The church I grew up in was largely Eastern European, filled wall to wall with Hungarians, Romanians, Slovaks, and Serbians, to name just a few.

I feel towards Paul Washer that particular kind of affection reserved for those godly men who, despite their weakness and frailty, were used mightily by God to preach Christ’s glorious strength, worth, and love in a world increasingly parched of all three.

A few months ago, I took up swimming. What began purely as a means of exercise soon blossomed into something of a religious experience—though not in the kooky, New Age-y way, mind you.