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faithmeetsworld.com

reflections on faith in a messed-up but beautiful world

ntwrightpage.com

Two weeks ago I visited our old family church, in the far north of England. I was placing flowers by my parents’ gravestone, in front of memorials to my grandparents, great-grandparents and sundry uncles and aunts. But my eye was drawn, as it has often been, to the Jesse Window in the east end of the twelfth-century church.“ Jesse Windows”—a traditional medieval design in stained glass—display Jesus’ ancestry in the form of a spreading tree. The genealogy goes back a thousand years to King David, and then to David’s own father, Jesse of Bethlehem.

facingthechallenge.org

När tryckerier och ett utländskt casino marknadsför sig så är det en god idé att marknadsföra sin egen kollektion. Att tryckerier kan […]

baptist.ca

By Dale Rose, 1st Vice-President of CBOQ I had not been in this baptistry for almost 30 years – not since I was the pastor at Lakeside Heights Baptist Church […]

christiancourier.ca

The newspaper is a 24-page tabloid, offset printed on newsprint, with full colour. Size is 13” high by 11” wide. Ad pricing Ad sizes

monergism.com

monergism.com is a free, comprehensive online theological library comprised of reformed christian resources designed to bring glory to jesus christ alone.

veritasjournal.org

by Andrew Carr This essay is the second in a series beginning with Passages Part I: Paris. A few days after my visit to the Louvre, I was taken to The Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, in Berlin. Walking south from the Brandenburg Gate, along the edge of the Tiergarten, I didn’t see it until we were there — an irregular city block covered in rows of massive stone slabs, the tops of which undulated slightly as if arranged upon a gentle hillside. I was told the name of the memorial and encouraged without further preface to make my way in. I was entirely caught off guard. My chest tightened immediately, and I found myself choking back a sob that I did not understand. I had not prepared myself to feel something. I was not looking for anything. I had hardly even left the sidewalk.  In Paris, trying to connect with one of Leonardo's portraits amid the flux of visitors, meaning had been the result of prolonged consideration, something pursued through observation and analysis, something to find. In Berlin it found me, whatever it was. I didn't arrive at something compelling; something compelled me. As I began to look around, I wasn't looking with an eye for what I might fashion from my experience. Rather, I was led by a sort of humble curiosity or wonder at what was happening to me. You can enter the memorial anywhere. The stones are laid in straight rows so that one can look all the way through to the end where you will come out on the other side. It is not a labyrinth. There are no dead ends or obstructions. There is no single path to take that must be discovered through trial and error.  At first the stones were only a little above the level of the sidewalk. But as I walked further in they began to rise, to the height of headstones in a cemetery, then higher still as the ground sank away, until I was at the bottom of a deep depression, in the shadow of enormous concrete monoliths. The overcast sky above was far away, and the path bef