MSI Press Blog

  We don’t always have to evangelize. Sometimes, the holiest thing we can do is listen. Religious tolerance isn’t passive. It’s a practice—a daily choice to honor the sacred in someone else’s story, even when it doesn’t mirror our own. It’s not about watering down conviction. It’s about holding it gently, so others feel safe to hold theirs too. Across the world’s faiths, there are prayers whispered in temples, sung in mosques, chanted in monasteries, and spoken in living rooms. Each carries longing. Each seeks connection. Each, in its own way, reaches toward the divine. Tolerance doesn’t mean agreement. It means respect. It means we stop measuring truth by how loudly it’s preached and start noticing how deeply it’s lived. It means we ask not just “What do you believe?” but “How does it make you kinder?” In a time of global tension, religious tolerance is not weakness—it’s wisdom. It’s the quiet strength of those who build bridges while others build walls. It’s the courage to say, “...

  Recently,  An Afternoon's Dictation  (Greenebaum), reached #55 on the Amazon bestseller list of books in ecumenism Christian theology, #170 in Christian ecumenism; and #215 in faith & spirituality. The book has been on bestseller lists many times.  Book Description:  In 1999 Steven Greenebaum felt he'd hit the wall. Fifty years old, he could not make sense of his life or the world around him. For several months he angrily demanded answers from God, if God were there. One afternoon, an inner voice told him to get a pen and paper and write. Steven then took dictation - three pages, not of commandments but guidance for leading a meaningful life.   An Afternoon's Dictation  grapples with, organizes, and deeply explores the revelations Steven received and then studied for over ten years. His sharing is NOT offered as the only possible way to understand it the dictation. It is offered, rather, as a start. The book's sections include deep explorations i...

  Sometimes, the message isn’t thunder. It’s a quiet dictation—an afternoon’s whisper that slips past doctrine and lands in the heart. Today, I heard it again. Not in a sermon, not in a creed, but in the way sunlight touched the chapel wall where a Buddhist sat beside a Franciscan. In the way a Muslim elder nodded gently as a Jewish cantor sang. In the way no one corrected anyone, because reverence doesn’t need correction. God doesn’t compete. We do. He doesn’t ask for brand loyalty. He asks for love. And when we stop trying to win Him, we start to hear Him. Not as a possession, but as a presence. Not as a prize, but as a pulse—beating through every tradition that dares to kneel, sing, bow, or breathe in His name. I think He’s tired of our turf wars. I think He’s asking us to stop building fences out of scripture and start planting gardens of grace. Because when faiths worship together—not in uniformity, but in harmony—God doesn’t get confused. He gets glorified. And maybe...