The Smolka family explores how favorite Christmas carols stack up.

The Advent season is a reminder that our own childlike faith can hardly imagine what God has in store for us.

As I hold the savior of the world, all tiny and baby bald, smaller than a loaf of bread, I don’t do anything. Nor say anything. Silence is often the best conduit of God.

The author of the Letter to the Hebrews wrote, “Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us rid ourselves of every burden and sin that clings to us and persevere in running the race that lies before us while keeping our eyes fixed on Jesus, the leader and perfecter […]

For me, patience and promise summarize the season of autumn, the term I prefer to fall, since it connotes a year’s “passing” rather than its “decline.” It’s a season I have long regarded with both joy and sadness.

Gossip may be shared between two people, let’s say by a tweet and reply or a Facebook post on another person’s wall, but it is shared with the knowledge that both parties’ followers will see it. What is most pernicious is that it’s often shared not in spite of that knowledge but because of it.

Hope is the courageous work of waiting for the solution, for things to get better.

The dogged efforts to hold on to or retrofit legacy models failed to halt the large-scale exit of about half of Catholic schools since the ’60s. Nevertheless, in the past two decades, with urgency and many people stepping up, new approaches and mindsets have burst with boldness and vigor.

The church is in a unique position to offer forums for frank discussions of race and where we go from here.

A million comments and tweets appear every second seeking attention, a kindred spirit, a witness. Each communique from the keyboard of users worldwide is one more shout into the abyss waiting for an echo of acknowledgment.