disease sapped her vitality,
On a recent hot summer day, I pulled down the flap of my mailbox and discovered an official-looking summons. For the first time in my life, I had Jury Duty – those dreaded words that bring pained expressions to millions of Americans every year. Being a woman of a thousand and one opinions, however, I immediately waved the paper under
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