MSI Press Blog

  Melchizedek appears suddenly in the Bible, like a figure stepping out of mist. He is mentioned only briefly in Genesis, yet his presence echoes through Psalms and the New Testament, carrying a mystery that has fascinated believers for centuries. The First Appearance In Genesis 14, Melchizedek meets Abraham after a battle. He is described as “king of Salem” and “priest of God Most High.” He blesses Abraham with bread and wine — symbols that later take on deep sacramental meaning — and Abraham, in turn, gives him a tenth of all he has. This moment is striking because Melchizedek predates the Levitical priesthood. He is a priest not by lineage or law, but by divine appointment. The Psalm and the Promise Centuries later, Psalm 110 speaks of a coming king who will be “a priest forever, according to the order of Melchizedek.” The phrase suggests a priesthood that transcends time and ancestry — one rooted in eternal relationship rather than ritual. This “order” is not an institution ...

  Inner peace is often imagined as solitude — a quiet room, a still mind, a moment untouched by the world. But peace doesn’t always grow in isolation. Sometimes, it arrives through connection: the steady presence of another person, the shared rhythm of conversation, the simple act of being seen. When we connect — truly connect — something inside us settles. The nervous system softens. The mind stops scanning for danger. We feel safe enough to rest. This is not just emotional comfort; it’s biological truth. Human beings are wired for co-regulation. Our hearts literally slow in the presence of trust. Connection also reminds us that we belong to something larger than our own thoughts. It interrupts the illusion of separateness that breeds anxiety and self-criticism. When we listen deeply or are listened to, we experience a kind of spiritual alignment — the sense that our life, however imperfect, fits within a greater pattern. Peace through connection doesn’t mean constant togetherness...

  When we think of Labor Day, we often picture barbecues, parades, and a long weekend. But the holiday was born from struggle — from the fight for dignity in work. And few places remind us of that struggle more starkly than the migrant labor camps of Depression-era California. In the 1930s, thousands of families fled the Dust Bowl, chasing rumors of steady work in California’s fields. What they found instead were overcrowded camps, makeshift tents, and endless rows of crops that promised survival but rarely delivered security. These were the “Okies” and “Arkies” — men, women, and children who bent their backs under the sun for pennies a day. They were not lazy or broken; they were displaced, resilient, and determined to live. The government eventually built federal camps — places like Arvin, Shafter, and Weedpatch — where sanitation, education, and community began to take root. Dorothea Lange’s photographs and John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath captured their faces and their end...

  Donnie was slow...at typing...bac in the day when typewriters were in use. Yep, that dates us. I imagine many kids today do not even know what a typewriter is. But Donnie did even though he did not use it. He handed his typing to me. Not smart! I am the one who is oblivious to detail--and it kept showing up in typos that not only slipped out but also slipped past and right out into the public world where Donnie needed them to be accurate, not inaccurate, sometimes funny, and often embarrassing. Three little examples...(but I could share a host more!). But perhaps the fact that all three examples come from one resume is "nuff said." First error. Donnie was born in 1948. Now, how that got converted to 1848, I don't know. Definitely, Donnie was not making a start to becoming as old as Methusaleh, and anyone reading the resume should have understood that. (There were other dates on the resume that would have quickly pointed to this as a typo.) Second error. Just one missing...

  A sparrow is mentioned more than once in the Bible, including in this morning's prayer, and that repetition is not accidental. In Scripture, the sparrow carries a quiet but insistent significance: God’s unwavering attentiveness to what seems small, ordinary, or easily overlooked. In the ancient marketplace, sparrows were the cheapest of all birds — two for a farthing, five for two farthings, a kind of “buy four, get one free” of the first century. They were common, unadorned, and of little economic value. Yet Jesus says that not one of them falls to the ground without the Father knowing. The point is not the bird; the point is the care. If God attends to the smallest creature, He attends to us even more. The Psalms deepen this image. In Psalm 84, the sparrow finds a home near God’s altars — a poetic reminder that even the smallest life can dwell close to the Holy. In Psalm 102, the solitary sparrow on a rooftop becomes a symbol of human loneliness and vulnerability. The bird is t...