On March 7, 1965, 600 civil rights marchers left Selma, Alabama for Montgomery. Governor George Wallace called the march a threat to public safety and vowed to do all in is power to prevent this rabble from marching all the way to his office in Montgomery. When the 600 came to the Edmund Pettis Bridge,…
Am I Still Five?
A woman told me yesterday of her journey to see her grandchildren in Colorado. I asked how the time had been. Immediately she opened the trove of pictures on her phone and showed me an iconic image. It was a little girl smiling over a birthday cake all lit with candles. Five of them. The…
Eating Like a Sparrow
This is a week to vacation in Vermont. Outside the window of our house in the Green Mountains are two bird feeders. The sparrows and junkos and woodpeckers swarm the place. After all, three feet of snow blanket the landscape. It’s tough to forage for food. When the frenzy had emptied the feeders late in…
Identity Theft
A clergy friend recently retired and moved to North Carolina. I asked how it was going. He didn’t miss the night meetings, he said, and he was playing more tennis. But—he missed Sunday mornings. For thirty-five years he’d led people in prayer and worship, and listened at the door to a hundred little personal stories….
God is Not Urgent
I was asked to speak to a group this week on New Year’s Resolutions, and I decided instead to speak on new priorities. I don’t care much for resolutions, since they are mostly attempts to arm-wrestle small problems into submission without having to look plainly at one’s life. As soon as I focused on priorities…
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About the author
I’m a writing pastor, privileged to work among the people of Saint Luke’s Parish in Darien, Connecticut. I love this work. I spend my days with people who are trying to live lives of faith in a pretty forbidding world. I’m lucky—people talk to me, share their stories, nurse their doubts and questions, ask me how to find God when you’re so stressed you can hardly breathe. Mostly I listen, tell them they’re not alone. I don’t have many answers, but I love the quest. I sit in front of a screen and write my way to God. I never know where I’m going when I start, I just try to tell what amounts to a story. And when it’s true, the story takes me home.
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David Anderson
I’m a writing pastor, privilged to work among the people of Saint Luke’s Parish in Darien, Connecticut. I love this work. I spend my days with people who are trying to live lives of faith in a pretty forbidding world. I’m lucky—people talk to me, share their stories, nurse their doubts and questions, ask me how to find God when you’re so stressed you can hardly breathe. Mostly I listen, tell them they’re not alone. I don’t have many answers, but I love the quest. I sit in front of a screen and write my way to God. I never know where I’m going when I start, I just try to tell what amounts to a story. And when it’s true, the story takes me home. [Read more]
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About the author
David AndersonI’m a writing pastor, privilged to work among the people of Saint Luke’s Parish in Darien, Connecticut. I love this work. I spend my days with people who are trying to live lives of faith in a pretty forbidding world. I’m lucky—people talk to me, share their stories, nurse their doubts and questions, ask me how to find God when you’re so stressed you can hardly breathe. Mostly I listen, tell them they’re not alone. I don’t have many answers, but I love the quest. I sit in front of a screen and write my way to God. I never know where I’m going when I start, I just try to tell what amounts to a story. And when it’s true, the story takes me home. [Read more]
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