I hike up hills and call them mountains. However, God descends to mountains and calls them stepping stones to heaven. And while the immensity of it all scares me a bit, I think I prefer God’s point of view.

If I take this imagination of mine and multiply it a thousand times over, even then I have yet to touch even the barest hem of heaven.

Prayer penetrates the underside of heaven and sends the full force of an invisible realm hurdling against the adversaries that are too naïve to understand what’s about to descend upon them.

My faith compels me to build a life in the expanse of what I can’t see, rather than erect some small hovel in the tiny space of that which I can.

This life is a point of departure to a place where there will be no departures.

It is implausible to assume that we are the sum total of this singular existence, for to probe the barest expanse of our depth is to set foot on the fringes of the infinite.

Death is the beginning of the bigger side of the story.

Sure, there are many roads to heaven. But there is only one that actually gets there.

Heaven is where Christmas came from. And if we give it permission to do so, someday it will take us back there with it.