Unless you live in Cleveland, tear up your notes and call the worship pastor: this Sunday, your sermon will practically write itself. With phrases like, “‘Next year’ is finally today,” “the curse is broken,” and “‘someday’ is now,” your parishioners don’t have to be diehard baseball fans to appreciate the unbridled glee sweeping every corner of Chicago and most parts

One time as I came down from a platform during a church musical rehearsal, I passed several women and whispered, “I’ll be right back, I have got to go to the bathroom!” I rushed away and couldn’t hear the laughter that erupted behind me; the sound guy had not yet muted my lapel mic. My whisper had been heard throughout the sanctuary.

The brilliance of the World Methodist Conference is still shifting through my mind, light through a suncatcher hanging on a window. The days in Houston were color, sound, faces, laughter, weeping, worship, intensity, frustration, revelation. I met people and forgot names. I met people and remembered names. I saw textiles woven with Methodist patterns, saris shimmering, archbishop caps velvety and

What neighborhood, out of all the ones you’ve lived in, has been your favorite? Was it a quiet small town street lined with tall trees? Was it a bustling corner of a large, noisy city? Was it a distant, rural farm, the air scratched with the clucking of chickens? Was it a small cottage on the edge of the windy