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About Connor Gwin

Connor Gwin is an Episcopal priest serving as the Associate Rector for Family Ministry at Christ Episcopal Church, Charlotte. He is a lover of poetry, bluegrass, and 90's hip-hop. Connor is married to Emma. They make a home in the Queen City of Charlotte with their daughter.

http://www.connorgwin.com

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Author Archive
    

    Performative Podcast Subscriptions (and Other Attempts at Justification)

    I have a number of behavior patterns that have been with me for many years. One of the joys of getting older is realizing that all the cycles and habits you thought you would outgrow are still with you and will most likely be with you forever.  One of my behavior patterns is a cycle […]

    Faith, Love, and Boring Narratives: “I’m All Your’n”

    There ain’t two ways around it There ain’t no trying ’bout it I’m all your’n and you’re all mine -“All Your’n,” Tyler Childers Do you remember that couple in high school that was always fighting? I like to think that there is a general and universal high school experience that we all can tap into. […]

    Mindful of Hope: O God, Our Help in Ages Past

    Mindfulness has been a front-and-center staple of our collective zeitgeist for the past few years. As a certified mindfulness teacher, I am an advocate for the benefits of meditation and mindfulness practice in almost every aspect of life. On a personal level, as someone who deals with a steady state of low-grade anxiety, mindfulness has […]

    You Are the One (and Not the Ninety-Nine)

    We Will Never ‘Identify out’ of the Gospel

    This Abundant Life

    To Limit Oneself to Living: On Mundane Moments and an Abundant God

    Dear Pastor, How Is Your Soul?

    A Letter to and from an Exhausted Pastor

    The Blessing (in which I begrudgingly admit everything will be alright)

    Confessions of a Certified Catastrophizer

    How to Do Less for Lent: A Triptych

    My Lenten Discipline Brought to You by Paul Rudd in Forgetting Sarah Marshall

    On the shortness and uncertainty of life

    “O God, whose days are without end, and whose mercies cannot be numbered: Make us, we pray, deeply aware of the shortness and uncertainty of human life…” (Book of Common Prayer, pg. 504)

    There are no good words for
    our collective destination. Apart
    from tragic, untimely, too soon.
    The wound at the heart of the world.
    Another angel added; a road well walked.

    Words won’t do now, not for this.

    The living bear all the grief of those who
    were and are and will one day die.
    Our plans, kingdoms, minds fall flat
    before the period at the end of each line.
    We don’t hold the pen, our days will end.
    Where then is mercy? Whither hope?

    In the beginning was the Word
    and the Word wept

    for the world, for you, for untimely,
    and too soon. The Word weeps still
    with sea-born tears that wash over
    again, again with each new sentence end.

    The mercy is presence not relief.
    Hope is a face, two hands, scarred feet.
    A quiet stand at the doorway and entry in
    to a place where to end is only to begin.

    The Parable of the Pop Quiz

    There once was a Chaplain who worked at a school in Virginia. As part of his work, he taught a course in Comparative Religion to high school seniors. His class was made up of students from around the world with varying religious and non-religious backgrounds. Given one semester to cover the major world religions, he had […]

    Eventually, maybe

    When I have the time to sit,
    And watch a sunbeam hit the steam
    That dances upward from my cup
    Like incense in this morning’s liturgy,
    I think of my roads, paths, plans,
    Achievements I’ve yet to achieve,
    Left legacies yet to leave,
    And I am disappointed
    That I cannot seem to simply be
    Instead focused on what I will be,
    eventually,
    maybe.

    Under fluorescent halos in sanctuary basements,
    Faces framed by incense steam of swill coffee,
    Drunks proclaim truth: wherever you go there you are.
    You will always be you, no matter your far-off wishing star.

    I am still stuck in Garden-grown grief,
    Longing for a life I can never know,
    A future (like the past) I’ll never meet.
    I long to be a me that will never be,
    Holding out for the time when everything
    Rhymes or fits or works and the distance
    Between now and finally when is reduced to nothing.
    Eventually,
    maybe,

    When I have the time to sit,
    I can rest and watch the steam rise
    Instead of scheming or fighting to surmise
    A purpose or a plan to become some other man,
    Other than this one that sits and sees.
    Eventually,
    maybe.

    Preaching Good News When Clinically Sad

    I talk about death and grief a lot. It is a running joke in my house that I am always thinking about death and I am always willing to talk to someone about grief. This shouldn’t surprise anyone given my life (and death) experiences. The work of a priest requires that you be in the […]

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