The Christian calendar is probably not something most of us think about all that much—except maybe when it brings us around to Christmas or Easter again. And yet, it’s quietly shaping so much of our worship and rhythm as a church community. But beyond its liturgical role, there’s something profoundly human about the way this calendar works. Neuroscience, of all things, can help us understand why.

Finding music everyone loves in church? Impossible. But maybe that’s the point. So let’s explore why singing—even songs you don’t personally enjoy—can bond us, teach us, and heal us in ways sermons can’t. Learn why the shared act of worship matters more than musical preference, and how singing together reaches the deepest parts of who we are.

Walter Brueggemann (1933–2025) was one of the most influential Old Testament scholars of our time—an educator, theologian, and prophetic voice whose work shaped countless pastors, students, and communities.

Before the Bible was complete, early Christians were already writing—and singing—songs of faith. In this message, we explore the Oxyrhynchus Hymn, a 1,700-year-old Christian chant preserved with musical notation, and what it reveals about worship, theology, and the heart of the early church.

Why do humans sing? From evolutionary debates to neuroscience, and from Frozen to the ABCs, we explore the surprising origins and benefits of song. Discover why singing together might be one of the most important (and most neglected) practices for our mental health, memory, and spiritual life.

What’s more important for a church — a clear mission statement or lived values? Mission statements can sometimes feel repetitive or overdone. Instead, we focus on how values shape the journey, guiding us to live out the mission with integrity and grace.

Why does “For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory…” appear in some Bibles — but not in others? The surprising truth? This line traces back to one of the earliest known Christian writings outside the New Testament: the Didache.

Today is Pentecost. And while the Christian calendar quietly ushers us through this season, it's worth pausing to reflect on what this moment truly means. Pentecost marks that pivotal point in the biblical narrative where Jesus leaves, and the Spirit arrives. It's not just a story of absence, but of new presence—God's Spirit, now at work within us and through us for the sake of the world.

This week, the world lost a towering figure in theology: American theologian and biblical scholar Walter Brueggemann passed away. And maybe, if I'm honest, I should have shared this reflection a long time ago. But his passing stirred something in me—a deep gratitude for his influence and a renewed urgency to pass along the gift of his work to you.

We all want to believe we’re good people. We imagine ourselves as kind, generous, and fair—but what if our self-perception is covering up the reality of our actions?

We're exploring the depth and breadth of faith beyond just emotional experiences. Is Christianity a relationship or a religion? Can both coexist? We dive into the tension between the felt, emotional side of faith and the structured, ritualistic practices that shape us—even when we don’t “feel” close to God.

What really intrigues me about 1 Samuel is God's response to the request for a king. Even though God is willing to work with what the people want and give in to demands that God deems inappropriate and that are not going to lead them anywhere good, I'm struck by God's posture that inherited power is inherently toxic. And for me, this goes all the way back to that conversation about apparent and actual authority in communities.

If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love,—I am nothing. 1 Corinthians 13 I might even suggest that if you can do all that, And you don’t have love, You’re not nothing, You’re a net negative.

The narrative starts with a heart-touching tale of Jairus pleading for his sick daughter's healing. But that's just the set up for the real story. We encounter the tale of a woman struggling with a bleeding disorder for over a decade. Through the interaction of these stories, Mark uncovers the remarkable power of Christ, his deep compassion, and his outreach to the marginalized and ostracized.

We sometimes have this imagination that the Pharisees were harsh and therefore hated by the people, as opposed to Jesus, who was loved by all the common folk. The truth, however, is more nuanced, and the Pharisees were largely considered the liberals of the day, and that made them quite popular. For example, from inter-Testamental Jewish writings that we know of, the Pharisees were often the group that downplayed religious punishment and were most often criticized for being too lenient with religious penalty.

When scholars look at tightly packed similar stories like we find in the opening of Mark, they will often refer to them as symbolic actions. And that's a tricky phrase, because often people will hear that and latch on to the word symbolic and then assume that what scholars are trying to do is undermine the historicity of these miracles, like they didn't really happen. They're just symbols or metaphors. Personally, I don't think that's really all that scary. To be honest, sometimes the line between what's a parable and what's not from Jesus is nuanced.

Right near the start of Mark there is a series of healing narratives. In one of them Jesus heals "the demonized." And, interestingly, this is the only story of the four where we actually see the specific term healed or therapeou appear. And therapeou is actually the least magical explanation for what happens in the story. therapeou is where we get the English word therapy from and that's because in Greek it referred not to the work of healers but to the work of doctors. Now, to use the word doctors in this context is, of course, an anachronism, but in the ancient world, therapeou was used to describe the application of a salve to heal a wound or a plaster cast to heal a broken bone. The primary sense was to care for or to wait upon someone. Medically. Theropuho is not a magical term, it's a therapeutic term. It implies a long, slow process of healing.

In the final story of Mark's opening healing sequence, a group of men want their friend made whole, and so does Jesus, but that starts with the stigma that sets him apart from everyone else. Healing is more than the fixing of bones, it is the repair of all that pulls us apart and makes us think we are separate. A woman is healed so she can join the party. The demonized are calmed so they can be seen as neighbors again. A man excluded by leprosy is reintegrated into society. Now, the stigma of sin rooted in a misunderstanding of what health means is wiped clean for those watching. And if that social location of kingdom can slowly take root in our hearts, if we can repent and believe that good news for ourselves and for those near us, then perhaps, as Jesus says, we actually can do greater things than these.

In Romans 16 Paul names a number of women in prominent roles within the early church. But then in his letters to Corinth and Timothy, he seems to take a different tone. What is going on here? Should we try to harmonize these passages?

Evangelical is a word that has gotten a lot of press lately. The tough part is, Evangelical can mean a lot of different things depending on who you're talking to. So let's walk through the three major eras of Evangelicalism from 19th Century Europe to early 20th Century America to today, and why churches like Commons need to figure out what church looks like after Evangelicalism​.