The Corner

we are born the same, return to that place

Lisa and I went to see Jon Batiste in concert this week, and we were blown away. His music always moves me, but hearing him perform live was a transcendent experience. And the song that struck me most deeply was "Worship."

When I heard him start with that opening chant - "We are born the same, return to that place" - ir reminded me how much live music can be an experience of awe, ia recognition of the deep unity and sacredness that binds us all together. Lisa has introduced me to the writings and research of Dacher Keltner, He has found that this is what awe does: it shifts our focus from our individual selves to our connectedness with others and with something greater. It makes us feel part of an integrated whole, in ways that so much of life nowadays does not.

As Batiste's lyrics washed over me - "Oh my father, Oh my mother, Oh my brother, Oh my sister" - I felt that sense of awe,  boundaries between self and other fading away, past and present, human and divine. This, Keltner says, is the transformative power of awe: it can "reshape our sense of self, connect us to humankind and nature, and reorient our life priorities."

And isn't this exactly what the Christian story Easter story calls us to? To remember our fundamental unity, to allow the boundaries that divide us to fall away in the face of a Love that conquers all? If you are you are part of that story, we are invited to die to our small, separate selves and be reborn into a larger story, an eternal dance of death and resurrection.

Keltner's research has found that experiences of awe, whether in nature, in spirituality, or in witnessing profound human courage and kindness, activate the same regions of our brain as psychedelics. They shift us into a more expansive state of consciousness, quiet our default mode network, and connect us to the numinous dimensions of life.

I think this is what Jon Batiste's music does. In "Worship", he invites us to step into that liminal space between the ordinary and the extraordinary, the human and the holy. He calls us to join our voices together, to let our awe weave us into a single fabric of belonging.

In a world that feels fractured and frantic, we need these shared experiences of awe more than ever. We need rituals and practices, songs and stories that continually awaken us to the wonder and mystery at the heart of existence. This is what our religious traditions have always done at their best - provided touchpoints of awe that reorient us toward what matters most.

So maybe "Worship" should be our anthem this Easter Sunday and beyond. A doorway into the awe that is always available to us, if only we have eyes to see and ears to hear. May we hear the call to return to that place where we are all one, all born of the same cosmic breath and boundless love.

game over: holy saturday in an age of AI

Remember those old video games, the ones where you'd be playing along, dodging obstacles and racking up points, and then suddenly - bam! The screen would go black, and those two dreaded words would appear: GAME OVER. It was always a shock, no matter how many times it happened. One minute you're in the zone, and the next, it's all just...done.

In a way, that's kind of what the Christian idea of Holy Saturday feels like. It's that moment when everything seems to screech to a halt, when the story you thought you were living suddenly takes a turn you never saw coming. In the story of Jesus's followers, it must have been like the ultimate game over. The one they thought was invincible, the one they had put all their hope in, was gone. And they were left staring at a blank screen, wondering what comes next.

It's a feeling that hits a little too close to home these days, as we grapple with the rise of artificial intelligence and the looming specter of our own potential extinction. The idea that we might be moving towards our own game over, that everything we've built and dreamed could just...end. This idea is real - a survey of AI researchers found that the majority of respondents believed there is a 10 percent or greater chance that our inability to control AI will cause an existential catastrophe. It's a weight that's hard to shake

But here's the thing: as tempting as it might be to rage against the game, to demand a do-over or a cheat code, that's not how life works. There are no save points, no extra lives. There's just this one wild and precious life, this finite and messy thing we call our existence.

And maybe that's what the idea Holy Saturday is trying to teach us. That sometimes, the only way forward is through the darkness. Through the grief and the fear and the not-knowing. Through the moments when everything feels like it's ending, and we can't see a way out.

Because the truth is, being human means learning to live with the weight of our own mortality. It means staring down the GAME OVER screen and saying, "Okay. What now?" It means letting ourselves feel the full depth of our sorrow and our fear, without trying to fast-forward through the hard parts.

And yeah, it's scary. It's scary to think about our own ending, to imagine a world without us in it. But maybe, in a weird way, that's what makes our lives so precious. The fact that they're not infinite. The fact that we only get so many quarters, so many chances to leave our mark.

So on this Holy Saturday, as we sit in the shadow of the game over, let's not be afraid to feel the weight of it all. Let's not be afraid to grieve what we've lost, and what we know we'll lose. But let's also remember to look for the glimmers of light in the darkness. Let's remember to hold onto the things that matter most.

Because in the end, that's what being human is all about. It's about learning to live in the space between the levels. It's about finding meaning and beauty in the midst of uncertainty. It's about being brave enough to keep playing, even when we know the game might end.

And who knows? Maybe, just maybe, that's the secret to beating the final level in the game. Not by chasing immortality or trying to outsmart death, but by embracing our own extinction. By living each moment like it's the last coin in the slot, the last chance to leave our initials on the high score screen.

So let's take a deep breath, and let's sit with the weight of the GAME OVER. Let's feel it all - the grief, the fear, the love, the hope. And then, let's hit continue and face the next level - not because we know we'll win, but because we're brave enough to keep playing, one life at a time.

the grief of losing faith

I've been carrying around this ache in my chest lately, a sense of loss that I can't quite put into words. It's like mourning the death of someone close to me, but I can't pinpoint exactly who or what I've lost. After a lot of soul-searching, I've realized that what I'm grieving is the faith that once anchored me - a way of understanding the world that used to feel rock-solid, but that now seems to be crumbling beneath my feet.

This kind of grief is hard to talk about because it's a grief for something intangible - a way of making sense of life that once seemed unshakable, but now feels like it's fading away. It's not like losing a person or a place, something you can point to and say, "There. That's what I'm missing." Instead, it's like mourning a part of yourself that you can't quite name or describe.

And it turns out, I'm not the only one feeling this way. A recent Pew Research Center survey found that a staggering 80% of U.S. adults believe religion's role in American life is diminishing - the highest percentage they've ever recorded. Most of those who see religion's influence waning are unhappy about it. Nearly half of Americans say that religion is losing its impact, and that this is a bad thing.

These numbers reflect a profound shift in our spiritual landscape, a collective sense of loss and disorientation. For many of us, this change feels deeply personal, like a kind of unnamed grief. It's a pain that's hard to articulate because it's rooted in something so intangible - a worldview, a set of beliefs and practices that once gave our lives meaning and structure.

But here's the thing about grief: it cracks us open. It exposes our deepest vulnerabilities and forces us to confront the fragility of everything we thought we could rely on. And in that raw, broken-open space, we have a choice. We can try to patch over the cracks, to cling to what's familiar even as it crumbles in our hands. Or we can choose to be present to the breaking, to let it soften and change us.

I'm trying to choose presence, even though it scares me. I'm learning to sit with the discomfort of this unnamed grief, to listen to what it has to teach me. I'm starting to see that this ache in my heart isn't just about what I've lost - it's also about what I'm being called to pay attention to right now.

Because maybe, in the end, grief is a kind of sacred guide. Not because it promises answers or resolution, but because it invites us to be fully present to our own experience. It calls us to honor the questions, the doubts, the longings, without rushing to resolve them. It reminds us that we can love deeply, that we can care profoundly, even about things we can't fully name or hold onto.

So I'll keep sitting with this unnamed grief, keep letting it crack me open. I'll keep listening for the wisdom it offers, not because I'm hoping for a tidy resolution, but because I'm learning to trust a kind of resilience and tenderness I never knew I had.

the bully that is time in search of holiness

I went to a local Episcopal church for a Palm Sunday liturgy today. As Holy Week starts, I find myself really missing the rhythms and patterns of these next 7 days. In our digital world, where our devices are always demanding our attention, I've lost touch with the sacred rhythms that used to give my life a sense of meaning.

Time has become a big bully in my life, pushing me around with its constant demands and never-ending rush. The non-stop buzz of notifications, the flood of emails and messages, the pressure to be "always on" - it all gangs up to make me feel like I'm never doing enough, never catching up.

I remember the Holy Weeks of my childhood, when time seemed to move at a totally different speed. There was a seriousness and a sense of excitement in the air - the way the church looked with purple cloths, the sad sounds of the hymns, the taste of the bread and wine on Maundy Thursday. Each day had its own unique feel, its own emotional heaviness.

But now, as a grown-up in the digital age, those old rhythms feel harder and harder to grab onto. My phone beeps with urgent messages at all hours, and the constant stream of bad news from around the world makes it tough to step away and really be present. The sacred story of Holy Week - the path from Palm Sunday to Easter morning - feels more like a fading memory than something I'm actually living.

And yet, even in the middle of all this noise and confusion, I find myself longing for a different way of experiencing time. I miss the feeling of time being a gift to enjoy rather than a bossy taskmaster always telling me what to do. I miss the way the rituals and practices of Holy Week used to line up my body and soul with something bigger than the day-to-day hassles of the moment.

I miss actually walking through the Stations of the Cross, letting my body act out the story of Jesus' pain and death. I miss the soreness in my knees after an hour of prayer on Maundy Thursday, and the shock of the loud noises on Good Friday when the altar is stripped bare.

Most of all, I miss feeling like I'm part of a story way bigger than myself - a story that includes all of human history and reaches into the farthest corners of forever. In a world that feels more and more broken and crazy, I long for the groundedness that comes from knowing my little life is caught up in the great big drama of God's saving work.

 

why poetry helps so much answering the question "Why are we not better than we are??

Yesterday, March 21st, was World Poetry Day - a day set aside to celebrate the power and beauty of this ancient art form. It’s rare to meet the dad of a poet you love, but while I was in London a few weeks ago, I had coffee with Jonny Baker. I’ve known Jonny for more than two decades, a friendship that started virtually and blossomed when we were in the same place.

Jonny’s son is the poet Harry Baker. Harry's wit, wordplay, and storytelling never fail to make me laugh, think, and feel more deeply. His poems are a perfect example of how this ancient art form still has the power to delight and move us in the 21st century. If you spend any time watching Harry “perform” his poetry, you are reminded that poetry has been a way for humans to express their deepest thoughts and feelings for centuries. Yesterday was a day to remember how much poems can inspire us, challenge us, and change us.

I’ve replaced a lot of my podcast listening with listening to poets read their work. It wasnt something intentional - at first I just switched my feed to Poetry Unbound and I just followed my heart through my ears. A few weeks ago, these words from Frost on the Field, a poem by Eric Trethewey really make me think:

"Why are we not better than we are?, All around me the dead leaves lie."

When I see all the problems in the world, I wonder why it's so hard for us to be good. When life is tough, I often turn to poetry for help.Poetry has a special way of changing how we think. Just one strong phrase can wake us up from our normal way of seeing things. It can show us new possibilities we never imagined. When we take a moment to read a poem, we can question who we are and how we look at life.

Audre Lorde said poetry is like putting on glasses that help us see our lives differently. The right poem at the right time can make us notice things about our lives that we couldn't quite put into words before. Poetry wipes away the dust of daily life that makes us forget how amazing it is to be alive. That sense of wonder is the first step to making any real change.

These days, as I see so much bad news, I find myself holding onto poetry like a life raft. Poems give us a way to express deep hopes, fears, and wishes that everyday words can't capture. A good poet can stretch words to describe things that feel too big or intense to say out loud. The beat of poetry links our own pain to what everyone goes through. We don't feel so alone when times are hard.

So as "the day lets out one last breath and goes still", I find myself breathing out into the quiet of poetry. Waiting and listening for an answer to the big question the poet asks. Hoping that, through poetry's power, we can pick up the broken bits of ourselves and the world "to start over one more time" - always moving together towards being better people.

"The seed of what's not yet, real pauses and gets ready to begin again."

 

maybe I can't say that I'm not a God person

"Maybe I can't say that I'm not a God person." This lyric from Madi Diaz's song "God Person" grabbed me the first time I heard it a few weeks ago. It got me thinking about my own journey with faith and spirituality, and whether I still consider myself a "God person" after all these years.

This isn't a post about some huge sociological shift from churchgoers to Sunday morning New York Times readers. It's a personal reflection on my own relationship with religion. I grew up as a God person. I worked professionally as a God person. I met my wife as a God person. I served in leadership as a God person. But now, as I've turned 60, I find myself questioning whether that label still fits.

Just before the pandemic, we moved out of our house and boxed up about 15 Christian books, somewhat sarcastically labeling them "in case of emergency." But when the emergency hit - a global crisis that shook me to my core - I never opened those boxes. I didn't turn to my identity, my beliefs, or my sense of belonging as a God person for comfort or guidance.

Being a God person, I've come to realize, isn't just about doctrine or specific beliefs. It's about feeling connected to something bigger than yourself, belonging to the idea of a higher power. Most days, I still hope for that sense of meaning and transcendence. I try to hold onto it, even when it feels too slippery to hold.

But if I'm honest, I'm not sure if my DNA is still God-shaped. Madi Diaz's song talks about wonder, mystery, and tragedy as clues pointing to a being greater than ourselves. I used to see the world that way, but now I'm not so certain. The old rituals and practices don't ground me like they once did. 

Maybe this is just another stage in my lifelong spiritual journey, a time of questioning and seeking rather than certainty and declaration. Or maybe, as the song says, I can't definitively say that I'm not a God person. Perhaps there will always be a part of me that yearns for the divine and finds glimpses of sacredness in the world, even as my beliefs evolve.

I may never again feel the unshakable faith of my younger days, but I can still appreciate the mystery and remain open to experiencing meaning and connection wherever they may appear. In the end, perhaps being a God person is less about having all the answers and more about embracing the questions.

 

grateful for dirty hands

After years without getting my hands dirty on creative projects, the last few months have reignited my passion for making things. The spark was an app I started building to help students find fun summer activities. I began slowly, reading instructions, testing sample code, jotting down ideas. But the more I sunk my hands into tinkering, the more pumped I got.

Seeing even simple pieces come together filled me with happiness. Each little step forward pulled me in deeper. Before long, my hands were filthy from building, fixing glitches, adding new features. The thrill of bringing an idea to life after years without hands-on creative work felt amazing.

The app also made me realize how much I missed writing – another dirty-hands activity that fell by the wayside. I used to have a blog ages ago until I started to doubt myself. But working on the app revived my creative spirit. I rediscovered how simply writing made me feel lighter, more centered.

So I dusted off my old blog and began posting again. Getting back into the habit has brought mad satisfaction. Putting thoughts into words keeps my mind sharp.

After years feeling uninspired and blah, this creative comeback has been sweet. It took forcing myself to plunge my hands back into projects to regain momentum. But once I pushed past feeling lazy at first, my natural curiosity and love of creating kicked back in. When we flex our creative muscles even a little, it’s nutty how quickly passion returns. I had forgotten the awesome feeling that comes from imagining, building and sharing something new. I won’t take this feeling for granted again now that I've gotten dirt under my fingernails once more!