I think there are at least two ways we tend to misread the idea of blessing.

One is loud and obnoxious. It tells us that if God is good, then the evidence should show up in visible, measurable success. Health and wealth, (whatever that means) but fundamentally a life that is, in some tangible sense, ahead of everyone else around us. Call it the prosperity gospel if you want, or just call it what it is, a way of confusing God’s blessing with material increase.

Abraham walks away from Egypt with silver and gold—but at what cost? In this reflection on Genesis 12–13, we explore one of the Bible’s more difficult stories. Did Abraham really get off scot-free after selling out his wife? Or is there more going on beneath the surface of the text? We’ll look at the Hebrew wordplay, the cultural biases we bring to Scripture, and how this story might be less about blessing and more about burden.

In English, we often read the word “eternal” in Jesus’ parable. But in Greek, the word is aiōnios, the adjectival form of aiōn, the just same word the disciples use when they ask about the end of the age. Jesus is answering their question.

John does this brilliant thing where he plays with words in his opening. He says, "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." And that word "word" is the Greek word logos. Now, logos means word, but it also has this rich philosophical subtext.

A lot of people who have never properly studied Revelation are once again talking about Armageddon. I get it. War is scary so it can be comforting to pretend that all of this is part of some divine plan. But this is not what Armageddon is about.

Sometimes just the presence of difference around us can read like persecution to us. Difference does not take away our ability to live as we want, but it does take away our ability to feel like we’re normal while we do it.

Sodom is a pretty infamous story. But what exactly was going on there for it to end so spectacularly? And, perhaps more important, what was a story like this told for?

There’s a famous passage in Ephesians where Paul tells his readers to “put on the full armour of God,” and for centuries we’ve speculated about exactly where this image comes from. One possible answer is perhaps also the simplest: Paul is writing from prison, probably in Rome, and he’s got nothing to do but stare at the guard standing in front of him.

What do we mean when we talk about the word of God?

For most of my Christian life, the answer was reasonably simple. The word of God was the Bible. That big book I have a bunch of copies of on my shelf. 

In this teaching, we revisit the story of Abraham and Isaac and ask a harder question: What if Abraham actually fails the test? Rather than celebrating blind obedience, this story may be inviting us to imagine a God who never wanted child sacrifice, a God who hopes we will push back, wrestle, and learn to trust divine goodness.

I want to talk about the difference between two important but distinct Christian doctrines: the doctrine of original sin and the doctrine of ancestral sin. Ancestral sin might a term you haven’t heard before, but it is very likely the doctrine you already believe.

Conviction, disagreement, difference, even debate. None of those things are bad. In fact, they all have an incredibly important place to play in our lives. But a generative faith starts not with where we can eke out a win, and instead from the place of searching out our common ground and building bridges that allow our differences to actually be held in relationship.

Why we’ve chosen to delay giving our 12-year-old a smartphone, drawing on recent research about the effects of screens, social media, and attention on kids’ mental health.

Let’s explore how one of the Bible’s oldest stories speaks directly to our modern relationship with technology. From the invention of bricks in Genesis 11 to the unimaginable computing power we now carry every day, Scripture reveals a recurring pattern: creativity gives way to efficiency, efficiency to uniformity, and uniformity to the centralization of power.

Before Abraham ever heard God’s call, his father Terah had already begun the journey. But Terah came from a world shaped by the worship of the moon—a reminder that God’s story often begins long before we recognize it.

We all have chapters in our lives—the big moments that make sense when we look back. But what about the seasons in between? The pauses, the waiting, the wondering what comes next?

Maybe the ground feels hard right now. Maybe you’re waiting for what’s next. But there are seeds growing beneath the surface.

We live in a culture that celebrates saying yes—to every opportunity, every invitation, every new thing that promises fulfillment. But what if the secret to a meaningful life isn’t found in adding more, but in learning what to leave behind?

The Trinity is one of those ideas we tend to take for granted if we’ve been around the Christian story for any length of time. But here’s the thing—the Trinity isn’t an explicitly biblical idea. It emerged after centuries of wrestling with deeply complex passages like John 14, where Jesus identifies himself with the Father, then brings in the Spirit to describe how he will remain present even after he’s gone.

Jesus’ table exchange with Thomas is more than just a theological lecture. It’s a deeply human exchange filled with kindness, one that we sometimes miss when we don’t slow down and notice the setting.

In Christian thought, there is a concept called the ordo amoris—the order of loves. It’s a way of thinking about generosity, care, and kindness in relation to our responsibilities and obligations in the world. It is not, however, a way to excuse ourselves from caring for our neighbour.