Reflections on My English Pilgrimage, Part 3

This will be the last of my reflections on my English pilgrimage; next week the blog will resume its normal schedule of posts. While the previous reflections have centered on history and theology, this one is more personal, albeit with connections to the life of the church that I hope will prove edifying to my readers.

As with any pilgrimage, one of the goals was to seek out the presence of God and, hopefully, gain some experience to shed insight or inspiration on my walk with the Lord. One need not travel to England or Israel to gain that experience, of course--God is everywhere, and just as readily encountered in the woods around one's home as in Jerusalem. But the practice of pilgrimage can provide a focusing effect on one's seeking, an opportunity to step away from the pressures of home life and to pursue God in places that still ring with the stories of countless saints who have also encountered the living Lord there.

While I certainly hoped to encounter the presence of God in a way that would challenge, convict, and shape me in my road of discipleship, one of my other goals for this pilgrimage was also to try to figure something out about myself. As anyone with a passing familiarity with this blog has probably already noticed, I'm something of a fence-straddler when it comes to the old divisions between high-church and low-church forms of worship. I write essays about evangelical theology and post them alongside Eastern Orthodox icons; I write hymns in the Baptist tradition and liturgies hearkening back to Anglican and Orthodox forms. The truth is, I don't quite know where I fit. Who knows, it probably has something to do with my deep-running psychological formation as a TCK in my early childhood (which produces something of a sense of perpetual, journeying rootlessness in one's life). But in short, I've always loved the whole breadth of the Christian tradition and yet never felt entirely at home in any one segment of it. It may be that I, like many younger evangelicals, am drawn by the gravity and grandeur of the ancient forms of the faith, in what appears to be a common generational trend. But unlike many of my peers, I've never sought to make a move away from my home tradition and into another one.

Whatever the cause of it, this sense of belonging everywhere-and-nowhere in the Christian church has long been a part of my experience. I've been a Baptist most of my life, both by heritage and conviction, but I've also been blessed to have deeply formative experiences in the Anabaptist, Wesleyan-Holiness, Reformed, Anglican, Pentecostal, Catholic, and Orthodox traditions. I'm a committed Baptist pastor who is also, on the side, in fellowship with an Anglican apostolate and a Benedictine monastery. An odd duck, to be sure.

One of the ways this is expressed in my life is in the dichotomy between my worship with my home church and my worship elsewhere. My home church, where I serve as pastor, is my spiritual family, and nothing else comes close in that regard. It is irreplaceable. Nevertheless, if we were to look at the issue in the abstract and consider only the forms of worship involved, a striking pattern emerges: in my pastoral ministry, I worship in a low-church context; but on those infrequent occasions when I'm off on my own and the choice is mine, I almost always seek out high-church worship. I look for an Anglican high mass or an Orthodox Divine Liturgy to attend. I vary my customary worship--heartfelt praise songs, hymns, and extemporaneous prayers--in favor of more ancient forms: liturgies, collects, and creeds. While I'm gifted at leading low-church worship services, and truly enjoy them and find them spiritually fruitful, I had gradually come to wonder whether perhaps, if I were simply a worshiper and not a leader, I would feel at home in a high-church tradition. This was a question I had the opportunity to put to the test in my English pilgrimage, but the answer surprised me a little.

Almost all of the worship services I attended in England were high-church services (usually of the Anglican variety). And I loved it. As I wrote last week, the most profound emotional and spiritual experiences of my entire trip came during high-church Eucharist services. But after a couple weeks of this, I found myself looking around for a nice low-church service I could attend. I was yearning for heartfelt praise songs and the warm personal connection of an evangelical fellowship. Maybe it was just that I had been away long enough to feel lonely and ready for a taste of home; I don't know. But God graciously provided exactly what I longed for, in the most unexpected way. 

It was Saturday, and I had just left the conference in Oxford and was making my way toward Norfolk. I got off at a train stop in Peterborough to see yet another old cathedral. I wasn't attending worship in Peterborough Cathedral--not only did I not really feel like another high-church service at the time, but the cathedral itself had been redecorated as a children's museum instead of a place of worship (which was something of a letdown). Feeling bereft of God and longing for some worshipful singing and open-hearted prayer, I stepped back out of the doors of the church to hear a group of evangelical Christians singing together on the cathedral green. They were singing "Faithful One" (a worship song beloved in English evangelicalism, and one which has long been a favorite of mine). I sat down in the grass and sang along with them until they were told to stop by cathedral security guards. Then I went up to meet them and they prayed for me and my journey, and it was like drinking water from a deep, cool well. God had granted me just what I needed in that moment.

So where does that leave me? Still fence-straddling, I suppose. No, something better than that. It emphatically did not confirm my infrequent speculations that maybe I belonged in a high-church tradition. I found that I couldn't do without the beauty of low-church worship either. So all this has convinced me that I will never be satisfied with anything less than the entire Body of Christ. My home is the whole church, every part of it. Wherever brothers and sisters are gathered, whether raising their hands in song or bowing in an ancient creed, I am no stranger there. From my Baptist church at home to the little Orthodox chapel I attend on vacations, I will take joy in all the ways that the Bride adores her Beloved. And perhaps that's as it should be.

Devotional Column: The Peace that Passes Understanding

I've been hoping to be able to post a link to the video of my PhD oral defense here on the blog, but it has not been made available yet. In the meantime, here's a devotional column I wrote recently for publication in my local hometown newspaper:

The Peace that Passes Understanding

I can remember, as a child in Sunday School, hearing a turn of phrase in songs and teachings that always stuck with me: “the peace that passes understanding.” It spoke of a blessing, a sense of rest and harmony that no ups or downs of daily life could touch: a peace that was beyond comprehension, unexplainable by any cause except God’s own work in one’s life. This phrase comes from Philippians 4:7, as part of a lovely promise. Here it is in the words of a more modern translation: “And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

This promise is winsome and beautiful, but to understand how one obtains the promise, you have to look back at what came before. Here’s the preceding verse: “Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God” (Phil. 4:6). In this context, the promise becomes clear—the peace of God is a gift that is given in response to our regular, faithful, daily act of praying. In every situation, we are called to present our requests to God.

But notice that verse 6 also gives us an intriguing command: “Do not be anxious about anything.” How is it possible not to be anxious, when our feelings get worked up by the busyness of life and the whirlwind of bad news that surrounds us in this age of terrorism, wars, and pandemics? We don’t have any control over those external events, so how can we control whether or not we feel anxiety?

The Bible isn’t telling us not to feel our genuine feelings, but rather is instructing us what to do with those feelings. Here’s how I like to explain it: Imagine that all your worries are drops of water, filling up a basin that you hold in your arms. As more and more of life’s busyness and tragedies come your way, those drops continue filling up the basin, making it heavier and heavier. At this point you have two options. You can either just keep holding that basin and all the water in it—letting the worries of life drive you into deeper anxiety, getting heavier and heavier—or you can just dump them all out of the basin. By holding onto them, you are choosing anxiety. But the verse tells us to pour them all out—do not be anxious, but instead, in every situation, present your requests to God. Rather than holding onto your worries, turn them into prayers instead. Pour them out to the Lord. If you’re a person who’s just naturally a worrier, that doesn’t have to be a negative thing; it could mean that you are equipped to be a great prayer-warrior, always interceding for your family and community.

If we can do this, turning our worries into prayers, then the promise of God’s peace becomes applicable to our situation. The peace that passes understanding—a peace that literally makes no sense at all, given what’s going on in our lives—is on offer for us. How? By turning over our worries and fears about things that we cannot control to One who reigns supreme over them all. When the situation is given to God, we can have peace. That doesn’t mean that everything will always work out perfectly, but it does mean that we can hold onto a deep, restful sense of hope even in the most tumultuous of times.

Getting Right with God (and Your Neighbor)

(This piece was originally written for publication as a devotional column in my hometown newspaper.)

The past week fell within part of the traditional Jewish calendar called “the Days of Awe.” They follow Rosh Hashanah, which the Bible refers to as the Feast of Trumpets, and which marks the turning of the new year in the Jewish civil calendar. Right now we’re doing a series of studies in my church focusing on the roots of our Christian faith in its Jewish context, and specifically on the ways that the feasts of Israel inform our faith. The Days of Awe, which run from Rosh Hashanah to Yom Kippur (the Day of Atonement), are a time for reflection, confession, and reconciliation. It offers a chance to turn the page on the old year, celebrate the goodness of life, and to focus on living according to the good, beautiful, and true principles that flow from our relationship with God.

Most of the practices encouraged for the Days of Awe strike people as normal parts of the life of prayer: spending time in contemplation, confessing our sins, and trying to prepare our hearts for the symbols of atonement that stand at the center of Yom Kippur. But there’s one facet that sometimes takes people by surprise. The Days of Awe are also a time for reconciliation—for going to your friends, family, and neighbors (and perhaps even your enemies) to resolve old conflicts, let go of grudges, heal rifts, and bury the hatchet.

This is a difficult calling, awkward and sometimes painful. It would be so much easier just to focus on my own prayers, on my private relationship with God. But the Bible does not permit one’s faith to be limited to just a personal spiritual experience; it includes all of one’s life, including our relationships with others. The great command to “Love the Lord your God” (Deut. 6:5) is paired with the command to “Love your neighbor as yourself” (Lev. 19:18), and Jesus holds these two commands inextricably together (Matt. 22:37-39). You cannot truly love God if you are not also seeking to love your neighbor. Faith in Christ is far more than just a personal spiritual experience; it is an entire way of living, touching and transforming every single part of life.

Jesus advises a practice very similar to the Jewish custom on the Days of Awe: “If you are offering your gift at the altar and there remember that your brother has something against you, leave your gift there before the altar and go. First be reconciled to your brother, and then come and offer your gift” (Matt. 5:23-24). Reconciliation with our brother comes first; and only then we can enter the presence of God knowing that our heart is ready to connect to him in worship and prayer. Why is it so important to show love and consideration to our brothers and sisters and neighbors? Because God loves them. Whatever their faults, God loves them with all the immense, indescribable depths of his love. We cannot claim to know the heart of God if we don’t seek to love them too. So as we enter this season of fall, as our hearts lift in wonder to watch the world around us brighten with the beauty of God’s workmanship, let’s remember that to truly draw near to God, we must learn to love one another.

The Irreplaceable Importance of Going to Church

(*Note: in lieu of a new set of poetry stanzas today, I'm posting another of the devotional columns I wrote for my hometown newspaper, this one coming just before Easter earlier this year)

It’s Easter this Sunday (*see note above)—the day when Christians celebrate the most momentous event in all of history, when Jesus Christ, who had borne the weight of the world’s sin in his death on the cross, rose triumphantly to life again. It’s also traditionally a day when many people who had not been regular churchgoers would make an attempt to come back to church. I’d like to encourage you to consider making just such a resolution, and not only for one day, but as a lasting habit. This isn’t just self-serving (though obviously, as a pastor, I want people to come to church!)—it turns out that there are very good reasons for going to church regularly, regardless of the level of your beliefs.

For those who might be skeptical about organized religion or have just gotten into a rut of doing life without church—maybe you grew up in church but drifted away, for instance—you should know that there’s significant research that shows that going to church is probably the absolute best change you can make to improve your life. In study after study, regular churchgoers are shown to be significantly happier in their relationships, report more satisfaction in their sex lives, have vastly lower rates of depression, suicide, and substance abuse, report a greater sense of meaningfulness, and enjoy participating in service and civic engagement more than any other segment of the population. Churchgoers were the only demographic group in America whose mental health did not show significant diminishment over the course of the pandemic. Recent studies from Duke University have even shown that on days when church services are cancelled (for bad weather, for instance), the social wellbeing metrics for the entire area go down at an alarming rate, including the metrics for non-churchgoers. It’s not quite clear what this data means, but it appears to show, in a surprisingly clear way, that church services are doing something that has a markedly positive effect on everyone in society.

Of course, improved wellbeing isn’t the whole story, but the data is clear enough that it should be eye-opening even to skeptics. The reason why the numbers hold true is that something very real is happening in church: people are being changed by the living presence of Jesus Christ. You can find the hope you seek. You can belong to a family centered upon the illimitable, unfathomable love of God. It’s open and available for all.

Further, there are good reasons for coming to church beyond just the good it will do you: most importantly, because the message we proclaim happens to be true. We live in an age where the tide of intellectual skepticism against faith is beginning to turn, even in the highest levels of academia. Recent discoveries in physics and cosmology (and increasingly in philosophy) point toward the existence of God and the conclusion that we live in a designed universe. (Two recent books are good starting-points for getting a grasp on this developing evidence: The Return of the God Hypothesis, by science philosopher Stephen Meyer, and Is Atheism Dead? by Eric Metaxas).

All that to say, even if you’re a skeptic, there are really good reasons for coming to church this Easter. If you’re a Christian who has fallen into a rut of not attending, the reasons for returning to church regularly are even more compelling. Christianity is not a system of faith that you were ever meant to practice on your own. You are part of the communal Body of Christ (that is, the church), and the Bible is clear that we absolutely need each other. You are a branch connected to the vine of Jesus himself, commanded to abide in him (John 15), but you simply can’t do that if you are unconnected to his Body. You’re choosing a life of self-impoverishment by not connecting to church. The Sunday worship service is a crucial avenue by which we grow in the grace of God. There is no replacement for it. So starting this Sunday, take up the challenge to see for yourself. Come and see. Come and be transformed.

When God Seems Absent

(The apologetics series that normally runs in this Thursday slot will return next week. For this week, I have a devotional article I wrote for my local newspaper.)

Have you ever been in a place in your life where you wish the Lord would answer your prayers quickly, be right there when you call, and rush to your aid? I’m sure we can all think of times like that. Perhaps it’s true of this season of our lives especially, as so much of our society has gone through turmoil and social upheaval during the past couple years. The difficult thing is this: God doesn’t always seem to answer as quickly as we would like, even when we’re in those places of great desperation. His presence can feel far off. Sometimes it doesn’t even seem like he's paying attention at all.

There’s a story like this in the Gospel of Mark. After performing a miracle of feeding a vast crowd of people with nothing more than the contents of a single lunch basket, Jesus has sent his disciples on ahead of him. The twelve disciples have put out on the Sea of Galilee in their boat, aiming to cross and make a landing on the other side by morning, while Jesus remains on shore. He wants to spend some time alone in prayer, so he goes up on the mountainside that overlooks the water and begins praying (Mark 6:45-47). The moon must have been shining brightly that night, because the story says that Jesus, from his vantage-point on the slope, could see his friends’ boat far out on the water. The wind had arisen, and they were having a difficult time, straining at the oars with all their might. Though some of them were fishermen and were used to such conditions, others had been landsmen their whole lives, for whom it would be a terrifying thing to manage an open boat out on the waves during a windy night, when there is no one else around. No doubt they wished their Master was with them in that moment, the one who could calm the sea, and, more importantly, who could calm the tumult of their souls in the midst of all their fears.

Jesus had every ability to go out and help them, as the story soon demonstrates. This is the story in which Jesus walks on the water, striding out over the waves to meet his disciples amid the fury of the wind-whipped sea. But Mark includes an interesting detail in his telling of the story: although Jesus had noticed the disciples’ difficulties much earlier in the night, it isn’t until the fourth watch of the night—that is, just before dawn—that he goes out to meet them on the waves (Mark 6:48). Why the delay? Why didn’t Jesus just go straight down to help them when he saw them struggling against the wind? One of the answers might be that he was already helping them—perhaps he was praying for them while up on the mountain. Though they couldn’t see him or feel his presence, that didn’t mean he was unaware of what they were going through or unconcerned about it. He was watching over them, and he had already planned to come and make his presence known when the time was right.

I think this is a useful reminder to hold onto. The truth is, there are times when we will feel like we’ve been left out on our own to face the wildness of life’s raging sea. But that doesn’t mean that God isn’t watching over us. It doesn’t mean that God doesn’t care. It may be that God is already at work in our situation in ways that we cannot yet perceive. Scripture tells us that even now, Jesus is praying for us in the presence of God the Father (Rom. 8:34). So take heart. You are not alone, and God is watching over you. He may not intervene precisely at the time we would like or in the exact way we hope he will, but that doesn’t mean he has abandoned us. He is still the same God who can stride through the storm to save us, wherever we might be.

Let Your Eyes Be Opened

(The apologetics series that normally runs in this Thursday slot will return in two weeks' time. For this week and next, I have a couple devotional articles I wrote for my local newspaper.)

This summer I have the privilege of taking part in an archaeological expedition in Israel, unearthing a site that might be one of the towns that played witness to Jesus’ ministry nearly two thousand years ago. Specifically, the dig directors believe it to be the site of Bethsaida, mentioned several times in the Gospels as the hometown of Peter and Andrew (Jesus’ disciples), as well as one of their most frequent stops when ministering around Galilee. On one of those stops in Bethsaida, Jesus performed what is perhaps his strangest miracle of healing.

In the story (told in Mark 8:22-25), a blind man is brought to Jesus, and Jesus leads him away from the crowd, to a place where they can interact one-on-one. The Gospels are full of healing stories, so we know that Jesus can heal with simply a touch or a word. But here he does something weirder: he spits on the man’s eyes. The story gets stranger still, because it quickly becomes apparent that the man is only partially healed. When Jesus asks him what he can see, he reports a fuzzy, disordered image. So Jesus puts his hands on the man’s eyes, and this time his sight is fully restored. The two-step nature of the miracle is strange, since elsewhere in the Gospels it seems like Jesus’ healings are instantaneous and complete. But here, it appears to take Jesus two tries.

What’s going on in this story? Scholars have debated it for years, and there are many interesting interpretations. Despite all our study and speculation, though, we may never know for sure why Jesus did things the way he did. But we can observe some ways in which the pattern of this healing is similar to our own relationship with Jesus.

First, consider the fact that Jesus uses spit to heal the man. We sometimes have the false idea that when we come to faith in Christ, it’s going to be a super-spiritual experience, with our hearts and minds immediately exalted to heavenly realities. But the truth is, God works in our hearts far more often in dull, ordinary, everyday ways. He uses the simple things of life—like our families, the color of a sunset, the sound of the wind in the trees, or even the difficult seasons of our lives—to draw us closer to him. God doesn’t immediately transport us out of earthly realities; he makes use of them to help us know him more.

Second, consider the two-step pattern of the healing. This is actually very similar to the normal pattern of coming to faith in Christ. Against our expectations of an immediate, utterly transformational event, many new Christians find that they’re still the same people after getting saved, and that they haven’t been instantaneously transfigured into pictures of angelic radiance. The normal pattern is this: God saves us by making us spiritually alive in Christ, and then he teaches us how to live. Just as with the blind man in the story, Jesus restores our spiritual sight, and then helps us learn to see rightly. So don’t get too discouraged when you see the same old problems popping up in your life. Just bring them to Jesus. He’s the one who saved us, and he’s the one who is still at work, teaching us the way of holiness. He gave us back our spiritual sight when we were blind, but we still need his touch to learn how to use those powers of sight in the right way. Growing as a Christian is a journey, and it’s a journey with only one set of directions that you need to remember: when you don’t know which way to go, turn to Jesus.

Praying through the Word - John 20:1-18

An invitation to prayer through the words of John 20:1-18

(Gospel text for RCL Easter, Cycle C)

(click here for an introduction to this video series)

A Break from Blogging for Holy Week (Friday video excepted)

I'm taking a one-week break from blogging over Holy Week. I will, however, still produce my devotional video. It'll post on Friday as usual, but as it focuses on the lectionary readings for Sunday, it might be advisable to wait until Easter to use it.

Praying through the Word - Luke 19:28-40

An invitation to prayer through the words of Luke 19:28-40

(Gospel text for RCL Lent 6, Cycle C)

(click here for an introduction to this video series)

Living Like a Saint

For our Thursday piece this week, I wanted to share this extended extract from the Romanian Orthodox theologian Dumitru Staniloae. It expresses, in terms that I find quite beautiful, the possibilities inherent in being formed into the image of Christ--of becoming what Staniloae calls, in the words of his tradition, a saint. I keep this quote near at hand, because I hold onto the (admittedly unlikely) hope that someday God might, by his grace, grow me into such a person as this. It's a rather high ideal, but a lovely one.

"In the saint, there exists nothing that is trivial, nothing coarse, nothing base, nothing affected or fake, nothing insincere. In him is the culmination of delicacy, sensibility, transparency, purity, reverence, and attention before the mystery of his fellowmen […] The saint grasps the various conditions of the soul in others and avoids all that would upset them, although he does not avoid helping them overcome their weaknesses. He reads the least articulate need of others and fulfills it promptly, just as he reads their impurities also, however skillfully hidden, through the delicate power of his own purity, exercising upon them a purifying action. From the saint there continually radiates a spirit of self-giving and of sacrifice for the sake of all, with no concern for himself—a spirit that gives warmth to others and assures them that they are not alone. And yet there is no one more humble, more simple, less artificial, less theatrical or hypocritical, no one more natural in his behavior, accepting all that is truly human and creating an atmosphere that is pure and familiar. The saint has overcome any duality in himself […] He has overcome the struggle between soul and body, the divergence between good intentions and deeds that do not correspond to them, between deceptive appearance and hidden thoughts, between what claims to be the case and what is the case. He has become simple. Therefore, because he has surrendered himself entirely to God, that is why he can surrender himself entirely in communication with others. The saint always lends courage, and at times, through a humor marked by the same delicacy, he shrinks the delusions created by fears or pride or the passions. He smiles but does not laugh sarcastically, he is serious but not frightened, he finds value in the humblest persons, considering them to be great mysteries created by God and destined to eternal communion with him. Through humility the saint makes himself almost unobserved, but he appears when there is a need for consolation, for encouragement or help. For him no difficulty is insurmountable, because he believes firmly in the help of God, sought through prayer. He is the most human and humble of beings, yet at the same time of an appearance that is unusual and amazing, and gives rise in others to the sense of discovering in him, and in themselves too, what is truly human. He is a presence simultaneously most dear and, unintentionally, most impressive; the one who draws the most attention. For you he becomes the most intimate one of all, and the most understanding. You never feel more at ease than near him; yet at the same time he forces you into a corner and makes you see your moral inadequacies and failings. He overwhelms you with the simple greatness of his purity and with the warmth of his goodness and makes you ashamed of how far you have fallen away from what is truly human, of how far you have sunk in your impurity, artificiality, superficiality, and duplicity; for these appear in sharp relief in the comparisons you make unwillingly between yourself and him. He exercises no worldly power, he gives no harsh commands, but you feel in him an unyielding firmness in his convictions, his life, in the advice he gives. And so his opinion about what you should do, expressed by delicacy or a discreet look, becomes for you a command, and to fulfill that command, you find yourself capable of any effort or sacrifice. Whoever approaches a saint discovers in him the peak of goodness, purity, and spiritual power, covered over by the veil of humility. He is the illustration of the greatness and power of kenosis [Phil. 2:7]. From the saint there irradiates an imperturbable quiet or peace, and simultaneously a participation in the pain of others that reaches the point of tears. He is rooted in the loving and suffering stability of God’s incarnate Son Jesus, and rests in the eternity of the power and goodness of God."

Praying through the Word - John 12:1-8

An invitation to prayer through the words of John 12:1-8

(Gospel text for RCL Lent 5, Cycle C)

(click here for an introduction to this video series)

Praying through the Word - Luke 15:11-32

An invitation to prayer through the words of Luke 15:11-32

(Gospel text for RCL Lent 4, Cycle C)

(click here for an introduction to this video series)

Praying through the Word - Luke 13:1-9

An invitation to prayer through the words of Luke 13:1-9

(Gospel text for RCL Lent 3, Cycle C)

(click here for an introduction to this video series)

Praying through the Word - Luke 13:31-35

An invitation to prayer through the words of Luke 13:31-35

(Gospel text for RCL Lent 2, Cycle C)

(click here for an introduction to this video series)

Praying through the Word - Luke 4:1-13

An invitation to prayer through the words of Luke 4:1-13

(Gospel text for RCL Lent 1, Cycle C)

(click here for an introduction to this video series)

Praying through the Word - Luke 9:28-36

An invitation to prayer through the words of Luke 9:28-36

(Gospel text for RCL Transfiguration, Cycle C)

(click here for an introduction to this video series)

Praying through the Word - Luke 6:27-38

An invitation to prayer through the words of Luke 6:27-38

(Gospel text for RCL Epiphany 7, Cycle C)

(click here for an introduction to this video series)

Praying through the Word - Luke 6:17-26

An invitation to prayer through the words of Luke 6:17-26

(Gospel text for RCL Epiphany 6, Cycle C)

(click here for an introduction to this video series)

Praying through the Word - Luke 5:1-11

An invitation to prayer through the words of Luke 5:1-11

(Gospel text for RCL Epiphany 5, Cycle C)

(click here for an introduction to this video series)

Praying through the Word - Luke 4:21-30

An invitation to prayer through the words of Luke 4:21-30

(Gospel text for RCL Epiphany 4, Cycle C)

(click here for an introduction to this video series)