One year on a chilly Sunday evening, Dec. 29, a small group had gathered at the church where I worshipped. The Sunday night crowd was usually less than half the size of Sunday morning’s, and it was Christmas week besides, but our pastor preached as faithfully to scattered sheep as he would have to packed pews. For this sermon he borrowed a theme from his own grandfather, also a pastor, and notes from 1949 (before most of us were even born).

In 1905, Hollywood was a peaceful suburb of Los Angeles populated mostly by orange trees, unconcerned with the new art form taking shape on the East Coast. “Motion pictures” were a novelty predicted to fade within a decade: What was drama without dialogue?

A charming little video on YouTube features schoolchildren explaining to each other what “intersectionality” is. To them it means identity: the combination of factors, like skin color, gender, and ability, “that makes you, you.” Simple, right? Not so much. Intersectionality is an academic theory, the origin and definition of which are easy to explain. But the implications are thick and sticky as molasses.  

Within hours of the infamous event now known as the “Las Vegas Shooting,” the perpetrator’s life became an open book: his hapless girlfriend, his financial record, his criminal dad, his clueless brother, his social media activity (none), his neighbors, his hard drive. His organic hard drive—that is, his brain—was removed during the autopsy and shipped to a specialized lab to probe for defects.

Years ago I was caught in the crosshairs of a church-discipline situation. Two confessing members, and dear friends, wished to marry. The elders had determined they should not. After soul-searching and prayer I declined their wedding invitation out of deference to the elders’ lawful authority. My decision was clearly influenced by Scripture (1 Peter 5:5, for one), but also by this: Of the three realms ordained by God to order human affairs—family, civil government, and church—the church was the only one that survived the grave.

That may be true for you . . . 
Hey, whatever floats your boat . . . 
My reality isn’t necessarily yours . . .

On May 22, 2011, a multiple-vortex EF5 tornado ripped up Joplin, Mo., leaving 149 corpses and a city of rubble in its wake. The following July, I spent three days there as a volunteer. I wasn’t sure what one woman could do without muscle or power tools, and honestly it didn’t seem like much. The first day I picked up trash on a couple of city streets, but the next two days I confronted piles of used clothing, canned goods, and stuffed toys to pick through. It felt like one of those fairy tales where the heroine has one night to sort a pile of rice and barley into separate bins.