Drew G. I. Hart's Blog

You open Sunday’s door on the Advent calendar and peek inside, expecting to find a chocolate or at least an illustration of some holly. You discover, instead, a winnowing fork and an unquenchable fire.

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When I was in elementary school, I loved to sing in our little choir. I remember trying my best to sing out, to listen for my part, to remember which round our little group was supposed to come in on. I was not very good, although my mother said I had a beautiful voice.

Many people in the US may have lost faith in organized religion, but according to recent data, they still love the Good Book.

I grew up among North American Baptists in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. As a people, we ate casseroles—or, as they were frequently called, hot dishes—and Jell-O salads and sweet, gooey bars. These were our traditional foods. Our celebrations were potlucks, replete with tiny hot dogs in barbecue sauce and any number of things that can be done with Cool Whip.

As Thanksgiving approaches, many people across the country hope their holiday will resemble Norman Rockwell’s Freedom From Want. In the 1943 painting, a family gathers around an abundant table in peace and happiness. The gathering reflects the myth we tell about American Thanksgiving, about Pilgrims and Native Americans living in peace and united in abundance. The myth hides the truth that love has always shared the table with fear.

 Reading Peterson

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 Reading Peterson