Jesus not only stands among his disciples and the crowds; he also somehow stands above and beyond history.
In recent days, there’s been a discussion of the boundaries of orthodoxy in some corners of the evangelical blogosphere.
It’s not the familiar narrative: four contented Anglicans, of the higher church variety, uninterested in conversion, walking in the footsteps of Luther.
Now in Holy Week, we remember where we began: with ashes smeared on our foreheads.
One way of picturing the church calendar is as an unspooling thread, with each loop expanding the last. But this year, I’m pondering the complementary, and in some ways more elusive and profound, truth.
My journey into the Anglican fold was, in part, a move toward Rome (as well as toward Constantinople), at least in a certain sense.
How might one read Paul in a way that furthers the cause of visible Christian unity?
One of the things I love about teaching in a seminary is how easily I can make connections between various subjects of study. One can see why our forebears bequeathed this institutional model to us.