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Greg Prout

The Far Country

My mother was dead and my father consented — I withdrew my college fund and split. I was done with small town mentality and narrow-mindedness, tired of the prescribed life, proscriptions and rules that restricted my existence; I was on to better things. As Father wished me well and said he loved me, I flapped my wings and leaped from the nest, the known for the unknown, thrilling anticipation jetted me down the road, rebellion’s attraction exhilarating. Life is like that. In a blur I was gone.

Mother, God in the Flesh

Listen to this story:

Another View

Recently on a trip to Wales, chasing my ancestors, I encountered something unexpected on top of a medieval castle.

Margaret’s Gospel

Saliva bubbles collected in the corners of her mouth. Suddenly, in a meteoric flash, death snatched her away. In an instant, her rotund, 98 year-old body surrounded by a loving family crumbling in tears and grief was all that was left. I, a volunteer chaplain, struggled to find words of comfort and hope. Amazed by family and love, I had my own thoughts of life’s heartless cycle and questions of nagging doubt.

Book Review: Village Atheists

Neither the village idiot nor the village atheist escaped being socially marginalized in nineteenth-century America. Both distinct minorities, both pariahs, each faced discrimination, but where the village idiot was a gormless figure, the village atheist was often an intelligent threat to the religious status quo. The village idiot was gullible and harmless, the village atheist a sword in the side of Christian dogma. The idiot originated from bad genes, a simpleton often cruelly treated; the atheist hatched from choice and fiercely unwelcomed in American society.

Bob and Jo-Jo

They had been married for 47 years, raised two boys and two girls, and seven grandchildren. High school sweethearts, married at age 20, and now, all those years of love, family and life had come down to this: she was in a Critical Care Unit with cancer. Nearly unconscious except for the slow, painful moans that forced their escape from her parted lips, she sought relief from her body’s agony. Cancer, like an evil spirit, was speedily consuming her from the inside out. Her name was Josephine. Only days before, though sick, they believed she had more time.

The Gospel of Doris

We were standing in the Sacramento train station waiting for our train to Reno. Not counting Disneyland or Knott’s Berry Farm, I had never ridden a train. It was a 5-day get-away that offered us a break from stifling humdrum. We were with my cousin and his wife and were busily chatting about the joys that lay ahead. Suddenly, through a crowd of standing passengers all waiting for their train, like peering through a clump of trees, I saw her.

Sabbath at the Spectrum Café: Black Bean Soup

In addition to memorable Sabbath meals, Sabbath at the Spectrum Café features fresh perspectives on food, community and unique stories surrounding vegetarian cuisine.

Just as God knew Jeremiah in the womb, so he knew me. He knew I was going to be a vegetarian before I saw the light of day. One problem—nothing is perfect in this world—I was born into a meat-eating, steak-and-potatoes family. As early as I can remember, meat disgusted me. I remember gagging at the fat on the side of my lamb chop, praying that God would make it disappear.

God's Humor - Part 2

This is the second article of a two-part series. Read the first article here.

God’s Humor – Part 1 

“You know, pastor, it would be better to cut off my right arm than fall prey to fortification. Fortification is ruining lives.”

I said, “I couldn’t agree more,” while wondering if was he talking about bread or fornication.

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