Blog Posts
The Hidden Secret of Winter Trees
In order to grasp this great truth, the first thing we need to do is to get off our human high horse. We aren’t all that, especially when you compare us to the world of trees.
Shared with permission by the Rev. Susan Sparks and www.day1.org.
Today, I’d like to share the secret to life.
Where might I have found this great wisdom?
Oprah? No.
Dr. Phil? Nope.
Tik Tok? Definitely not.
No, I found this great wisdom by doing something very simple: walking out and looking up at the winter trees.
How could trees—let alone dead, lifeless, winter trees—hold the secret to life?
In order to grasp this great truth, the first thing we need to do is to get off our human high horse. We aren’t all that, especially when you compare us to the world of trees.
Trees have lived longer than we have. In fact, trees are the oldest living organisms on the planet. Trees, mold, and jellyfish are older than human history. The oldest tree is a bristlecone pine in the White Mountains of California that scientists date as around 5000 years old. That is Tigris and Euphrates, early Mesopotamia, Bronze Age stuff. Its name, appropriately, is Methuselah.
Trees are also smarter than we are. In the book, The Hidden Life of Trees German forester Peter Wohlleben shares some astonishing discoveries. He talks about trees as social beings and explains how they actually communicate with each other, give warnings to other trees in the forest, share food through their root systems with their own species, and sometimes even go so far as to nourish their competitors. Why? Because one lone tree is vulnerable, but a forest offers strength and safety. In short, trees nourish community.
If only human beings could learn that simple lesson.
At least the writers of the Bible realized the importance of trees. In fact, there are three things the Bible mentions more than anything else: God, people, and trees. The Bible speaks of the great cedars of Lebanon and tells how Moses used acacia wood for the ark of the covenant. Zacchaeus climbed a sycamore tree, and Jesus’ followers are described as oaks of righteousness. David crafted his musical instruments from the wood of a fir tree. A branch from the olive tree signified safety after the flood. A tree formed the wooden manger, and a tree formed the cross.
Trees are an intimate part of the holy narrative, but they’re even more than that because out of all creation, God chose trees for self-revelation. We see this in the beautiful passage Isaiah 41:19-20, where God recognizes the suffering of the people and offers them a sign: “I will put in the desert the cedar and the acacia, the myrtle and the olive. I will set junipers in the wasteland, the fir and the cypress together, so that people may see and know, may consider and understand, that the hand of the Lord has done this.”
God chose trees—the myrtle and the olive, the fir and the cypress—to reveal God’s self, making trees the sacred keepers of holy wisdom.
This brings us back to the secret of life, which, in my humble opinion, is to be found in trees. Specifically, it’s in winter trees.
The day I walked out to look up at the trees was dim and dreary. The trees, leafless and bare, formed an almost lace-like pattern against the gray winter sky. To a brief passerby, they probably appeared lifeless, dead even.
I think we all know how that feels. Sometimes everything in life can feel and look bare and brittle, lifeless, even dead. However, there is way more going on under the surface than we realize.
Consider those bare winter trees. Inside their seemingly dead branches and trunks, a magical transformation is happening. Months before, in the fall, the trees dropped their green leaves in order to conserve water and centralize and focus their energy. I think of a tree in this stage as being like a sprinter in a quiet, motionless crouch before a race. All energies and focus are drawn down into that moment before the runner springs into action. What appears in winter to be a quiet time of death for those trees is, in fact, the combustion engine of life.
We always think of the season of spring as the beginning of life, but in fact, spring is not the beginning. It’s the manifestation of the transformation happening inside those great trees right now, in the winter.
In writing about wintering trees, the author Katherine May explains, “The tree is waiting. It has everything ready. Its fallen leaves are mulching the forest floor, and its roots are drawing up the extra winter moisture, providing a firm anchor against seasonal storms . . . It is far from dead. It is in fact the life and soul of the wood. It’s just getting on with it quietly.”
We see the same pattern in human life. William Bridges in his book, Transitions talks about the passages of life, such as those that take place in a job, a relationship, a move, or another life change. He explains that all transitions are composed of three things: (1) an ending, (2) a neutral zone, and (3) a new beginning.
The ending is when we let go of the old. The neutral zone is that time of unknowing when we listen, focus, think, and wait. Then, eventually, the new beginning gleams forth. The key is that it all starts with an ending.
The problem is that unlike trees, we humans tend to fight this truth. We want to focus only on the new beginning. We think that to figure out our plan, to make our choices, we’ve got to get going. If we aren’t producing something, who are we? Endings are seen as unpleasant, and the neutral zone is seen as unproductive. It’s also scary.
When we’re in the neutral zone, we stand bare, like the trees in winter. It’s a time when we can no longer hide our truth behind our agendas, lists, or busyness. Who are we without our leaves? We humans hate asking that, but vulnerability is the place of greatest beauty.
There is a tiny, wonderful book called Trees at Leisure written in 1916 by Anna Botsford Comstock. In it, she talks about the beauty of winter trees: “In winter, we are prone to regard our trees as cold, bare, and dreary; and we bid them wait until they are again clothed in verdure before we may accord to them comradeship. However, it is during this winter resting time that the tree stands revealed to the uttermost, ready to give its most intimate confidences to those who love it.”
The true secret to life lies in the deep wisdom of trees, the place where God chose to reveal God’s self. The trees know that spring is not where life is truly generated. Transformation takes place in winter—that time of ending, that quiet neutral zone, that gap that exists when the old is gone but the new isn’t fully formed.
What parts of your life feel like those bare, brittle, lifeless branches? Who are you without your leaves?
While life can sometimes look and feel like a tree in winter, remember that there is more going on under the surface than we realize. Like the energy humming inside those trees, there are unseen things happening within us. We are changing, churning, transforming inside.
If you doubt that, just walk outside and look up.
While it may feel like loss, while we ourselves may feel lost, winter is simply a time when our energies are gathered deep into our souls, waiting like a sprinter in a crouch ready to spring into new life.
Amanda Gorman, the inaugural poet, put it best: “If nothing else, this must be known: Even as we’ve grieved, we’ve grown . . . We are battered, but bolder; worn, but wiser . . . If anything, the very fact that we’re weary means we are, by definition, changed; we are brave enough to listen to, and learn from, our fear. This time will be different because this time we’ll be different. We already are.”
Rev. Susan Sparks
JAs a trial lawyer turned standup comedian and Baptist minister, the Rev. Susan Sparks is America’s only female comedian with a pulpit. A North Carolina native, Susan received her B.A. at the University of North Carolina, law degree from Wake Forest University, and Master of Divinity at Union Theological in New York City.
Currently the senior pastor of the historic Madison Avenue Baptist Church in New York City (and the first woman pastor in its 170-year history), Susan's work with humor, healing, and spirituality has been featured in O (The Oprah) Magazine, the New York Times, and on such networks as ABC, CNN, CBS, and the History Channel.
A featured TEDx speaker and a professional comedian, Susan tours nationally with a stand-up Rabbi and a Muslim comic in the Laugh in Peace Tour. In addition to her speaking and preaching, Susan writes a nationally syndicated column through Gannett distributed to over 600 newspapers reaching over 21 million people in 36 states.
She is the author of three books, Laugh Your Way to Grace: Reclaiming the Spiritual Power of Humor, Preaching Punchlines: The Ten Commandments of Standup Comedy. and Miracle on 31st Street: Christmas Cheer Every Day of the Year – Grinch to Gratitude in 26 Days! (May 2020).
Most importantly, Susan and her husband Toby love to fly-fish, ride their Harleys, eat good BBQ, and root for UNC Tar Heel Basketball and the Green Bay Packers.
Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.
As an ecumenical and inclusive ministry of St. Andrew Lutheran Church, the content of each Church Anew blog represents the voice of the individual writer and does not necessarily reflect the position of Church Anew or St. Andrew Lutheran Church on any specific topic.
Making 100 TikToks as Ministry
It’s remarkable how many transformative words stay locked within the walls of our churches. Our messages are beautiful, life-changing, and somehow secret. Our ideas are available only to those who know our addresses and trust us enough to step inside.
It’s remarkable how many transformative words stay locked within the walls of our churches. Our messages are beautiful, life-changing, and somehow secret. Our ideas are available only to those who know our addresses and trust us enough to step inside.
As part of the preaching team at New City Church, I felt this. As a church led by queer people of color in South Minneapolis, I heard and gave powerful messages. I saw God’s liberation experienced and expressed – with one condition.
You had to be there. Whether in-person or online, attendance was mandatory.
That’s why I started making TikToks
Culture is having a conversation. Will the Church be a part of it?
We all have different relationships to social media. For you, is it a distraction to avoid? A danger to reject? Another type of noise?
Is it a mystery? An algorithm that rewards some content while punishing others? So complex and changing that it can’t be learned or used?
Or maybe it’s simpler – is it a chore? Is it something you have to do? Is it something you make someone else do?
At some point, I’ve answered yes to each of these questions. Maybe you have, too. But as a speaker and storyteller, I felt compelled to extend my ministry online.
My first reason is geographical. To love my neighbor, I must ask, “Where is my neighbor?”
If my neighbors spent three hours every single day by the river, I would have a river ministry. It just so happens that the river is TikTok, Instagram, and YouTube Shorts.
My second reason is theological. I worship a Jesus who preached in synagogues and in streets. His message could not be contained in a temple; it spilled over into towns, rivers, hills, and fields. His best work was outside – where the people were.
For those reasons, I began to experiment with short-form videos. I tried lots of things – posting clips of sermons, making original content, filming video responses to others, scheduling on different platforms, and much more. I was surprised by what worked and what didn’t.
I’m by no means an expert on TikTok. God knows I watched a bunch of videos from people who say they are. Like many of you, I’m just doing ministry and learning every day. But by taking this journey, I’ve grown as a leader and I’ve grown my community. On average, I reach 10x more people per post (TikTok, Instagram, and YouTube combined) than I do in person.
After making 100 TikToks as part of my ministry, here’s what I’ve learned
1. TikTok Never Ends. You Do.
Social media is an endless source of content, but I am a limited, beautiful child of God.
Content that never ends can mean creators that never stop. This type of content is never content.
When I started, the advice online said to create one to three TikToks a day! With a full-time job in marketing and a ministry role at my church, that was not going to happen. But when you start an account with zero followers, there’s this constant temptation to do more.
To do healthy ministry online, we must reject never-ending, never-stopping, never-enough content.
God has taught me that frequency determines fun. The ideal frequency is the point where something is both presently enjoyable and potentially expandable. It’s the place where you feel like you could do more, but you chose not to. Giving 100% sounds great, but it is actually exhausting and unsustainable. I’ve learned there is something beautiful about giving 70%.
In this season, making three TikToks a week is fun. Five was too many. Seven was a non-starter. Sustainable ministry is more important than super-sized growth.
2. TikTok is Always Available. You Aren’t.
Healthy ministry requires healthy boundaries. This is true whether you’re serving others in-person, online, at church, or on TikTok. These guardrails look different from person to person and even from season to season. While some may reject social media altogether, I think healthy boundaries can make social media a joy and a gift.
First, I protect my time. I want to be fully present in life. This includes my ministry but goes beyond it. I enjoy limiting social media to after 5 PM on weekdays. I turn off notifications so I don’t see likes or comments until a designated time. All of this enables me to engage with my life and work during the day while enjoying great content and community at night. Your life is different than mine, but designated times to be on and off are essential.
Second, I protect my process. I tried so many different ways to create videos – on my phone, on my laptop, in my car, in my house, the day before, a month out, and more. I’m currently making three TikToks a week – two are originals and one is a sermon clip. They are filmed on weekdays and scheduled by Sunday for the following week. I don’t make videos for the same day/week anymore. I have a spot in my house and a time on my calendar for making videos. I schedule my videos for 8 AM on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and I don’t see those videos myself until after 5 PM. I don’t post on weekends because those days are for me. Last year, I edited everything myself and now I have the support of a talented video editor. My process protects my life and my ministry.
3. TikTok is A Place of Discovery. Be Discoverable!
On TikTok, people are constantly discovering new content and creators. It’s a place where people who would never walk into your church or end up on your website can discover your message. Let’s make ourselves discoverable!
Making a 30-minute sermon is an art form – making a 60-second video is, too. Hashtags, subtitles, location, camera, lighting, and sound are all just ways to help people discover you.
I didn’t know sharing an idea from the front seat of a car was more engaging than hearing the same thing from a pulpit. I didn’t realize responding to another video, called a stitch, was more captivating than hearing the same thought in a sermon.
In His ministry, Jesus would say, “You have heard it said,” and then he would add, “But I tell you the truth.” Who knew Jesus was really good at TikTok stitches?
Jean Carlos Diaz
Jean Carlos Diaz is a gay, Puerto Rican speaker and storyteller from the Twin Cities.
jean also preachs at New City Church, a faith community led by queer people of color.
Whether through marketing or ministry, storytelling or speaking, his mission is to move people to things that matter.
he’s married to his amazing husband Fabo. Jean loves Jesus, but in an inclusive and liberating kind of way and He'd love to support or speak to your community.
Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.
As an ecumenical and inclusive ministry of St. Andrew Lutheran Church, the content of each Church Anew blog represents the voice of the individual writer and does not necessarily reflect the position of Church Anew or St. Andrew Lutheran Church on any specific topic.
Questions have Wings
As we enter 2024, there is deep apprehension and fear about the pending presidential election this fall in the United States. How do we stay connected to our faith in such anxiety ridden times?
“At this point in my life
I'd like to live as if only love mattered
As if redemption was in sight..
You see when I've touched the sky
The earth's gravity has pulled me down
But now I've reconciled that in this world
Birds and angels get the wings to fly
If you can believe in this heart of mine
If you can give it a try
Then I'll reach inside and find and give you
All the sweetness that I have
At this point in my life.”-Tracy Chapman
As we enter 2024, there is deep apprehension and fear about the pending presidential election this fall in the United States. There are anxieties about the outcome of that election and the impact it will have on bodies: women’s bodies, the bodies of persons of color, trans bodies, LGBTQIA bodies, bodies living in war zones outside the United States, bodies of those who live on the margins, the poor, the unhoused, the hungry, and those without access to healthcare.
The concern for further division and the hateful rhetoric of years past looms large. Earth’s gravity feels heavier at the start of this year. We feel the weight of the past and wonder what is next. I am reminded of that iconic scene from Forrest Gump, as Jenny, the titular character’s lifelong friend, a young girl traumatized by a life of abuse and hurt, tugs at Forrest’s arm to join her on her knees in a field, in a childlike prayer for deliverance. “Dear God, make me a bird, so that I can fly far, far, far away from here.” The present moment feels as if it is freighted and encumbered by all we’ve been through and there are moments when many of us want nothing more than to escape, to fly far far away. But the weight of gravity seems to keep us stuck in place.
It can feel hard to imagine right now. It can feel hard to consider what the future holds. I find myself asking:
What do I wish I had known years ago to prepare for the years following 2016?
What can I apply today?
How do I show up with love and care for others with this information?
How will my body and the bodies of others be impacted?
There is a phrase I’ve heard , “thoughts have wings”,which describes how a thought or an idea can take off growing and stretching farther than anyone could have anticipated. This phrase invites us to consider unintended consequences attached to the power of words, to stories, to questions. Words can take flight and catalyze our fears, stir our hopes, and spark imagination. The right questions can allow us to let go, take off. They have the power to transform our minds and hearts and to see beyond the fears and pain of any given moment to something hopeful.
The right question has wings.
In Isaiah we read: “But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles” (Isaiah 40:31) Written at a time when both the kingdoms of Israel and Judah were crushed under the weight of the Assyrian empire, the prophet describes God’s action in the world, but also a people in turmoil. As they looked for liberation from oppression, as they faced their own divisions and conflicts within, these words sparked their imagination and fueled hope.
But, that hope isn’t just the product of inspiring words. Embedded in and around this verse in chapter 40, the prophet questions to their audience: “Who is like our God?” (v.18) and “to whom then will you compare [God]?” The questions catalyze a change in thinking. They serve as a reminder of who the people are, and who they belong to. Ultimately the prophet’s questions serve to shift the hearer’s perspective. “Lift up your eyes on high and see” says the prophet. And so an idea like hope takes flight.
Now is a moment, like the one facing the prophet Isaiah and the people of God. It is a moment that calls for good questions, perspective shifting, eye-opening, story changing questions. Our questions can lead to new ideas, redefining and reshaping how we understand and live into concepts like belonging, stewardship and ownership and so much more, moving us away from easy answers toward deeper connection with one another amid the struggles of life.
Our questions and our words mold themselves into wings that can break free from every weight of fear and defy Earth’s gravity.
Erin Weber-Johnson
Erin Weber-Johnson is Senior Consultant at Vandersall Collective, a faith based, woman-led consulting firm and Primary Faculty of Project Resource. In 2017 she co-founded the Collective Foundation, which worked to address the gap in giving characteristics in faith communities of color. In 2022 she co-founded The Belonging Project, a movement designed to reimagine belonging across the ecclesial landscape.
Previously, Erin worked as the Senior Program Director at the Episcopal Church Foundation, as a grants officer at Trinity Wall Street in New York City, and served as a missionary for the Episcopal Church. She holds a BS from Greenville University, a Masters of Public Administration for NYU and is currently completing a second masters in Religion and Theology from United Theological Seminary.
A published author, she strives to root her work in practical theology while utilizing her experience in the nonprofit sector. Her co-edited book, Crisis and Care: Meditations on Faith and Philanthropy is available through Cascade Books.
Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.
As an ecumenical and inclusive ministry of St. Andrew Lutheran Church, the content of each Church Anew blog represents the voice of the individual writer and does not necessarily reflect the position of Church Anew or St. Andrew Lutheran Church on any specific topic.
Forgiveness: Can You Imagine It?
So, apparently, conflict over the minutia of life was not unknown to Paul. It's certainly not unknown to us, especially these days. Disagreement rings everyday in our ears. Contentiousness flows through our fingertips as we post about our politics and, sometimes — perhaps too rarely — our deepest convictions.
But the kind of conflict Paul outlines here (Romans 14:1-12) is not cosmic but quotidian, not central but adiaphora. It really doesn’t matter what we eat. It matters whom we serve. It really doesn’t matter what days we count as sacred. It matters who has adopted us.
The trouble, of course, is that we humans, all of us, are terrible at telling the difference between the conflicts that matter because they resonate in God’s reign and those conflicts that must strike God as so incredibly insignificant.
Our human tendency to mistake urgency for importance is older than breaking news on cable TV or the latest viral tweet.
Paul here calls us to attend to the stuff that matters. “We do not live to ourselves, and we do not die to ourselves. If we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord; so then, whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s.” In the light of life and death, vegetables and holidays fade from our view. In the light of God’s embrace, our squabbles cannot and will not break the fact that we belong one to another in God’s love.
But then again, we have to live together in this community. Easy for you to say Paul as you describe an ideal community to churches you have yet to visit!
When we strive to live in community, when we strive to learn together, when we strive to embody the kind of love to which the gospel calls us, conflicts are inevitable. Life together is difficult precisely because we need one another to discern the disputes that matter and those we can set aside as mere argumentation.
Moreover, in community, we are bound to hurt, to offend, to threaten the very relationships that God has nurtured in our midst. That a community will need to practice forgiveness is inevitable. At the same time, my friends, we have to understand that forgiveness is costly in community. Forgiveness requires hard conversations and harder moments of silence. Jesus calls us to forgive not seven times but 77 times in Matthew. And to be clear this is not a checklist of forgiveness but an extension of forgiveness as far as we can imagine. Forgiveness means setting aside our human propensity to blame and hold grudges in order to model God’s gracious embrace.
We might say that forgiveness is a journey, a way of life.
And in that journey of forgiveness repair is an unavoidable stop. After all, repair is the currency of the kingdom of God, the assurance of God’s grace, the embodiment of God’s restoration of all creation. If forgiveness is costly, repair is sacrificial and demanding alike.
This Sunday’s lectionary texts are full of reflections on forgiveness but also included is Miriam’s song celebrating the Lord casting Pharoah’s chariots into the sea. The alignment is instructive, for forgiveness without repair further harms the harmed and repair without forgiveness will always be a fragile truce between enemies.
We may not fight about vegetables or holy days or fasting all that much these days.
Yet we are drawn like moths to a flame to the kinds of disputes that do not resolve in repair but descend into reciprocal destruction.
As we begin this new semester in these days of pandemic and protests for justice and an election in which the lives of the marginalized are most at stake, God is calling us to life, the resurrected Jesus leads us from death into abundant life, the Spirit nurses us into relationships of repair.
Conflicts will come. We know this.
But so will forgiveness and repair. Believe this. It’s God’s promise to you and to me and for this whole community.
My family has been playing the Hamilton musical soundtrack on repeat for years now. One scene in particular has been haunting me most recently. Having lost his son and broken a vow with his spouse and lost his way, Alexander Hamilton finds himself alone in a still nascent New York City. Walking alongside his wife Eliza, they clasp hands, reconcile, and grieve. It’s not a moment of mere reunion but a moment full of sadness and loss. The chorus sings in the background, “Forgiveness: can you imagine it?” In the midst of tears, Alexander and Eliza move from imagination to tears, from a broken place to a grief that can repair but not eliminate the scars they suffered. The song concludes, “There are moments that the words don’t reach. There is a grace too powerful to name. We push away what we can never understand. We push away the unimaginable.”
Forgiveness. Can you imagine it?
My friends, such imagination is not a matter of will, of trying really hard, of being right. It is not a matter of being smarter or better. Such imagination does not flow from getting that job we desperately we want, that admission we seek so diligently.
No, such imagination, such forgiveness, such repair is a promise God has made. And a promise like that is not something we grasp. It’s a gift in which we walk.
Eric D. Barreto
Eric D. Barreto is the Weyerhaeuser Associate Professor of New Testament at Princeton Theological Seminary. His passion is to pursue scholarship for the sake of the church, and he regularly writes for and teaches in faith communities around the country.
Twitter | @ericbarreto
Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.
As an ecumenical and inclusive ministry of St. Andrew Lutheran Church, the content of each Church Anew blog represents the voice of the individual writer and does not necessarily reflect the position of Church Anew or St. Andrew Lutheran Church on any specific topic.
Trust and Conspiracy in a Pandemic (Matthew 14:22-33)
The social media post pointed to a video promising deliverance from the pandemic, an assurance that things are not as dire as they seem. Nor, the video suggested, do we need to worry so much. It promised to provide a glimpse behind a curtain trying to show a truth that “they” want to keep from us. The truth, you see, was right there if you just chose to believe that a litany of scientists, experts, and leaders were not really interested in your health but in your continued delusion. It’s all a conspiracy, but now you had the chance to get in on the secret “they” didn’t want you to know.
The video had been widely discredited, of course. Even the social media giants — too often reticent to stand proactively against propaganda and conspiracy theory — had taken down the videos in order to keep others from being deluded.
And yet this social media post defiantly wrote, “Deny this if you choose. I believe it. That is my right.”
Others have written and researched the sources of mistrust that nurture conspiracy among Christians in particular. Scholars have recently traced the proliferation of a sense of persecution among white Christians and its link to believing that racism against Black people and communities is overblown.
The sociologist Samuel Perry posted data on Twitter that suggests that Christians who feel persecuted are more likely to “disregard COVID-19 precautions” like increased hand-washing and wearing a mask in public. Robert P. Jones recently wrote about his research showing that white Christians were significantly more likely than others to deny the persistence of structural racism and to advocate for Confederate monuments to remain.
Jones concludes, “The results point to a stark conclusion: While most white Christians think of themselves as people who hold warm feelings toward African Americans, holding racist views is nonetheless positively and independently associated with white Christian identity. Again, this troubling relationship holds not just for white evangelical Protestants, but also for white mainline Protestants and white Catholics.”
Too many Christians miss a critical element of faith, of what it means to believe something.
Faith is not just a matter of thinking the right things or saying the right words. Faith is fundamentally a confession of trust, an embodiment of how we relate to God and thus to one another as children of God.
Faith is not just a yes to doctrine but a yes to the God who created us, the God who saves us, the God who draws us to new life. And that “us” in the last sentence is important, for God’s creation, salvation, sanctification have a communal dimension and import. In Christian faith, it’s never just about me but about us. And thus faith in God necessarily implicates the trust we share with our neighbors.
The embrace of conspiracy among far too many Christians is at its core a crisis of (mis)trust and thus also a crisis of faith.
When some Christians choose to trust the one doctor who confirms my preconceived expectations, the one person of color who diminishes the impact of racism, the one politician who promises a return to greatness, then we see a crisis of faith, not just in God, but in the diverse stories and generous genius God has created.
We could talk more about why Christians have become so easily seduced by these conspiratorial whispers. However, I want to close with something else.
Instead of theologies that lead us astray, that misshape our sense of trust, that delude us with fanciful narratives, what theological convictions drive us to a critical hope that is both properly suspicious of the propensity of the powerful to harm while also nurturing a loving trust of our neighbors, especially those neighbors marginalized by powerful structures?
This last Sunday many churches read from Matthew 14:13-21, the story of Jesus’ proliferation of bread to share with 5,000 men and an uncounted number of women and children. The miracle here is not just a magic trick, a sleight of hand, a special effect meant to dazzle the crowds. No, the miracle is one of abundance in a place where the disciples only see what they lack. “This is a deserted place,” the disciples inform a Jesus who has healed the sick and proclaimed good news with every step he has taken (v. 15).
There are no desolate places when Jesus is present. There is enough to go around, more than enough when Jesus sets a table before us.
This upcoming Sunday we encounter Jesus striding on the sea and calming the winds and the waves in Matthew 14:22-33. First, bread in the wilderness. Now, calm in the eye of a storm. Notice what Jesus tells his disconsolate disciples: Do not be afraid. There is nothing to fear, for I have drawn near to you.
I wonder if the thirst among too many Christians for a conspiracy theory that makes sense of a world seeming to be spinning out of control is a way to reach out for something solid in a dissolving world, a reality that seems to be slipping through our fingers.
But in reaching out for a hidden truth that makes it all make sense, we miss that Jesus is already there with us in those places that seem foreboding and lonely and dangerous.
Jesus’ very presence is the assurance of God’s promise of new, abundant life.
Let’s be clear. The other side of conspiracy is not naïveté or an unquestioning trust in those deemed experts or those who wield power over us. A critical perspective is indispensable. We know that the powerful have enacted terrible regimes of oppression in the past, occluding their actions and justifying their treatment of the powerless. The Tuskegee Experiment was real. So is systemic racism.
But it is vital that we nurture a faithful sensibility that can distinguish between cries of oppression which ring in God’s ears with compassion and the privileged fear that the comfortable may lose their unmerited place in the structure of a broken world God is setting right. It is crucial that we discern the difference between fears rooted in a sober look at the world as it is and promotes our survival and fears of loss and scarcity rooted in a twisted vision of one’s neighbors.
Do not look to the man behind the curtain pulling the strings. Do not look for the code that explains it all. Do not look for the conspiracy that contorts and changes to explain every wrinkle and incorrect prediction.
No. Look to the Jesus who offers us bread in the wilderness, a bread that nourishes us to notice that we are not alone, a bread that teaches us that there is always enough in the reign of God. Look to the Jesus who strides on the waves, who beckons us to the water, who delivers us when we cry out, “Save us.” That Jesus draws us close and reminds us not to fear but to love God and neighbor alike with every thought and word.
Eric D. Barreto
Eric D. Barreto is the Weyerhaeuser Associate Professor of New Testament at Princeton Theological Seminary. His passion is to pursue scholarship for the sake of the church, and he regularly writes for and teaches in faith communities around the country.
Twitter | @ericbarreto
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Being Church Today
Monday, August 17 | 10:30am-1:00pm CDT
Church Anew has gathered a diverse group of Christian thought leaders to ignite innovation and imagination for leading congregations in a time like this. These keynote speakers will amplify the voices of local leaders from the Minneapolis area, who will share stories of how the church is leading in our own context, particularly in response to systemic racism in our communities.
Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.
As an ecumenical and inclusive ministry of St. Andrew Lutheran Church, the content of each Church Anew blog represents the voice of the individual writer and does not necessarily reflect the position of Church Anew or St. Andrew Lutheran Church on any specific topic.