Andrée Seu Peterson

Andrée is a senior writer for WORLD Magazine. Her commentary has been compiled into three books, including Won't Let You Go Unless You Bless Me, a collection of reflective essays written in the wake of her husband's death. Andrée resides in Philadelphia, Penn.


Death in the city

| Reading Jeremiah puts events in a somber light
by Andrée Seu Peterson
Posted 8/17/02, 12:00 am

YOU WON'T WANT TO HEAR WHAT I HAVE TO SAY on the one-year anniversary of Sept. 11. I've been reading all the wrong books to be able to come up with a sensible, balanced, and measured opinion. If I were perusing more friendly, lighthearted fare (HarperCollins publisher Judith Regan, for instance, has given us The Eyebrow, gushing that author and beautician "Robyn Cosio changed my life"), you would have caught me in a more sanguine and amenable mood. But my Bible schedule landed me in Jeremiah for the summer, and this has totally skewed my thinking.

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Gone fishing?

| Competition in the political arena is a calling, too
by Andrée Seu Peterson
Posted 8/10/02, 12:00 am

I've been wondering whether Simon Peter wasn't almost the first postmodernist. It's a little thing he said just days after Jesus' resurrection: "I am going fishing," he told his buddies, and not mistaking it as a poetic call to evangelize the nations, the scraggly band hauled their nets out of storage and headed back for the good old days by the Sea of Tiberias.

Postmodernists are people who amuse themselves the best they can for the duration (good deeds, bad deeds, getting rich, hip-hopping), seeing as they're going to die and everything is so confusing.

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Discomfort zone

| When the church bulletin has a "help wanted" notice
by Andrée Seu Peterson
Posted 8/03/02, 12:00 am

I had no intention of being anything but a warm body from 11 a.m. to 12:30 p.m. in the "4-year-olds" Sunday school class at my church. There was a hole that wanted plugging-a need for "teachers" and "helpers" had been announced mercilessly in the bulletin for weeks on end, until the steady drumbeat of call to obligation had become an intolerable tug on the conscience. In any case, others had taught my kids in Sunday school, so the logic of it was inescapable. I chose the wallflower position of "helper"-sharpening pencils and clearing Ritz cracker crumbs off tables, I hoped.

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