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Kris Bjorke 1/10/24 Kris Bjorke 1/10/24

Liminal Spaces

Theologians and practitioners have used the word “liminal space” or “liminal time” to describe these experiences. They are the point at which you become aware that a transition is about to occur. Liminal literally means, “threshold”. Think of walking through a doorway and going through/over a threshold. You are neither in one room nor the other; you are in-between. However you can see both, one behind and in front.

*Photo by* *Viktor Talashuk* on *Unsplash*

I was standing in a very long line at the grocery store when people behind me were discussing the governor shutting down the state. I immediately started “googling” things on my phone. It was March of 2020. I had just flown back from an ELCA Youth Gathering preparation meeting in San Antonio. Our team had met to continue preparations for the 2021 ELCA Youth Gathering scheduled for Minneapolis. Team members made up of pastors and other church leaders were getting word from their constituents back home in various places across the county that something was afoot and perhaps we needed to end the meeting early so these leaders could return home to lead in their ever-growing anxious spaces. I was planning extra days to visit my brother’s family but after watching the news, I only stayed a day as it was increasingly clear a mysterious disease might cause the airport to shut down preventing my return home. There were only a few of us at the airport when I left. It was eerie. Something had changed.

Liminal space also implies the transition is uncertain–whether physically, emotionally, or metaphorically. The difference between liminality and what some might call “fancy change management” is that we often don't know where we are. We can't really describe the ground on which we stand with any clarity. In the instance I described above with the early days of the pandemic, remember all those bold declarations made by leaders about how long we'd be closed for and when we were reopening? And then do you remember the point in time when they gave up doing that? It changed every day. You could make a statement and say, as of this point in time, we're going to do this and then realize we can't make a claim about that because I thought we were here, but we're not really here. Right? We don't know where we stand. How do we as leaders anticipate the barriers that stand in the way of us moving to that desired future?

Much of the world these days has become a liminal space. Susan Beaumont in her book, How to Lead When You Don’t Know Where You are Going, says entry into a liminal season begins with an ending, with the collapse of order. Something comes to an end: an identity, a program, a structure or a process. As you read this, perhaps you return to the feelings that come from liminality–it is disorienting, exhausting, very ambiguous, can’t-wrap-your-arms-around-it confusion which involves grief. Have any of you lamented about church attendance lately? Or wondered where all the young people have gone compared to 10, 20 or even 30 years ago?

Liminal times come in various forms: Liminal contexts–think about when we send young people to camp or on a mission trip, we are intentionally setting up a liminal experience for them. We also have liminal seasons that happen in congregations all the time. A pastoral transition is a great example of this. One body of people under the leadership of this particular pastor, when that pastor leaves, a congregation has to go through a difficult, but also exhilarating season of figuring out who they are without the leadership of that particular pastor before they're ready to attach to the leadership of a new pastor. We also know that there are liminal eras. Phyllis Tickle talks about this in her book, The Great Emergence, that historically the larger church “cleans house” every 500 years or so deciding what to keep and what to dispose of, making room for new things. Tickle believes that we are in one of those eras now, where the church’s institutional infrastructures actually begin to crumble and that's necessary for the rebirth of whatever the next chapter of the church is.

As Spirit pulls us into our new future undefined, liminal space, it has three parts: a separation or an ending, a liminal period of waiting, and then a reassimilation. I think of it like ziplining. You are harnessed up in something that will hold you on this line. You walk to the tallest part of a known structure. Then you need to let go. To the unknown. Can I even take this step? What if it doesn’t hold ME? But you just have to do it, let go, a total act of faith.

Oh yeah, faith. I can’t think of a Biblical story that doesn’t have a liminal season to it. Abraham and Sarah, Noah, Jonah, Esther–a person taken from an old identity and brought into a new identity. Jesus in the wilderness, Paul on the road to Damascus experiencing blindness where he is transformed. The question for us is…If we know this is how God has worked in Biblical time, that this is how we find God, why are we so resistant to pausing in this space and letting the transformation happen? Why are we so panicked to either move back to something that felt like the old normal or to rush ahead to what feels like something new? Have you heard people saying either? Let us pause in this liminal context, season, or era we find ourselves in (or perhaps all three) and recognize the comfort in the uncomfortable. Knowing God is creating something new, and we get to take part.

Kris Bjorke

Kris Bjorke is a children, youth, and family enthusiast. Having co-created and led InterServe Ministries for the past 15 years, she understands the value of creating strong teams to model and lead faith formation ministries. With a doctorate degree at Luther Seminary, she enjoys wondering with congregations about collaborative ministry, encouraging volunteer and paid staff in congregations and teaching Christian Public Leadership at Luther Seminary. A 25-plus-year veteran in children and youth ministry both in long-term and interim positions, Kris has a passion for seeing young people question and grow in their faith together with adults that surround them.

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.

Amar Peterman 11/7/23 Amar Peterman 11/7/23

Planting Gardens of Belonging

***Photo by*** ***Markus Spiske*** on ***Unsplash***

This post originally appeared on the Fetzer Institute's blog and was written by Church Anew and Enfleshing Witness collaborator, Amar Peterman. Read more from Amar on his Substack, This Common Life.

Our cultural moment is marked decisively by a bitter, national upheaval. The ramifications of such division are evident in the ongoing reformation of social and civic life that has fundamentally reshaped the American landscape for the next generation of public leaders, particularly those who are deeply rooted in a spiritual tradition.

As someone born between the conclusion of the Millennial generation and the genesis of Gen-Z, this decade of social animosity, political hostility, and religious skepticism is my only experience of political and religious life. I navigated the complexities of voting in my first primary election in 2016 while enrolled in a theology program at a conservative, evangelical bible college in downtown Chicago. I studied American religious history and public theology in seminary during a global pandemic that put the worst of my tradition on display for the public to see. Today, I work at a civic, bridge-building organization that seeks to elevate the constructive role of faith in public life at a time when the integrity of both organized religion and democratic systems are under heavy scrutiny.

While these experiences have produced long seasons of pain, frustration, and grief, my engagement at the intersection of faith and public life over the past decade has also taught me an important lesson: change is not only possible, it is inevitable. Indeed, our country and those who reside in it are constantly shifting and changing. We are ever caught in liminal spaces: of devastation and building, of death and life, of grief and joy, of pessimism and hope, of death and new life, of what is and what might be. The collective spirit of America is a malleable energy that is impossible to contain.

Framed another way, this decade has—for myself and many others—removed the illusion of permanence. Desipte their present grandeur or platform, no person, institution, building, or system will stand forever. The clarity and freedom that accompany this realization are the beating heart of great social movements that have prophetically envisioned new designs of habitation and built new possibilities for our shared life marked by belonging, community, and inclusion. These movements of change directed by and towards love resist the bifurcation of buildings from bodies and systems from citizens. Most importantly, these movements of change are not destructive in their end; their vision is one of redemption and justice.

We meet God drawing us and showing us the life of one who yields and listens, and in this way, the yielding and listening prepare for us a life together of dreaming and building.
—Willie James Jennings, “Addressing the Hateful Condition of the Line”

The task at hand for young people of faith is to draw from our traditions to steward this change—this social transformation—towards the redemptive possibilities of loving exceedingly, seeking justice, practicing hospitality, and giving generously. In doing so, we might reimagine and create anew the means through which our communities join together across differences. In my experience, this joining work often looks like bending down and digging our hands into the earth to cultivate the soil of our cultural landscape with the nutrients and environment to bring forth a garden of dreaming, building, and flourishing together.

This begins by telling good stories that can transparently name both the tensions and promise of a shared, common life. At their best, stories like these remind us that difference does not necessitate division. They can name where our experiences diverge while also binding us together through a shared vision of who we can be together. Stories remind us that, although we may be strangers, we are deeply connected—and connection is the seedbed for a robust, generative community.

Second, planting a garden or building an institution requires identifying a space to lay a firm foundation. If we aim to draw in our communities towards a constructive vision of our common life, then we must build and plant at the site of public gathering. Truly, our moral and civic formation is not located in prescribed rules and legislation but in communion and belonging. If we want to shape and direct the malleable energy of our communities and society, we must place ourselves where individuals and habits are formed: churches, mosques, temples, synagogues, gurdwaras; and museums, hospitals, schools, potlucks, food pantries, and community centers.

Moreover, in these spaces where people gather across lines of difference, young people of faith must lead the way in cutting through the fog of ideological isolation and tribalism by uplifting the hopeful majority of individuals in every community who genuinely want to their neighbors to thrive. Of course, this is incredibly difficult when we are implicitly formed to treat disagreement within a moral frame—where “you are wrong” necessitates “you are evil.” It is the task of the leader to foster the space and opportunity for shared action towards belonging and a common good.

Finally, no garden grows without the gentle care and fervent love of a passionate gardener. As young leaders strive to make constructive change in their communities, they must draw from their spiritual traditions to love tangibly—to till and plant, water and weed. Anne Synder says it best when she writes, “There’s a growing awareness that love can never be abstracted—we’re touched by incarnational living and doing, less prescription from on high.” The image of a garden is beautiful, just as a vision of belonging is powerful, but both remain incomplete until real fruit is borne and real flowers bloom. Our striving for a meaningful community must be materialized—incarnated—through proximity, hospitality, generosity, and collective action.

Described theologically, the action of love opens people to participate in the divine love that is constantly sustaining and making the world fresh and new.
—Norman Wirzba, This Sacred Life

In the Christian tradition, the potential of prophetic social change is never rooted in the individual leader. Instead, the spiritual source of this work is found in an eternal, permanent God who wombs and breathes out beautiful things and, in return, compels us to join in this creative action. This is the mission set before the person of faith engaging in their community: to cultivate, create, and nurture a faithful, hopeful, and loving way of being alive that compels others to join in this way of life.

There is no question that a great deal of work lies before us if we seek to build beautiful and loving communities through healthy civic and democratic practices. I believe that young people of faith are exactly the kind of leaders we need paving the way. Equipped with the experiences, wisdom, knowledge, and energy to transform communities, young leaders of faith have the incredible opportunity to lead us into a better way of being in the world marked by love of God, neighbor, earth, and self.

Amar Peterman

Amar D. Peterman (MDiv, Princeton Seminary) is an author and theologian working at the intersection of faith and public life. He is the founder of Scholarship for Religion and Society LLC, a research and consulting firm working with some of the leading philanthropic and civic institutions, religious organizations, and faith leaders in America today. His first book, This Common Life: Seeking the Common Good Through Love of Neighbor is forthcoming with Eerdmans Publishing Company. You can learn more about him at ***amarpeterman.com***.

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Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.

Peter Wallace 10/31/23 Peter Wallace 10/31/23

Unlikely Saints

All Saints Sunday gives us a very personal way to talk about the present and future by talking about the past. Who are we? Who do we want to be? Those saints from our past give us a way to talk about where we are and where we are headed.

Personal Saints

On All Saints’ Sunday, I can’t help but think about all the blessed saints who gather around me in my memories. And believe me, there were plenty of characters in my family and in my life. Looking back, I see they were saints indeed. Not officially entered into sainthood perhaps, but saints nonetheless—people who were set apart by God to make a difference in the world, as they did in my life.

I grew up in West Virginia as a PK—a preacher’s kid and grandkid. Sunday dinner was always a big affair for my family, and more often than not Grandmother and Granddaddy Yoak would join us for pot roast as my parents, two brothers and sister and I gathered around the big dining room table. My Granddaddy, Dr. J.B.F. Yoak, Jr., was a beloved Methodist minister, as was my dad; in fact Granddaddy is the one who encouraged my father to pursue ordained ministry—as well as to pursue his daughter, my mother!

Granddaddy would tell knee-slapping stories about his experiences growing up, or as a young, horseback circuit-riding preacher in the hills and valleys of West Virginia—stories he collected later in a book I treasure. And of course my parents and grandparents would have to catch up on the Methodist conference gossip with him. Granddaddy would often bring the latest issue of The West Virginia Hillbilly weekly newspaper—I was enamored of that eccentric, fascinating, unique tabloid—so much so that after I graduated from college I was thrilled to go work there—but that’s a whole other story.

Also visiting us occasionally was Aunt Grace, Granddaddy’s sister, an opinionated widow who rarely smiled, as I recall—though when she did you felt it; her deep, commanding voice often kept me behaving myself.

And Aunt Maude, who I have to say was my favorite great aunt, a sweet spinster, retired teacher, she loved to read stories to my sister and me. I prize a copy of A. A. Milne’s book, When We Were Six, which she gave me when I was, yep, six years old.

Most every summer when I was a kid, my family spent a month at Sunken Meadow beach on the James River in Virginia—and every summer we would see Dad’s side of the family nearby in Hopewell. I never knew my Dad’s father, who had passed away. Dad’s mother, my other grandmother, we called Nana.

We kids were fascinated by Nana’s oddly crossed toes and her lush, haunted back yard with an algae-tinged goldfish pond and heavy vines of fragrant muscadine grapes. Like many Virginians of the time, Nana smoked—and consequently had a gruff voice. She was a wonderful Southern cook, and she would not let you leave the table in any way hungry. “Have some more,” she would urge gruffly, and if you hesitated, “What’s the matter, don’t you like it?” Only because she loved us.

Then there was Aunt Ida, who had worked in a chemical plant whose odors permeated Hopewell, “The Chemical Capital of the South.” Ida was somewhat mystical, loved cooking, reading mysteries, and telling ghost stories in her syrupy Tidewater accent.

And Aunt Martha—she too was a widow who had worked in the plant. My sister and I would usually stay a night or two with her and our cousin Billy. We’d watch old horror movies, go to the store to get comic books and candy. She spoiled us lovingly.

Many other beloved family members come to my mind, but another saint in my life was Mrs. Robinette, a dear soul who was a member of the church I grew up in, where my Dad was pastor. When I was in elementary school, she taught Vacation Bible School one summer. She seemed ancient to me then but was sweet and full of life. And she had a big impact on my life.

One of the VBS projects she had us do was to create a newspaper as though it were published during the time of the Apostle Paul. I relished that assignment—creating news stories about Paul’s latest ruckus, ads for chariot dealers, even a comic strip. I count that experience as planting the seeds that set me on the path to study journalism in college, to fall in love with writing, and to discover a calling to communicating the faith.

All these saints, and so many more, come to my mind. I share them with you to prod your own memory of the dear saints who have blessed your life. Maybe there are some you’ve forgotten, or realize you need to be in touch with to tell them you love them.

Of course, I look back and acknowledge these saints’ flaws, peccadillos, and occasional mistakes, and I realize they were just ordinary human people like you and me. But there was something more about them. When I was a kid, they were giants to me. Salt of the earth. They truly believed and loved God. They tried to live as followers of Jesus. When I look back, I see them as saints. Saints of God.

Who are your Saints?

So, who are your saints? Who comes to your heart and mind on All Saints Sunday?

One huge thing I missed deeply during our pandemic worship was coming to the communion table with the family of faith and together eating the bread and drinking the wine, the body and blood of Jesus Christ. When I go to the altar rail, I always sense that the saints are with me, singing and praying, praising God; these compassionate souls who nurtured me in the faith and set me on the path of the way of love.

Think about the dear saints in your life—your family members, Sunday school teachers, mentors, those you honor in your heart.

Of course, those we remember as saints were not perfect, and often far from it—but we can relate to them because we, like they, are flawed human beings. For instance…

Mother Teresa was known for her kindness, her generosity, her monumental work on behalf of the poor, but she was also known for her sharp temper, and her personal journals reveal a woman tortured by decades of inner spiritual conflict and doubt.

The desert fathers and mothers, revered for their spiritual depth, in many cases fled to the wilderness, not because they were saints, but because they were so plagued by the gremlins of temptation that they had to go be by themselves, and even then, alone in the wild, they still wrestled with anger, pride, dejection, and depression. Even so, they were saints. Full of life and love, full of God.

Vietnamese monk and author Thich Nhat Hanh explains that, in Buddhism, the energy that helps us “touch life deeply” is known as smrti, it’s the energy of mindfulness. Jesus is full of smrti. Because Jesus knows himself. Jesus is mindful of his feelings and expresses them clearly and directly. He allows his emotions to empower his life positively. And, he invites us to join him in this authentic way of living.

Jesus began his teaching ministry (Matthew 5:1-12) on a hill surrounded by hungry, wounded people who yearned for meaning and fullness in their impoverished lives. They may not have even had a glimmer of understanding why he came and what he was about to do. Yet, they were drawn to him, and he connected directly and intimately with them as he shared the blessings of God.

In contrast to Moses, who brought the law down the mountain from on high to the people, here is Jesus, beginning his teaching ministry by bringing blessings up the mountain, to the people, where he sits down with his disciples and teaches.

“Blessed are you,” he says to the poor in spirit, to those who were mourning, to the meek who would inherit the earth, to those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for the merciful, peacemakers, and others. They were all saints! Blessed saints.

These blessings, the Beatitudes in Matthew 5, focus on our emotional life—our mourning, our passion, our fear, our suffering. All the grief and fear and pain and anger we are feeling even now in our country and in our world. In the midst of all that, we hear Jesus speak to us: “Blessed are you.”

Roman Catholic priest and author Richard Rohr writes, “Suffering is the necessary deep feeling of the human situation. If we don’t feel pain, suffering, human failure, and weakness, we stand antiseptically apart from it, and remain numb and small.”

Sometimes it seems the saintliest among us are those who have suffered the most—right?

Jesus, however, refuses to numb himself from human emotions. And so should we.

Rohr goes on: “The irony is not that God should feel so fiercely; it’s that his creatures feel so feebly. If there is nothing in your life to cry about, if there is nothing in your life to yell about, you must be out of touch. We must all feel and know the immense pain of this global humanity. Then we are no longer isolated, but a true member of the universal Body of Christ. Then we know God not only from the outside but from the inside.”

So, those we remember lovingly as the saints in our lives? I think they got this. They lived their lives knowing they were beloved children of God, called to love and serve God, no matter how they struggled, no matter what pains they strove to overcome. And as a result, they made their mark on our lives and no doubt on many others.

While you’re at it, consider others in our society and history who have also made an impact on your life. For instance, the late, great Civil Rights icon and United States Congressman, John Lewis, served the district I live in. He continues to beckon us to get into “good trouble,” as he would put it, and that’s my goal. He was a hero to me and to so many others for all his good work and strong faith.

Blessed are these saints in our lives. Blessed are you. Blessed am I. Jesus himself gave these Beatitude blessings abundantly to anyone who would receive them, anyone who would open themselves up to risk experiencing them.

But, once those blessings are received, they are ours to do something with—we are blessed to be a blessing in this hurting, divided, terrifying world. One day—who knows—maybe we will be the saints remembered and honored by others, because we took the blessings we received and gave them away just as extravagantly as did Jesus, and as did all the saints who followed him.

Let’s live unafraid to honor those dear souls who helped make you and me who we are. Remember those who have come before us as a way of considering prayerfully who we are, and who we want to be.

And one day, may we be remembered for the positive influence we left in others’ lives. As impossible as it may seem to us now, may we ourselves be remembered as unlikely saints. Let’s live every day in a way that will make it so, in the power of our loving Lord.

Sources:

Peter Wallace, The Passionate Jesus (Conclusion)

Lisa Cressman, Backstory Preaching, “What Not to Preach on All Saints’ Day,” October 23, 2017

Richard Rohr, Daily Meditation, "Suffering," March 27, 2012, adapted from Rohr, Radical Grace, 209.

Peter M. Wallace

Rev. Peter M. Wallace, an Episcopal priest, was for 22 years the executive producer and host of the “Day1” weekly radio program and podcast (Day1.org). He is the author or editor of 15 books, including most recently A Generous Beckoning: Accepting God’s Invitation to a More Fulfilling Life; Bread Enough for All: A Day1 Guide to Life; Heart and Soul: The Emotions of Jesus; and Comstock & Me: My Brief But Unforgettable Career with The West Virginia Hillbilly.

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Julian Davis Reid 10/2/23 Julian Davis Reid 10/2/23

How Parenting Is Teaching Me Notes of Rest: Lessons from the first month

What a marvel it is to have a child. There really are no words to do it justice. A few of you have expressed interest in what parenthood will do to my sense of rest. I’m sure that will be a lifelong journey, but here are a few quick insights

***Photo by*** ***McKenna Phillips*** on ***Unsplash***

This post originally appeared on Julian Davis Reid’s substack called “Notes of Rest,” a weekly newsletter about music, Christian faith, and rest to promote the practice of contemplation & creativity. Read more and subscribe here.

Thank you for the warm wishes on the birth of my sweet little Lydia last month. It is a blessing to write for a community that celebrates such big milestones. What a marvel it is to have a child. There really are no words to do it justice. My favorite moments to savor are when she opens her eyes for the first time after a nap, and when she makes eye contact with me as she practices lifting her head, and when Carmen, Lydia and I sit on the couch together. The list goes on, but that begins to count the ways.

A few of you have expressed interest in what parenthood will do to my sense of rest. I’m sure that will be a lifelong journey, but here are a few quick insights from the first month.

When we rest, others get to rest too.
When Lydia sleeps multiple hours a night, we all get to rest. (Ha - when.) And that reminds me of how the logic of Sabbath in Scripture is centered on the idea that when the people of Israel receives God’s gift of rest, those who work for them, the foreigners who live in their midst, the other animals, and the land get to rest too.
We tire others out without realizing it.
On the other hand, Lydia has no idea how her erratic sleep schedule tires Carmen and me. To be sure, we are happily exhausted - we oftentimes find ourselves laughing at 2 in the morning - but it is exhaustion nonetheless.
Similarly, we the writer and readers of this post exhaust others whether we realize it. Capitalism has made it such that we exhaust bodies and lands routinely, our own included, in our pursuit of fanciful fairy tales of never ending wealth (e.g., Greta Thunberg). And what’s worse, the means of our life as is often occluded from us, such that we don’t have a real sense of what life costs. (I always find it odd that we can put a price on an apple. What does it actually cost us?)
Now, Lydia is not to blame at all for the exhaustion she causes. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. The sista just wants to feed and be held. Amen to her knowing what she needs, ha.
To some extent, we are like her. We do not singlehandedly control the factories and the governments and the IG algorithms that promote our exhaustion and the exhaustion of the world. And we do not understand all that we do. However, unlike Lydia, we do have some sense of what we are doing and should be held responsible for the ways we exhaust. Let us pay attention.
Resting - truly resting - calls for faith in God’s provision.
Working in the gig economy, which is supported in part through the paid segment of this Substack (thank you, subscribers!), means that for the most part my paternity leave was unpaid. I had saved money for that, but still felt the precarity. Being off in mid-August and September meant that I was missing a big part of the music festival season. I had to turn off Instagram at some point because I just kept having fear of missing out (Fomo) as I saw my colleagues playing all over the world. It was a tension. Lydia was here! My world was forever changed with joy unspeakable. But still, the show had to go on elsewhere, and people found subs for me.
My internal struggles during paternity leave were thus an excellent revealer of my own vulnerability and need for Notes of Rest. The message I preach to all of y’all is what I needed myself. Even as a freelancer, even as a musician, even (and especially) as a new father, rest was called for, and I had to believe God would provide.
I return now to the work of Notes of Rest with increased confidence that God will provide. Just this week, I am putting the finishing touches on my debut solo project of original music, called Candid EP, and just signed a literary agent deal for my forthcoming book on Notes of Rest. (More on both of these later.) God is good and his mercy endures forever, and I am trusting God to continue providing for me and my family in the ways that draw me deeper into faith. As I have said before, Notes of Rest is more than a session or catchphrase - it is a lifestyle, one that yields and lives by faith.
Rest invites community.
As we rested as a family during this month, people came to bring food through meal trains from our church and Carmen and my families holding us down. People I speak to a few times a year, or a few time a decade, reached out to care. I was blown away by the tokens of grace. We didn’t “earn” compassion. Every meal, card, gift card, overnight stay, and onesie was a gift, and we have tried to receive it as such. I admittedly felt guilty at times for such care. I can take care of Lydia. I am present to care for her and Carmen. I will step up to the plate. But there again, I was missing the point. People weren’t assessing my capacity to care. They were celebrating the new life and offering me a gift. I was humbled by what all I needed to receive. (I wonder if toxic masculinity made it harder for me to just simply receive care.)

1 John 1:10 puts it well: If we say that we have not sinned, we make him a liar, and [Jesus’] word is not in us. I approach my career as an artist-theologian with thankfulness that my public work in helping folk hear the rest for which they were created is directly connected to my private work in hearing it myself. I’d be a hypocrite to otherwise cut off this link. When anxiety arose during paternity leave about what the future held, I could look at my sweet Lydia and realize that I, like she, was in need of constant care from God.

For all of the parents on this thread, and for all who have been parented, I pray that this new chapter of my life in Notes of Rest can encourage you to humbly seek Notes in yours. God calls and God saves, and that saving brings good rest for our souls, minds, bodies, and for the rest of creation. It’s dope that something as miraculous and life-changing as Lydia’s arrival can teach me that, again.

Abundantly,

Julian

Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.

Mashaun D. Simon 3/21/23 Mashaun D. Simon 3/21/23

Deconstruction: A New Recipe for My Faith

This essay first appeared in Bearings Online, March 2, 2023, collegevilleinstitute.org/bearings and is a product of the Collegeville Institute’s Emerging Writers Mentorship Program, a 9-month program for writers who address matters of faith in their work. Each participant has the opportunity to publish their work at Bearings Online. Click here to read more essays from the Emerging Writers Program.

One of my guilty pleasures is watching cooking competitions. I especially enjoy when a contestant produces a deconstructed dish. Deconstructed cooking or baking happens when a chef or baker rethinks a popular or beloved dish. Take, for instance, apple pie. When deconstructed, one might get a dessert that has all the familiar ingredients, but not presented in the traditional sense: apples and spices tucked neatly inside a pie crust. Instead, what you may get is a bowl of cooked apples, topped with chunks of pie crust and garnished with powdered sugar and cinnamon sticks. It’s still an apple pie; it just looks different.

Over the past few years, I have been doing something similar, though I did not know what to call it initially. No, I am not talking about deconstructing in the culinary sense. I am talking about deconstructing my faith.

Admitting publicly that I am deconstructing my faith is scary.

Admitting publicly that I am deconstructing my faith is scary. Many of the people I am connected to are deeply committed to their traditional beliefs, church work, and ministries. As a same-gender-loving preacher, there is already a distance – albeit subtle – between myself and many of my ministry colleagues. Because of the polity of their denominational or congregational leadership, having me around isn’t ideal for their ministerial success. Admitting I am interrogating my faith could potentially create more isolation for me.

What am I doing, exactly? The easiest way to explain it is there are some things I was taught growing up that I no longer believe. For example, I was taught the Bible is the infallible word of God. I was taught to believe that the Bible is perfect, without error, and without contradiction. I simply don’t believe that anymore.

Let’s go down the list!

I no longer believe that Jesus is the only way to God.

I see the Christian Bible (and by extension the Hebrew Bible) as a collection of writings portraying the lived experiences of a people trying to understand their lives and God’s role in their lives. I no longer believe that Jesus is the only way to God. In other words, I do not negate the Divine access of those who practice Hinduism, Buddhism, or Wicca; or identify as Yoruba, Islamic, Sikh, or Jewish; or subscribe to other monotheistic and polytheistic belief systems. For me, they are all my cousins, brothers, and sisters, speaking to the Deity or Deities that fit their unique identities, beliefs, and ways of being in the world.

Furthermore, I don’t believe that the story of Sodom and Gomorrah is about homosexuality. Nor do I believe that we must sacrifice everything about ourselves, abandon our wants, needs, and desires, for the sake of religious acceptance and divine love. I do not ascribe to the narrative that the Bible supports marriage as between one man and one woman, or that if I live a certain way and act a certain way God will bless me with the luxury BMW truck I have always wanted.

I don’t believe that the story of Sodom and Gomorrah is about homosexuality.

Sometimes I don’t realize that I no longer believe aspects of my faith until I am in the middle of conversation with others or listening to someone preach.

The roots of faith deconstruction, some believe, lie in the literary concepts of French philosopher Jacques Derrida in the 1960s – the ongoing process of questioning the accepted basis of meaning. His ideas spread to other disciplines, especially in the 1980s-90s, including theology. Some dismiss faith deconstruction as a newfangled and faddish threat to the church, while many who have gone through their own process of faith deconstruction no longer see the value of being affiliated with any faith-based community. While this is not the case for me, I respect their choices.

I did not “grow up” in the church. From time to time, I attended church services with friends from school and their families until I was about 11 or 12 years old. It was then that we began going to church as a family – attending the Simon family church. However, my upbringing was influenced by religion. There were rules that were religiously influenced. No cursing. No drinking. No playing cards. And no gossiping!

I also remember that when my brother was dying from HIV complications, suggestions were made that his diagnosis was an indictment of his “lifestyle.”

The one directive I remember most to this day: never question God. I was not really told why not. Oh, and never read the Book of Revelation. That was another non-negotiable growing up. To this day, no one has explained that one to me either. But I had lots and lots of questions, like how is it that nothing can separate me from God’s love, but being same sex attracted is the ultimate sin?

Attending seminary granted me the opportunity to question and decipher meaning for myself.

Attending seminary granted me the opportunity to question and decipher meaning for myself. From the “Introduction to the Old Testament” and “Introduction to the New Testament” courses, to “Systematic Theology” and “Christian History,” my professors invited me to analyze and decipher; dissect and investigate. During my second year I collided with the work of Howard Thurman and the theological writings of Frederick Douglass.

I cannot say anything I read by Thurman or Douglass changed my mind about anything I believed. But Thurman and Douglass exposed me to ideas I had not considered and narratives I had never encountered. They helped me to rethink who and what I considered to be voices of theological authority. In Jesus and the Disinherited, Thurman questioned how anyone with authority could use the Christian faith to oppress others when it’s a faith for the oppressed. Douglass pointed out similar hypocrisies. They also affirmed Black religiosity for me, creating space for Black theological perspectives and making them valid in place of “forefathers of the faith” who were exclusively white and European. They also led me to other Black theological voices like Katie Cannon, Jarena Lee, James Cone, and Anthony Pinn.

Encountering Thurman, Douglass, Cannon, Lee, Cone, and Pinn caused me to reconsider whether the messages given to me as a child about faith, about sin, about oppression, about divine selection, even good and evil, served me. I also wondered whether these lessons served the people I eventually pastored.

Not only have I experimented in baking, I’ve also experimented with my faith.

My questioning came to the final point when, in the fall of 2021, my father died. Before he passed, he used to say, “One of the best parts of cooking is experimenting. You won’t know what you have or what can be until you test it out.” Not only have I experimented in my baking, but I’ve also experimented with my faith.

His passing gave me the courage needed to take an inventory of my life and my questions, and the courage to embrace my interrogation. This process has been necessary for my peace, growth, and well-being.

While I may not believe some of the things I was taught to believe, my relationship with my faith does not have to be tossed out because I am deconstructing. For me, deconstruction has not only been about seeking and processing, but also experimenting. I have approached the process the same way chefs and bakers deconstruct their dishes: taking the main ingredients and repurposing/re-imagining them to better serve me and those I am called to serve.

Rev. Mashaun D. Simon

Mashaun D. Simon is an equity and inclusion advocate who centers his preaching, writing, and scholarship on cultural competency, identity, and equity. He is the former senior pastor of House of Mercy Everlasting (HOME) in College Park, GA, and a doctoral candidate at Columbia Theological Seminary. His doctoral research engages the theoretical and practical implications of grief in church and society. He holds a professional writing degree from Georgia Perimeter College, a Bachelor of Science in Communications from Kennesaw State University, and a Master of Divinity from Emory University's Candler School of Theology.

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Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.

Josh Packard 8/29/22 Josh Packard 8/29/22

Faith like a spiral: How Gen Z is defying religious norms and starting from scratch

When we think of “spiraling,” we often associate this term with experiences of uncertainty or doubt in life. But for young people, these uncertainties—these spirals—do not indicate doom or dread; they are just the backdrop to daily life.

To be sure, over the last two years, young people have navigated the turmoil and tensions brought on by the COVID-19 pandemic, which intensified the already common young adult experience of difficulty, change, and upheaval.

However, just as today’s young people are navigating the spirals of sudden and rapid change, spirals also represent a kind of unbounded circle. A spiral moves away from its initial, closed form as a circle and toward a freer structure, one that nonetheless takes inspiration from that original shape.

In this way, a spiral echoes the way today’s young people increasingly resist closed systems of meaning for something more free flowing and organic. Applied to spirituality, we are calling this phenomenon “faith unbundled,” a new way of thinking about this generation’s approach to faith that includes making space for variation, personalization, and uncertainty as they journey through their lives.

Since its inception, Springtide Research Institute has been investigating the spiritual beliefs and practices of 13-25 year olds, which currently makeup Generation Z. Our recent annual report, The State of Religion & Young People 2021: Navigating Uncertainty, draws from thousands of surveys and hundreds of interviews to uncover the way young people are figuring out how to draw on religious and spiritual support to make it through life’s challenges and to celebrate its joys, and the ways they are increasingly doing so outside of formal structures of faith. We discovered that the percentage of young people attending religious services daily, weekly, monthly, or less than monthly each dropped 1-5% from 2021 to 2022, while the percentage of those who never attend religious services rose dramatically from 30% in 2021 to 44% in 2022.

Still, young people need you. They need religious and faith leaders to walk alongside them and provide guidance after the COVID years of grief, trauma, upheaval, and uncertainty. But first, young people need to be known and feel understood. Just 10% of young people say a faith leader checked in with them during the first year of the COVID-19 pandemic, a number that rose to only 13% among young people who said they were affiliated with a faith community.

Despite their growing distance from religious institutions and faith leaders, Generation Z remains a curious and enthusiastic generation when it comes to spirituality. A whopping 71% of 13-25 year-olds consider themselves to be religious, while 78% consider themselves to be spiritual. More young people told Springtide that their faith became stronger during the pandemic (32%) than weaker (19%) or lost completely (9%). This includes a growing number of young people who feel “highly connected” to a higher power, from 13% in 2021 to 18% in 2022, while the proportion of those who say they “don’t feel connected at all” to a higher power dropped from 36% in 2021 to 27% in 2022.

There was a time when the prevailing assumption was that only religious institutions could confer or facilitate credible spiritual enrichment. Seeking the sacred outside of a church, temple, or synagogue was seen as evidence of a kind of selfish spiritual path, smacking of consumerism with a marketplace of religious commodities, all up for grabs.

Casper ter Kuile, author of The Power of Ritual, writes in The State of Religion & Young People 2021, young people aren’t trying to extract the elements of faith from different religious contexts like a buffet with little concern for questions of appropriation or context. Rather, “Young people are trying to integrate their existing multiplicities. By finding ways to piece together their varying family histories, geographic and cultural contexts, personal interests and sensibilities, young people are attempting to experience a wholeness and connection that demands curiosity and flexibility if they are to stay true to the people they understand themselves to be.”

If you think about it, it's not particularly surprising that young people resist a fixed definition about what it means to be religious today. Casper ter Kuile rightly notes, “Just as gender expressions, sexualities, and racial identities are now understood on a richer spectrum and grounded in intersectionality, young Americans are reimagining religiosity, spirituality, or faith as something that opposes a stark ‘in’ or ‘out,’ ‘this’ or ‘that’ way of compartmentalizing.” Many of today’s young people find institutional identity or whole group cohesion not only unattractive but often untrustworthy.

Enter “faith unbundled,” which we believe captures the way young people increasingly construct their faith by combining elements from a variety of traditionally religious and unconventional sources, rather than receiving all their spiritual resources from a single, intact system or tradition.

Consider these findings from The State of Religion & Young People 2021:

Young people are more likely to engage with art as a spiritual practice (53%) than prayer (45%)
Young people are more likely to engage in yoga and martial arts as a spiritual practice (40%) than attend a religious group (25%)
Young people are more likely to practice being in nature (45%) or meditation (29%) as spiritual practices than study a religious text (28%)

Each year, Springtide talks to scores of young people who defy institutional norms for what it means to be a “Christian,” a “Muslim,” and even an “atheist.” A young atheist might draw meaning from nihilism, crystals, the philosophy of Malcolm X, and protests against environmental crimes. A young Latter-day Saint might draw inspiration from “The Pearl of Great Price,” tarot cards, and meditation.

One thing that is clear: The goal for faith leaders is to stay in the conversation with young people for as long as possible. They are exploring everything, asking questions constantly and looking for guidance, but they're not going to accept a pre-made faith or religious system.

Like a spiral, young people are resisting closed systems of meaning – even religious systems spanning thousands of years – for something more free flowing, organic, and authentic. However, just because many aren’t accepting the whole “bundle” of rituals, practices, and beliefs that religious institutions offer, that doesn’t mean they don’t need the guidance and care of faith leaders in their lives. Leaders who make room for curiosity, wholeness, connection, and flexibility in the lives of young people can be the kind of guides young people trust and turn to in times of uncertainty, or whenever they’re facing life’s biggest questions.

Dr. Josh Packard

Dr. Josh Packard is Executive Director of Springtide Research Institute, which maintains the largest dataset on young people and their spirituality in the U.S. Josh has a doctorate in sociology from Vanderbilt and he’s the author of several books including *Meaning Making: 8 Values that Drive America’s Newest Generations* (2020), *Church Refugees: Why People are Done with Church but Not their Faith* (2015), and *Stuck:* *Why Clergy Are Alienated from Their Calling, Congregation, and Career ... and What to Do about It* (2022).

Join us for Enfleshing Witness 2022, a free, virtual event featuring Jeff Chu, Kirk Whalum, Kim Jackson, and others.

Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.

Rev. Mihee Kim-Kort 4/25/22 Rev. Mihee Kim-Kort 4/25/22

I'm Still Waiting on the Resurrection

I know, Easter was just last week, a few days ago, in fact. The brass and fanfare, the choruses and lilies, all of it gave me that familiar jolt. The flowers from the sanctuary are still bright and cheery in the homes of church members. Echoes of trumpets and bells still ring in my ear. I was momentarily resuscitated by the promise of life persisting despite death's clutches. The resurrection as the tenacity of joy, the irresistible power and work of love. The embodiment of hope. I was caught up in it all, humming Handel's tunes all day on Easter Monday. And all around I could feel it. The weather starting to finally turn and the wind blowing sighs of relief throughout the streets. The trees laughing and flowering while crocuses stretch to the sky like children after they wake from a bizarre and rare lengthy sleep. The tomb is empty.

But, I still feel empty, too. The world feels heavy with the lingering scent of Good Friday, the darkness, the persistent shattering of the earth beneath, lives and livelihood in pieces on streets, the weeping from despair and sorrow echoes not too far off. Dreams like smoke and ashes curling up to the sky. There’s no need to provide a litany of circumstances and petitions because we all see, hear, and feel the litanies in our bones from the moment the sun greets us in the morning.

There was a time not too long ago when every day I wondered about the life in front of me–all the possibilities and projects strewn about like the children's blocks and Legos and puzzle pieces. It felt paralyzing, sometimes. I wanted to get a ShopVac and clear it all away, and then sit on a bench in a park somewhere and just stare at the sky. But, no. There was always work to do, and responsibilities, and lunches to pack, and appointments to make, and play dates to arrange, and permission slips to sign, and where were their rain boots? Because it was raining. Those days were dark once again.

So I would drive around in a little bit of a haze knowing that just beyond the rain, the sun and heat would scorch the earth. And yes, for sure, though I longed for that heat, I would curse the humidity. As I maneuvered around town, I would catch a glimpse of someone in a dingy camouflage jacket and orange cap late at night pushing a shopping cart full of black garbage bags down Walnut Street. The Interfaith Winter Shelter would be done for the season at that point but it felt like winter hadn’t let go quite yet. I wondered where he would sleep that night.

After another excruciating attempt at putting my children down for sleep–constant negotiations and the never ending requests for one more apple or one more cup of water or one more story or one more back rub or one more song–I collapsed in bed myself. I glanced at the clock to see it was only 9:30 pm. I would get up one more time to check on them because I loved the way they looked when they slept. Desmond slept balled up–his body curled and blankets already twisted around and under him as if he had a brief wrestling match with the sheets just before he gave in to sleep. Like Jacob wrestling those nighttime angels except Desmond would wrestle them because he'd assume they stole his superhero figures. He is extra vigilant about them at night. Oz would be asleep on his side with his mouth open slightly. Cheeks puffed out, and I saw those baby days slipping away too quickly. He tried to grow up as fast as possible so that he could keep up with the twins. He was practically there. Anna slept on her back with her arms wide open, a posture perfectly expressive of her personality. She takes in the whole world with her whole self. I would wait to see their chests rise and fall, and to hear their breathing, and even to see if their eyes would flutter open a little only for a second.

As I remember all this, I look through the lectionary texts of the Easter season. Each time I feel a momentary burst of light as though the clouds have moved aside and I'm awash in a warmth that tells me that summer, and what is good and right, really is right around the corner. But I also feel the angst of the disciples locked in rooms trying to make sense of the sightings of Jesus. Like they’re holding their breath. Like they’re trying to take inventory of the past few days, the past few years, and make everything match up. Like they’re remembering what it was like to be asleep before Jesus came along.

I wonder if each time they see him and touch his wounds if it feels like a reminder of that sun hidden behind the gray. So, like them I want to go back to the former life, what makes sense, and what my mind and body naturally do when I'm trying to sort it all out, fishing for anything that might make sense, but when I pull up the nets they're empty. The tomb is empty.

I'm waiting on the resurrection. It's only the beginning of the Easter season but the lilies will soon start to wilt and the hallelujahs will fade away. The people are whispering again, Is he really the Messiah? And I am mouthing the same questions, too, even as Jesus responds, I'm here. I've got you. The day after began less than a week ago but it stretches into the horizon. Still, I think I see the dawn. Though I barely feel the rays beginning to brush my skin, it is enough. It's enough to keep my heart and arms open, waiting and hoping.

"True spirituality is about keeping your heart space open. It is daily, constant work. The temptation is to close down: to judge and dismiss and hate and fear. If you don't have some spiritual practice that keeps your heart open, even in the midst of suffering and 'hell,' it's easy to end up grumpy and filled with fear and negativity. You have to work to live in love, to have a generosity of spirit, a readiness to smile, a willingness to serve. Regularly check in with yourself, asking, 'Is my heart open? Is love flowing from me? Or am I constricted?'”
- Richard Rohr

Rev. Mihee Kim-Kort

Mihee Kim-Kort is a Presbyterian (PCUSA) minister, speaker, writer, and slinger of hopeful stories about faith and church. Her writing and commentary can be found at the New York Times, TIME, BBC World Service, USA Today, Huffington Post, Christian Century, On Being, Sojourners, and Faith & Leadership. She is co-pastor with her spouse of First Presbyerian Church in Annapolis, MD and a 4th year PhD student in Religious Studies at Indiana University.
Twitter | @miheekimkort
Instagram | @mkimkort
Website | mkimkort.com

Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.

Rev. Gail Bach 3/31/22 Rev. Gail Bach 3/31/22

Rattled By Doubt

We’d like to share a recent sermon by one of our Church Anew Team Members, Pastor Gail Bach, who gave this sermon on being rattled by doubt on March 13, 2022. We hope it resonates with you today.

I have doubts

Let me begin this morning by being clear about something. I have doubts. Not about everything and not all of the time, but I have doubts.

Sometimes I have doubts about my abilities as a mother or wife. Sometimes I have doubts about the decisions I make.

But my doubts aren’t just about me. I have doubts about other things too. Doubts about things going on in this world. Doubts about what the future holds for next generation.

And to be totally honest, I sometimes have doubts about faith. The unanswered questions, all the hurt and brokenness and evil things happening, the why’s of this world and wondering where is God in the midst of it.

Now please don’t misunderstand me. For as much as I know I have doubts, I also have faith. I see the good in life. I have hope. And I’m pretty sure God understands my questioning. Who doesn’t question these things once in a while, right?

Doubt is nothing new

Our topic for today is “doubt” and I think there are a few things – hopefully helpful things – we can take away from some reflections about doubt.

First of all, let’s acknowledge that doubt is not a 20th or 21st-century phenomenon. Doubt goes way back. Remember Abraham and Sarah and how they doubted God’s promise that they would have a child? They were old! Sarah even laughed at God for suggesting such a thing.

And Job. His suffering was so great that he doubted that God really loved him.

And the disciples who wouldn’t take the women’s word for it when they reported that the tomb where they all had laid Jesus a couple days earlier was now empty. And Thomas – doubting Thomas - who had to see Jesus’ scars with his own eyes before he would believe that Jesus was alive.

The Bible is full of stories of people, good people, faithful people, who had doubts.

Fast forward many centuries to Martin Luther, firm as he stood on his beliefs about faith, he also struggled with doubt.

Even Mother Teresa, a modern-day saint, wrote how she struggled with doubt for decades.

Doubt is not a new thing – nor is it something only in the past. We all have a little doubt in us. Even with all of our advancements in technology, science and higher learning, we have doubts.

We still wonder why we can’t find a cure for cancer. We sometimes doubt the wisdom of decisions made by city planners, businesses or world leaders. The experience of a tragedy, suffering or grief can understandably be a trigger for doubt. We have doubts. It’s human nature to have doubts.

And doubt can make us uncomfortable. Doubt rattles us because when we doubt we can lose our footing. We’re unsure about which direction to take – it can make us feel like we’re walking in the dark. We don’t like how that feels. Yet we don’t talk about our doubts because we’re afraid of what others might think or say.

Doubt vs. certainty

I’ve heard people say that having doubts – especially doubts about our faith – is not a good thing. That it can harm one’s faith, or worse yet, destroy it. Doubt has been described as the enemy of faith. I beg to differ… here’s why.

I believe that the enemy of faith isn’t doubt. It’s certainty.

Doubt can prod us to explore the things that cause us to doubt – and to learn and grow from that.

Certainty closes the door to other ideas which inhibits our ability to grow.

Doubt helps us see that sometimes we might be wrong or that there is more than one way to look at a problem.

Certainty just says ‘no, there’s only one way.’

Doubt reveals our vulnerability.

Certainty has too much of an ego to let that happen.

Doubt encourages us to question why.

Certainty refuses to ask questions and tells us to move on – and it’s when we stop asking questions that the real enemy of faith can do some damage.

We believe and we doubt

You see, it’s not that we have doubts that’s the issue here. It’s what we do with our doubts that deserves our attention.

Having doubts is not a barrier to God loving us or healing us or working in and through us. What God wants is for us to bring our doubts into our relationship with God.

God would prefer our doubting and worshiping over our being certain and going it alone.

God would prefer our doubting and serving over our ignoring the needs of others.

God would prefer our doubting and questioning over our thinking we have all the answers and thus have no need for God.

Doubt isn’t the opposite of faith. It is a part of it. It is an element of faith, and a very important one at that.

Faith and doubt are wound together within us working together to help us grow. And so we believe and we doubt.

In the passages leading up to our Gospel story today, Peter, James and John have just had a mountaintop experience with Jesus. It’s Mark’s version of the Transfiguration story. While they are on this mountain, both Elijah and Moses appeared and they speak with Jesus … and then God speaks, “This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!”

If the disciples had any doubt as to who Jesus is, this experience should have changed that. For Mark, the scene is over as quickly as it began and the disciples head back down the mountain with Jesus. They had to quite literally be “flying high” from all they had witnessed while up there.

But things quickly turned from elation to chaos as they met up with the rest of the disciples. Whatever had happened, it couldn’t have been good because they were standing in the middle of a large crowd, arguing with some of the scribes.

When Jesus asked what they were arguing about, a man’s voice rises above the noise. It was filled with fear and panic as he responded to Jesus’ question. “Teacher,” he says, “it’s my son. He has a demon in him.”

Now the disciples are rattled because they had tried to help the boy. They had done everything Jesus taught them to help him, but nothing worked, and so they are doubting themselves and wondering, what did we do wrong?

The father asks Jesus to heal his son, but he has doubts of his own. He isn’t sure Jesus can help him either, so he hedges his request.

“If you are able,” he says. “If you are able to do anything at all, please help us.”

Jesus is a little insulted. “What do you mean ‘if you are able?’ Don’t you know that anything is possible for those who believe.”

And to this, the father replies, “I believe; help my unbelief.”

Jesus heals the boy. Perfect faith is not required in order for the boy to be healed. It’s not that the father’s faith was tied to a set of beliefs or doctrines. He didn’t recite a specific creed or statement.

It’s not that the Father had no doubt in his faith, it was whether or not he believed. He acknowledged his lack of faith, but he didn’t let that stop him from trusting Jesus with his son’s life.

It’s not that he had doubts that was the issue here. It’s how he dealt with them that was important.

Faith as trust

Faith is not simply acknowledging a set of beliefs. At its core, faith puts trust in a person – in Jesus. In this story, belief is portrayed as a matter of trust: trust in the power of God to transform a situation that seemed hopeless by human standards.

When you trust, you are willing to take risks, even when you doubt. They could be small risks or they could be big one, but you are willing to go there.

On the farm where I grew up, there was a field on what we called “the 40” where the only way to get to it was by crossing a bridge. The bridge was narrow and constructed out of a single culvert packed with dirt around it. There was always risk that after a hard rain, some of the dirt would have washed away or the edges would be too soft to handle much weight.

Every year my dad would ever so slowly and carefully cross that bridge with tractors, wagons, planter, cultivators and – of course – the combine. And I would hold my breath every time I watched him cross that bridge. If dad didn’t line up the wheels of his tractors and combines just right, there was a chance a tire could slip off the side of the bridge.

For many years - I was scared to death to cross that bridge. I had doubts about its safety. So for a long time, the rattling of fear and doubt would get the best of me and the only way I crossed that bridge was to walk. But I have to say, it bothered me that I couldn’t take that risk. While I wrestled with those doubts for a long time, I eventually accepted the idea that someone else might know more about that bridge than I did – and I drove across that bridge myself.

I still get a little rattled thinking about it, but it was that feeling of doubt that also spurred me on to take the risk and get across that bridge.

Freeze or free

Sometimes doubt freezes us. Sometimes it frees us. Doubt doesn’t ignore a fear or uncertainty. Doubt engages it. Questioning is not turning our back on faith, but thinking about it. In fact, I would suggest that doubt is a sign that our faith is alive and doing its work in us.

When something doesn’t align with our faith, doubt urges us to do some work to understand why. When we acknowledge our doubts and wrestle with them, it can ultimately strengthen our faith rather than weaken it. Our wrestling won’t always bring us to the answer we are looking for and sometimes the answers are hidden in God’s silence, but faith trusts that that is O.K. too.

God has revealed some things to us, and God has chosen not to reveal other things. And so we need to be comfortable in places of doubt – places of not knowing, trusting that God is at work. We have said many times, we don’t know God’s timing so we will have to trust in the sometimes slow work of God.

We are naturally impatient. We don’t like going through difficult times, narrow bridges or periods of silence for answers because they too make us a little uncomfortable and discomfort creates doubt. But doubt is to faith what silence is to music.

As we gather in worship, those silent times are a sign that something is about to happen. The organ is about to play or the choir is about to sing. Our noisy and rattled bodies are about to be quieted or comforted.

What would music be without the rest, without syncopated rhythm, without time to take a breath between one series of measures and another. Without the space created by silence, the music would lose an element of its beauty – and our rattled state would not find peace.

What seems like a negation is actually a necessity.

What makes us a little uncomfortable makes us ready for the next movement to begin.

Doubt is to faith what silence is to music. It helps us to anticipate and get ready for something we need or long for.

A faltering, fumbling, and struggling faith is enough

The response of the father in our Gospel text this morning encourages us to explore the interplay of faith and doubt, belief and unbelief. While it is nice to imagine that we ourselves are full of faith, and that our churches are filled with people who never experience doubt, the reality is that most of us have the tentative faith of the father in our story.

Yet this father is celebrated for acknowledging the mixing together of belief and doubt in his own life. Standing in front of Jesus, with his own child suffering from possession by a demon that threatens the child’s life, this man was willing to announce both his belief and unbelief.

This child’s circumstances, in many ways reflects the difficulties faced by Jesus’ disciples, who longed to make a difference in the world – yet who would also get rattled when the footings of their foundation shook.

We get rattled when that happens to us too. But our doubts stir in us a passion to go forward – to be bold – to find a way to hang in there and to take risks.

The events of the past couple of years, and more recently in the past couple of weeks, from the injustices to the endless pandemic and now the invasion by Russia into Ukraine, these events certainly have done their best to plant seeds of doubt in our minds. And like the disciples, we wonder what went wrong. We want to make things better. Yet it feels like the wounds are too deep and the brokenness far bigger than our efforts can take on. You can’t go through a piling on of events like these and not have questions of why and how long and “where are you God…?”

According to Mark, the answer is prayer. But that doesn’t mean that if only the disciples had remembered to pray first, they could have expelled the demon. Prayer doesn’t function as a magic formula, always giving us the desired result. Jesus says, all things “can be done,” but we know that for reasons we don’t understand, all things are NOT done – at least not in the ways we want.

Sometimes healing does not occur. Sometimes prayers seem to go unanswered.

But what prayer does do is point us back to God. Prayer is an expression of faith, giving voice to our doubts and our need for God.

In prayer, we cease looking at ourselves and look instead to God. In this, the father proves himself a model of faithful discipleship and his story brings good news to those who struggle with doubt: a faltering, fumbling, and struggling faith is enough, for God carries us the rest of the way.

We don’t have all the answers, and in some cases, any answers at all. We do get rattled and are often uncertain. And what we do have are doubts. Having doubts is not the problem. It’s what we do with them. And so as our doubts and our faith work together to stir in us and through us, we will trust that God is there, calling us to let our doubts do their work.

This week I invite you to write down one question – one thing you wonder about – and then tuck that little piece of paper into your wallet or purse. Carry it with you, reminding you that you have doubts, and inviting you to think about what you will do with them, how you will respond to them and how you live with them. Because it’s finally what we do with our doubts that matter.

Amen!

Rev. Gail Bach

Pastor Gail is a graduate of Augsburg College with a major in accounting and worked in the corporate world before joining the staff of St. Andrew, overseeing the business side of the church. It didn’t take long to feel the pull to ordained ministry and after 9 years of attending seminary part-time Gail became the Pastor of Stewardship and Evangelism at St. Andrew. Gail and her husband Jim have two grown children and a golden retriever. They enjoy spending time outdoors fishing, walking in the woods, and doing a little golfing. When it’s cold or raining, Gail enjoys cozying up to the fire and doing a little cross-stitch.

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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.

Bishop Michael Curry 3/22/22 Bishop Michael Curry 3/22/22

Give Me Jesus! (Welcome Back To A Crazy World)

The following is a transcript of the sermon of Presiding Bishop Michael Curry at the House of Bishops of The Episcopal Church, meeting in retreat at Camp Allen, Navasota, Texas, through March 21. These remarks have been lightly edited for clarity.

Welcome Back

In the name of our loving, liberating and life-giving God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

Some of y’all remember the TV show “Welcome Back, Kotter”? Welcome back, Kotter. Welcome, bishops. Welcome back, in person. It feels like a modified exile. And in one sense, I suppose it has been. COVID, racial reckoning, an attempted overthrow of the government of the United States. And now a world that hasn’t been this close to self-destruction since the Cuban missile crisis. But welcome back anyway.

So when I saw the lessons that had been appointed—because I love lectionaries. You can love in a dialectical sort of way. When I saw the lessons that were appointed for today, I said, “Those are good lessons.” But I think I heard the Spirit, maybe. I won’t blame it on the Spirit. Something said, “I got another text for you.” And this is a welcome back text. Words of Jesus found in the 11th chapter of Matthew:

“Come unto me all ye who are weary and heavy laden and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for my yoke is easy.” It’ll fit, because my burden is light.

Come unto me, all ye who were bishops before this pandemic, and all ye, [inaudible] bishops who were consecrated during the pandemic. Come unto me, all ye who have been consecrated since then and all who soon will be. Come unto me, Episcopal Church. Come unto me, people who follow in my way and claim the name Christian. Come unto me whosoever will, who are weary, tired, beaten down, worn out, COVID crazy, right? Come unto me, all ye who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.

Take my yoke. Instead of the yoke that’s imposed on you from this world, take my yoke and learn from me. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is not slavery. It’s freedom.

An old spiritual said it this way, “In the morning when I rise, in the morning when I rise, in the morning when I rise, give me Jesus. When it’s time for me to die, when it’s time for me to die, when it’s time for me to die, just give me Jesus. Give me Jesus. Give me Jesus. You can have all this world. Just give me Jesus” (paraphrased). Come unto me, he said. Or as he would’ve said in south of Judah, y’all come. Come.

All we got was Jesus

That spiritual, you can have all the world, give me Jesus, I’ve known it all my life. It’s kind of like the Lord’s prayer. I don’t remember when I didn’t know it. And I think I know it because it tended to get sung at family funerals, at least at the Baptist side of my family. Not at the Episcopal side. Those funerals were so short, they’re not memorable, but anyway, oops.

But in the Baptist side of my family, the Pentecostal Holiness side of my family, that was always sung. You can have all this world, give me Jesus. I suspect that’s where I heard it, but I remember at one particular funeral—this would’ve been the summer of 1969, I believe. The funeral had been at 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, where my Aunt Callie taught Sunday school. And she had gone on the glory, and so the whole family trucked to Birmingham for a funeral. And then we buried her out in the country and came back to Birmingham for the family repast after the funeral.

I don’t know if y’all’s families are like this. I don’t know if this is an ethnic thing or not. I have no idea. But usually the repast is the time folk tell stories, and that’s what people do at funerals anyway. They tell stories and lies, and usually critique the preacher. Because sometimes the preachers will preach folk into heaven and say, “Oh, so and so, oh, he was a saint. He was a…” And we say, “You know, we loved uncle so and so, but we knew him. He wasn’t no saint now.”

But anyway, folk would come back. And then in my family, on my father’s side, folk, they would debate politics, and sports, and the Bible. On this one occasion, this was 1968, the summer of ‘68, Dr. King had been assassinated. Bobby Kennedy had been assassinated. Medgar Evers. Viola Liuzzo. John Kennedy, a president. And one of my cousins got in a debate, a polite debate, because in those day you didn’t talk back to the elders. A polite debate with one of my uncles who was a preacher, Baptist preacher. And he said, “You know, I’m tired of hearing folks sing that song, ‘You can have all this world, just give me Jesus.’” And he said, “That’s exactly what our folk got. We’ve been singing that song. You can have all this world, and somebody else got the world and all we got was Jesus.”

And I don’t remember how the debate ended, but needless to say, my uncle was not pleased. But it was like what Desmond Tutu said about Southern Africa, he said, “When the missionaries came, they had the Bible and we had the land. Next thing we knew, we had the Bible, and they had the land.” Something was wrong with that deal. We love the Bible, but how about Bible and land?

My cousin had a point, that religion sometimes can be an opiate of the people. It can be twisted and distorted and misused to a narcotic, to keep people from rising up and claiming their God-given rights and human dignity. Although it has been used before, but I believe that old song has a deeper wisdom. “You can have all this world, just give me Jesus.” See, don’t underestimate the power of that which is authentically spiritual. Because if it is authentically of the spirit, it is of God. Don’t underestimate that. It may take its time. As the old preachers say, “It may not be on your time.” It may not happen on my time, but when God’s will is done on earth, as it is in heaven, it is always on time.

The power of hope

Don’t underestimate the power of hope. Dante warned us, “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here,” over the gates of hell. Don’t underestimate the power of faith. Don’t underestimate the power of love. Don’t underestimate the spiritual. People who believe. People got God. They will make it against all the odds. If you don’t believe me, ask the folk of Ukraine. Help me, somebody. Mary Glasspool gave this to me right before the Eucharist. It is a candle, adorned. She got it from a Ukrainian shop in New York. Don’t, Putin, oh, I’m going to get in trouble. I know I’m going to get in trouble with what I’m about to say. Putin may overrun the country, but he will not defeat the people of Ukraine. He will not. Spirit will always win over flesh. It may not be in the forecast time, but it’s real.

In 1853, Theodore Parker, an abolitionist, when it looked like slavery would never end in this country, said, and I quote, “I do not pretend to understand the moral universe. The arc seems to be a long one, but from what I can see it bends toward justice.” Dr. King shortened it and said, “The moral arc of the universe is long, but it is bent toward justice.” Not because of some metaphysical magic, but because there is a God. And if there is a God, then there is hope. If there is a God, then there can be faith. And if there is a God, as my Bible says, who is love, then in the end, no matter what we have to go through now, in the end, love is going to win. If there’s a God, love is going to win.

Pray for Ukraine. Don’t give up on them. Do other things, send money to the refugees—Episcopal Relief & Development is working with other Christian groups in Hungary and in Eastern Europe. So get folk to send money. This is a commercial. Am I on TV somewhere here? Get the money to Episcopal Relief & Development. And there may be other things we can do, but do not abandon them without prayer. Pray. Pray for Ukraine. Pray for Russia. Pray for Putin, that unlike Pharaoh his hardened heart may be turned.

And if it doesn’t turn, pray for the leaders of the nations, that they will have moral courage, spiritual wisdom to do what is right, to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with our God. Don’t abandon prayer now. Pray for the children of Ukraine. I love, I got to tell this, I have fallen in love with the people of Ukraine. First of all, they cuss better than anybody else I have … I mean, they have invented some cussing that wasn’t there. They are incredible. I can’t say some of the words that they … There was a group of little old ladies who looked like a prayer group on CNN, and they asked them, “What do you think of Putin?” And I think it was “glossolalia,” some unknown tongue, because they got to cussing and saying all sorts of stuff.

But these are remarkable people. Their spirit, they just want to free. They just want to be free. And the truth of the matter is, Thomas Jefferson, he had his issues like the lesson that we just had from Matthew 23, where Jesus said, “Do what the scribes and pharisees say, don’t do what they do.” When it comes to Thomas Jefferson, don’t do what he did, but he was right: “We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men”—all people—”are created equal.” Thomas Jefferson said the God who gave us life, gave us liberty at the same time. And that is true for everybody. The people of Ukraine just want to be free.

He made us all to be free

I’m not going to talk long this morning, but I ain’t seen y’all in person in a long time. You don’t know. You have no idea how glad I am to see you all. You have no idea. Oh, dear Lord. I remember this would’ve been, well, probably 1960, and I went to the movie with my daddy. And we went to see “Exodus.” It was based on Leon Uris’ book, “Exodus.” And now we understand that’s a complex story, more complex than we understood in 1960. I understand all of that, so don’t go political on me right now. But it is the story of people seeking freedom.

At the end of the movie, we went out and daddy just blurted out—it was really fascinating now that I think about it—he just said, “The Lord didn’t make anybody to be under anybody’s boot. He made us all to be free.” All of us. He was right. He made the people of Ukraine to be free. Not free for licentiousness, but free to be all that God intends for us to be. But freedom, stay with me, freedom is a spiritual reality. You see where I’m going now? Don’t underestimate the power for freedom, said St. Paul. “Christ has set us free. Stand fast and do not accept the yoke of slavery again.” That’s St. Paul. That’s in the Bible. And it ain’t just talking about personal sin. It’s talking about that, but it’s talking about for freedom, Christ has set us free.

Those slaves used to sing a spiritual. It said, “Oh, freedom. Oh, freedom. Oh, freedom over me. And before I’ll be a slave, I’ll be buried in my grave and go home to my Lord and be free.”

Did you catch that? Somebody who is legally chattel property, somebody who by every political socioeconomic reality of this world—stay with me—is a slave, declaring, “I’m not a slave. Before I’ll be a slave, I’ll be buried in my grave and go home to my Lord and be free.” Oh, this spiritual thing, this business we are, this is powerful stuff. It can set the captive free, even when the world would enslave. Jesus says, “Come unto me. Come unto me, all ye who are weary and heavy laden.”

I don’t know if it’s just because I’m 69, but I’m not lying. I’m tired. But I’m feeling good this morning because I see you all. Yeah, we’re all kind of tired. And folk in church, I call it COVID crazy. Everybody’s a little bit on edge and folk acting out in ways that… Have you noticed a pattern? Yeah, I don’t know if it’s just Christian COVID crazy or if it’s human COVID crazy. And I got to go to the meeting with the primates of the Anglican communion right after this meeting . . . I don’t know what to expect in that, but I’m looking forward to a great, getting-up morning. But nonetheless, I mean the truth is everybody, there is a weariness, and you have been frontline folk even on Zoom. And our clergy have been frontline folk. And they’re tired. And the world is giving us no rest.

Jesus says, come unto me all who are weary, heaven laden and beaten down by the realities of this world. Take my yoke. Take my way of life and love. Take what I’m trying to teach you. Take my yoke upon you. Learn from me. Don’t you know? Oh, Cynthia Bourgeault is coming. You all got to know Jesus is Sophia’s child. “Learn from me for my yoke is easy.” That Greek, where it doesn’t mean it’s easy. What was that? “Ease on down, ease on down the road” (singing). This is not that. No. Easy means it fits. It was made for you. My yoke is easy. It was made to make human life human as God dreamed and intended. It fits. My yoke is easy, and my burden is light. And you will find rest. Did you catch this? Rest. God’s eternal Sabbath rest for your soul.

I read [Walter] Brueggemann’s book, “Sabbath as Resistance,” or at least most of the part I could understand. Rob Wright turned me on to Brueggemann. He understands it. Lot of times I just go, that’s deep. I don’t know what he was talking about, but it’s deep. But at one point, the one part I did understand was when Brueggemann said, “When God rested on the Sabbath, the seventh day, it is rest in one sense. But, it also means that everything,” stay with me, I’m coming at something, “is in its right relationship and proportion. It is as God intended it to be.” That’s when everything is at rest and God saw after the Sabbath was made, everything that God had made, including Sabbath rest. And God said, “Oh, that is showing off good.” Or as George Jefferson used to say, you all remember “The Jeffersons”? When George did something right, he used to pat himself on the back and say, “Good one, George.”

God kind of said, “This is a good one.” When the world is the way I intended it to be. When all things are consistent with the created order. When love is the law of the creation. When the creation is cared for. When there’s room for all of God’s children. And God rested and said, “It is good.” Oh, you can have all this world. You all see this? Is this making some sense? Just give me Jesus. Well, I’m really going to bring this home. I really am now.

Legality giving way to love

As many of you know, this past January, Dr. Charles Willie, who served at one time as the vice president of the House of Deputies in the 1970s, and who was, oh yeah, you know him well, yeah. I mean, Jennifer (Baskerville-Burrows) would know him from Syracuse, from Grace Church. But Dr. Charles Willie, who was a lifelong Episcopalian from Dallas, Texas, he died and entered life eternal in January. And that has been the case with many who have gone on to glory during the COVID pandemic; funerals are delayed. And so I got a note, an email from Byron Rushing, our current vice president of the House of Deputies, just Sunday, saying that the family’s having a memorial service for him this coming Saturday, in light of the fact that the omicron spread was happening in January.

When I got that note from Byron, I thought about Dr. Willie, and remembered that he was an African American child born and reared here in Texas a long time ago. His mama was a teacher, but not allowed to teach in the public schools because of Jim Crow. Daddy was a Pullman car porter. My granddaddy was a Pullman porter. Went with A. Philip Randolph to the march on Washington in the ‘40s. I wish I had asked him when I was a little kid, what was all that like? Dr. Willie was, Arthur Williams would know Dr. Willie, was a great person, committed Episcopalian, lifelong. He was somebody who devised these segregation plans that were used in a number of cities in this country that actually worked. He was a sociologist who challenged the prevailing notions about the inadequacies of the Black family. And he statistically verified that frankly, that the survival of the Black family was a miracle. A miracle. He was a remarkable guy, not only in his career as an academician, but in his churchmanship and his commitment to Jesus Christ and his church.

He became the vice president of the House of Deputies. And Byron Rushing, in an article, said this, “Black Episcopalians were both proud of Chuck being elected first African American to the Executive Council and vice president of the House of Deputies.” They were so proud because you cannot imagine and cannot overemphasize how racially segregated The Episcopal Church was before the 1970s. It was a stunning reality. Dr. Willie believed that God made all people equal. He believed that the “imago Dei,” the image of God that is conferred upon every human being, is a conferral of infinite value and worth of every human child of God. And that imago Dei is equally distributed upon everybody. Nobody’s got a little bit more of imago Dei than anybody else. Nobody got no more superiority of that imago Dei than anybody else. This is God’s image. This is God’s likeness. This is the God who is love, conferring his dignity and words on every human child of God. And Dr. Willie came to believe that if this was true for his African American community, this must be true for everybody.

And in 1974, he preached at the ordination of the Philadelphia 11. And when the House of Bishops spoke against him, I know I’m getting in trouble, but I’m 69 now. When the House spoke—and we respect people’s opinions, don’t misunderstand me, please—the voices and the chorus against him, and the tide turned against him. And he found himself receiving criticism from Blacks and whites alike. Black folk were upset because he could have been the first Black president of the House of Deputies. And others had their reasons.

But he believed in it, in the God who is love and who is an equal opportunity lover. And so he resigned as vice president of the House of Deputies. And this is what he said to explain this decision, and I quote, “An officer is a servant of the people who attend to the collective life and the rules and regulations developed by that community or association for its life. Either I had to enforce sexist laws, or I had to get the church to change them, or I had to resign as vice president of the House of Deputies. It was the only path of integrity.” And then listen to this: “I could not act like Pilate and do what I knew was wrong. I could not segregate, alienate, and discriminate against women simply because it was legal to do this and yet somehow claim to be acting in love. When that which is legal and that which is loving are in contention, legality must give way to love. I decided not to be Pontius Pilate.”

That, my friends, is a profile in courage. That, my friends, is someone who chose Jesus and not the way of the world. And don’t misunderstand me. Courage comes in conservative stripes as well as liberal ones. Courage comes in all colors. Courage comes in all kinds. Courage comes in all shapes.

For all who have been baptized into Christ and put on Christ, and there is no more slave or free. There is no more male or female. There is no more Jew or Greek, for all are one in Christ. And those who are in Christ, they shall wait upon the Lord. They shall mount up on wings like eagles. They shall run and not be weary. They shall walk and they will not faint. Come unto me, all ye who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.

(singing)

“You can have all this world,
Give me Jesus!

In the morning when I rise,
In the morning when I rise,
In the morning when I rise,

Give me Jesus!
Give me Jesus!
Give me Jesus!
You can have all this world,
Give me Jesus!”

Welcome back.

Amen.

Shared with permission by the Office of the Right Reverend Michael B. Curry, The Episcopal Church, in its entirety. The Most Rev. Michael Curry is the presiding bishop of the Episcopal Church and the author of the book "Love Is the Way: Holding On to Hope in Troubling Times".

Bishop Michael Curry

The Most Rev. Michael B. Curry is Presiding Bishop and Primate of The Episcopal Church. He is the Chief Pastor and serves as President and Chief Executive Officer, and as Chair of the Executive Council of The Episcopal Church.

Facebook | @PBMBCurry
Twitter | @BishopCurry
Twitter | @episcopalchurch
Facebook | @episcopalian

We know how hard it is to find a Bible study that can be used easily in any context. Our premise is simple: Ignite curiosity in the Bible through generous invitation, fresh witness, and breathtaking video. Download episode 1 for free and see what it’s all about.

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Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.

Church Anew 3/17/22 Church Anew 3/17/22

One Year Later: Violence Against Asian Americans

Responding to the mass murder in Atlanta, Georgia, on Marcy 16, 2021 Church Anew invited our network of contributors to respond with biblical reflections, calls to action, and laments. We repost these words from visionaries one year later to provide witness for your proclamation and action. We join in solidarity, grief, and commitment as the families of victims and the nation mourn lives lost: Xiaojie Tan, Delaina Ashley Yaun Gonzalez, Daoyou Feng, Paul Andre Michels, Soon Chung Park, Hyun-Jung Grant, Yong Ae Yue, Suncha Kim.

I’m a Scholar of Religion. Here’s What I See in the Atlanta Shootings.

By Rev. Mihee Kim-Kort

To move through this world as an Asian who is American is to exist under the gaze of white supremacy. In other words, we have to constantly give an accounting of ourselves to justify and explain why we are here.

So we learned early on the name of the alleged murderer. We learned that he is white. We learned that he is a Southern Baptist, but not his motivation. Was it racism? Was it deep-rooted misogyny? Was it a fetishization of Asian women in particular? Was it toxic theology — an extreme fear of God and an equally extreme self-loathing?

As a Korean-born woman, a Presbyterian minister, a scholar of religion and a child of both church culture and American culture, I have asked the same questions and can only conclude: It is all of the above. Race, gender, religion and culture are all implicated.

Evangelical Masculinity and Atlanta

By Dr. Greg Carey

Few White men, particularly those of us with deep experience in the evangelical world, have testified to this reality in our own experience. Predictably, many White evangelicals spoke out to condemn the murders and deny a link between their teachings and this tragedy. I am sure most of them believed their denials. I am sure the denials of White evangelical racism were more important to them than were the condemnations.

My own experience as a White, formerly evangelical, man reinforces my suspicion that the details of this atrocity have lots to do with White evangelical culture, especially Southern White evangelical culture and its masculinity codes.

The Creator Delights in Diversity

By Dr. John Thatamanil

We who are subjected to hatred and dehumanization face a great and horrible danger that we may come to doubt our worth, our own preciousness. My dear siblings, I pray that not a one of us will surrender to this temptation. You, I, each and every one of us, is an embodiment of the Beloved’s creative passion for diversity.

Invisibility Is No Longer an Option

By Dr. Mary Foskett

The Church needs to answer the commandment to love thy neighbor and join the effort. It needs to exorcise the theologies that fuel white supremacy, learn how to intervene when anti-Asian harassment or violence is unfolding, and take on systemic racism in all its forms. It needs to finally recognize the full humanity of all persons of Asian descent.

White Supremacy the Deadly Fantasy: Sermon on the Mount in the Shadow of the Atlanta Murders

By Rev. Dr. Sze-kar Wan

It’s pointless to debate if the Atlanta shooter was driven to mass murder by a self-professed sex addiction or by racism. Both issue from white supremacy. We don’t need legal jargons to tell us this is an anti-Asian hate crime. We just know it. From experience and from history.

When Religion, Sex, and Race Breed Violence

By Dr. Ekaputra Tupamahu

In the ecclesial context, this Sunday many preachers and pastors are going to stand behind their pulpits to preach. What will they preach? Will they address the anti-Asian racism happening all around them? Any work — any sermon — that addresses and tries to combat such anti-Asian hatred simply must take on the intersectionality of race, sex, and religion. Will you?

Must Someone Die Before We’re Visible?: Myths and Hot Takes

By Dr. Sam Tsang

When Asian Americans warned our society that something terrible was happening to us, everyone including the news media dismissed our claims, rendering our suffering invisible. Why does it take a mass shooting of our people to raise any kind of awareness?

How Much Hate to Make a Hate Crime?

By Rev. Angela Denker

How could it be that this good, “church boy,” would turn into a killer? We would call him a “lone wolf.” We’d wonder about mental illness, about family trouble. We’d tell Long’s story as an individual, rather than explore his place in a pantheon of angry, white, male, conservative, Christian mass shooters.

A Lenten Lament on Violence Against Asian Americans

By Dr. Deanna Thompson

The importance for communities of faith to heed these calls has only grown more urgent since the racially motivated murders in Atlanta. As we reflect on this week’s tragedy, let us stand in solidarity with the Asian American, Pan Asian, and Pacific Islander communities and seize on this season of Lent to repent our individual and collective complicity in systems of violence.

Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.

Jessica Gulseth 3/14/22 Jessica Gulseth 3/14/22

Lenten Devotion - Scripture Study as Spiritual Practice

1. Endure and Overcome

For everything that was written in the past was written to teach us, so that through the endurance taught in the Scriptures and the encouragement they provide we might have hope. Romans 15:4

Recently an elder in our community, more than 50 years older than me shared how concerned they were about all that has been happening in our world. They talked about their life and lamented at some of the changes over the years, and my relief slowly started to emerge. When I tell you I felt so much better, I felt SO much better. The thoughts and feelings I had been having were normalized and some of them were even shared by this person. It gave me some perspective and encouragement. It reminded me of the first time I read the beginning of Moses' story. I had always known of Moses who stood up to Pharaoh and parted the Red Sea. I hadn’t known of the Moses who was also hesitant. It changed the way I felt about my own uncertainty being called into ministry. This is the beautiful power of scripture. Encouragement and hope reside in the pages of stories about people who endure and overcome. To dwell in the Word every day is an opportunity to find peace you didn’t know you needed. May the Word of God bring you encouragement, peace and hope as you relate to the stories of people who came before you.

Loving God, open the Bible to me. Reveal your love in the stories from of old. Show your character in the pages of this book that has been passed on from generation to generation. Shepherd me through studying your scriptures. Amen.

2. Living and Active

Indeed, the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword…it is able to judge the thoughts and intentions of the heart. Hebrews 14:12

Something that tempts me more than I want to admit, is the attitude of ‘I already know’. I catch myself assuming I already know what a piece of scripture has to say to me or to the Church. If you’ve been around scripture, church, or a community of faith in Christ for a while there are some stories in the Bible that get repeated over and over again. I find it hard to read, listen to, or engage in conversation without assuming I already know what God has to say through those well-known stories. But if I believe that the Word of God is a living and active word, as this text tells us, this mindset may be a problem for me. If you can relate, here’s what I have to remind myself when reading: I must hold an attitude of openness, and a sense of humility to keep learning and hearing something new.

God, let your word speak to us in new ways, help us to hear your words as if they were being told to us for the first time. Help us to have an open heart and an open mind to your living Word. Amen.

3. water and word

It is written: Man shall not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God. Matthew 4:4

Have you ever heard that when you’re feeling hungry or snacky that you should drink water first? See, we’re dehydrated so often, what we might be feeling is thirst and not hunger but it’s hard for us to differentiate between the two. It’s funny how often we misread what our own body needs. It made me wonder: How often do we misinterpret and neglect our own need for God’s Word? This might be a confession you can’t relate to, but sometimes I will go all day without drinking water (because I love coffee too much). I get to the end of the day and I can’t figure out why I feel so gross, so tired, so unwell. Then it clicks. ‘You didn’t drink ANY water ALL DAY.’ Well, something else clicked when reading this text. Some days end with me lying in bed wondering why I feel so gross. I would run through my personal checklist: I slept well the night before, I ate well, drank water, was social and so on. Click. You haven’t read your Bible IN DAYS. I’ll be honest, I forget that to read my Bible daily is to care for my body, my mind, and my spirit in the same way that drinking water does.

God, we give you thanks for your Word. Remind us of the nourishment that comes from your Word. Feed us with the good food of your love, that we might taste and see your goodness in all that we do. Amen.

Jessica Gulseth

Jess Gulseth is a seminarian at Luther Seminary in St. Paul seeking ordination in the ELCA. Jess is a Director of Children & Family ministry in the Des Moines, IA area.

Join us for a two-day retreat to renew our spirits and re-align our leadership. Featuring Nadia Bolz-Weber, Tod Bolsinger, Joe Davis, and Jenny Sung.

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Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.

Rev. Jenny Sung 3/7/22 Rev. Jenny Sung 3/7/22

Lenten Devotion - The Lord is My Shepherd

As part of our recent Lent in a Box event, Church Anew commissioned a daily Lenten devotional around the sermon series offered for Lent: Shepherd Me O God. As part of our blog during this season, we are delighted to share it with you. The themes revolve around spiritual practices that emerge from studying the 23rd Psalm. May you find a meaningful and holy Lenten season.

1. The Lord is My Shepherd.

We begin the Lenten season with dust. We recognize we are dust and to dust we shall return. Covered in ashes we humble ourselves before a holy God who knows us by name. Nothing is hidden, no branches to wrap around ourselves. We’re just left to sit in the truth of who we are… human. Our great Shepherd doesn’t leave us or abandon us there. Instead Christ promises to bring about something beautiful and holy from all the good intentions and broken promises. In all of God’s divine royalty, through humility and great love our Shepherd leads us beside still waters and green pastures.

Let these promises reside in more than just our hope. Bury it into our bones and flesh. May we embody and rise in God’s love day in and day out, in the extravagant and mundane even if we don’t feel it, even when we can’t see it.

Holy Shepherd, you see the depth of who we are and refuse to turn away. In our great sorrow and grief you raise us up and remind us of what is true. We are dust and to dust we all return. As we live and breathe, pour into us the strength of your Spirit and the tenacity of your grace. Give us visions of your goodness to come. In your name Jesus, Amen.

2. I shall not want.

If we had to, could we actually name what we need? Would it disguise itself in the shadows of sleep or safety? Do we even know the difference between want and need? So often we crave the illusion of fulfillment and find ourselves feeling gutted and empty. We give all we have to the wind hoping the wind will love us back or recognize how hard we try. In the meantime, Jesus waits. Will you let me feed you? Will you let me breathe into you the very life you seek? When we are lost in our want, we are like children holding a knife with the blade side in our palm. God doesn’t rush up to us and rip the knife out of our hand. Instead, Jesus sits beside us and gently asks, “Beloved, you are holding something dangerous. Will you let me hold it for you?”

Giver of life, in a world where we confuse want and need constantly, Lord be our guide. Let us no longer gorge ourselves with things that keep us malnourished and weary. Help us distinguish between what we want and what we need. All we have ever needed is you. Draw us close, draw us near to that which breathes life into us. In your name Jesus, Amen.

3. He makes me lie down in green pastures.

After God created humans, the very first thing their Creator instructed them to do was to rest – to honor the Sabbath and keep it holy. How many Sabbaths have we skipped? How many vacation days go to waste? A wise friend once told me, “Baby, get off the cross we need the wood.”

We are not Jesus. We are called to be in community. One of us alone could never bring about green pastures for all. Instead, God invites us to lie down in them together. Trusting this is where we are fed. Where we are healed. Where we are made whole. If you are convinced it has to be you always, you have been fed a lie. It’s Jesus who feeds, who makes us all lie down in green pastures. Trust the shepherd. Not the want in your belly. Rest in this God who pours into you and resurrects you.

Holy God, my body collapses at the promise of your green pastures. My need overtakes my wants and I rest in you. I feel the richness of your goodness, the brightness of your wholeness, the warmth of your healing. May I dwell in your holy echo my whole life long. In your name Jesus, Amen.

4. He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul.

The waters of chaos call to us in the big and the small things, inviting us to move, work, and fight until we have nothing left. These waves know they don’t have to be big, they just have to be constant, never giving you a moment to breathe or catch your breath.

Jesus invites us to calm waters that restore us and make us new. In the beginning, God hovered over the waters of chaos and brought order, creating life and bringing about good things. In these still waters, we are marked with the cross of Christ and sealed with the Holy Spirit forever. In a world that fights to name us and claim our identity, we can rest in the identity that can never be taken from us.… Beloved child of God.

Generous Creator, I hear your invitation to still waters. Do not let me get distracted or overwhelmed by the waves of chaos beckoning me. You call me to be restored, to be made new. I trust I was created to be more than a thing that produces results. I was created to know joy, rest, and restoration. Calm me in your waters with your peace that surpasses all understanding. In your name Jesus, Amen.

5. He leads me.

God meets us where we are and invites us into the way of love and resurrection. Oftentimes we hear, “God has a plan for your life.” I wonder if it is not so much about a particular plan we ought to execute in a specific way. What if it is more about God’s hope to create something beautiful together. In collaboration we curate holy spaces. We sit before the blank canvas of life as God delights and wonders what we will create together. It doesn’t matter if you use markers or paint, clay or crayons. It’s an invitation where beautiful holy things can grow and in the growing and becoming we see, encounter, and dance with our Triune God. We can trust there is grace for our fumbling steps, and liberation from our perfectionism and pressure.

Giver of Life, sometimes I worry and doubt how well I am performing and walking on this path you’ve called me to. Liberate me from judging myself and help me trust what you say about me more than what I say, or others say about me. Let me flourish in the rich soil of your goodness. Deepen these roots far and wide so every fruit it bears reflects the depth of your mercy and holiness of your name. In your name Jesus we pray, Amen.

6. In right paths.

It’s easy to create from our pride in a way that doesn’t manifest God’s goodness. At times our names and egos inflate, making us unaware that we are dancing alone, unable to see the steps of others to adapt or change with the world around us.

When this happens, we begin to grow out of our own soil, rather than the soil of community. In the places where we feel stuck and alone, lead us back Lord. You search tirelessly for the one lost sheep. During this Lenten season, open our eyes to see where we are creating from a source other than you. Lead us back to places we are humbled and made new.

Good Shepherd, thank you for always searching me out. Forgive me for the ways I continue to get distracted, prideful, or unaware. May everything we do, touch, create bring about wholeness and healing for ourselves and our entire community. In your name Jesus we pray, Amen.

7. For his name’s sake.

“For his namesake” means Christ has vowed his name to each of us. Before the name of Jesus every family in heaven and on earth takes its name (Eph. 3:14-15). In the way Christ leads us, we are covered and clothed in Christs’ righteousness. We can pray in the powerful name of Jesus and do far more than we could ever think or imagine. The Spirit intercedes for us.

During this Lenten season may you dwell and be strengthened in your inmost being through the mighty name of Jesus and notice your connection to God’s creation and the very source of love, life, and liberation.

Mighty Deliverer, we are ushered and adopted into your family by the grace of your love. Thank you for seeing me in all that I am, and still delivering me from myself and all that wishes to destroy me. You hold me close and hold me tight. I can never be plucked from your hand. For all this and more I give thanks to you. In your name Jesus, Amen.

Rev. Jenny Sung

Reverend Jenny Sung is an ordained #FreeRangePastor with the Evangelical Lutheran Church of America. She has been preaching, writing, and curating spaces worldwide for healing through brave love and community art. Rev. Sung’s passion for art comes from her many years as a professional modern dancer, founder, and co-director of One Dance Company in the Twin Cities. Follow Pastor Jenny on Facebook, Twitter, TikTok, and Instagram by clicking her Linktree.

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B. Hunter Farrell 2/23/22 B. Hunter Farrell 2/23/22

The Power of Co-Development

Excerpted from Freeing Congregational Mission: A Practical Vision for Companionship, Cultural Humility & Co-Development (pp. 112-13, 116-19),
by Hunter Farrell & Balajiedlang Khyllep
(InterVarsity Press Academic 2022)

I’m standing in the middle of Peru’s coastal desert, a million miles from anything, wondering what in the heck I’m doing here. Miles and miles of sand and broken rock frame the horizon. “It’s just ahead, brother. Can you see it yet?”

“Definitely not,” I think to myself.

A U.S. Christian development agency had asked me to visit the Haya de la Torre Association, a group of landless farmers who had been working together once a week for 16 years in an attempt to cut a 1.4-mile-long irrigation canal out of solid rock. The canal would irrigate 2,700 acres of parched land and provide the farmers with land for themselves and their children after them. With only 124 yards left to go, they had requested funds to rent the heavy machinery necessary to cut and cart away the rock. I took one look at the granite mountain in front of us and chuckled to myself. It looked like pure foolishness. But I guess I’d never really seen faith move mountains before.

A charter member of the association, 68-year-old Alicia Moraga, showed me the 1.3-mile ditch already cut and carefully lined with rock. Using ancient technology that dated back to the Inca Empire, the community had coaxed water out of the Huara River, high above the arid lands, and brought it within reach of their goal. I looked at Alicia, perplexed. “Sixteen years? What kept you going, Señora?” I asked.

Now it was Alicia’s turn to be perplexed.

“But you should know about hope, pastor! We want our children to have a better life than we’ve had, and they’ll need land for that.”

Alicia said the association had bet that if they could bring water to the arid, unclaimed land overlooking the town of Humaya, they could obtain land—approximately 40 acres per family. All along Peru’s bone-dry Pacific coast, the equation is simple:

land + water = life

I stopped in my tracks.

The thought of dirt-poor peasants working for 16 years with picks and shovels to access water for their children made my definition of hope look pretty wimpy.

They had already raised money for the hydrological study and had successfully battled both a mining company and the government to retain title to the arid land…I smiled as I suddenly realized our God’s remarkable sense of humor. This is precisely where the church works best: sharing modest funding with poor and oppressed communities through community-initiated, community-managed projects. This is mission “with,” not “for.”

And so in Humaya, Alicia Moraga and her small band of poor, landless farmers are opening up a small piece of God’s Reign to provide hope and an inheritance for their children. And I’m thankful to Alicia and her community because they have shared with me a faith that moves mountains…

Is there a way to understand the development of human beings and of their communities in a different—in a postcolonial way—stripped of the paternalistic assumptions of “I develop them”?

Can we recognize the image of God in each person and understand that it is impossible for me to develop any other human being—that each person and community is responsible before God for developing themselves to the best of their ability?

In a very real sense, the verb “develop” cannot take an object: I cannot develop you. But perhaps, by God’s grace, I can contribute to the conditions that allow you to develop yourself by removing barriers and offering tools…

The power of co-development is in its radical mutuality. It rejects the implicit sense of power and control “givers” thought they possessed and insists that, as companions walk together with God, there is no “giver” and “receiver”: there are only human beings desperately in need of God’s grace in Christ. Thus, co-development is a radically mutual process that invites all to bring to the circle the gifts God has given them to offer to their mission companions. In doing so, all

Co-authors, B. Hunter Farrell and Balajiedlang Khyllep

will be changed. Perhaps you’ve heard a missionary, after a lifetime of sacrificial giving in communities of material poverty, sum up their entire missionary career with the surprising words, “I received so much more than I gave.” What is it these servants understand about life in God’s realm that many in the church have missed?

I don’t know about you, but even in the most important relationships in my life—my wife, my friends, my siblings—my efforts to “develop” them have been notorious failures. These loved ones would (with good reason!) question and even resent my efforts to change them. But they have generally welcomed my willingness to walk with them in their efforts to improve their own lives—if I enter that space with some humility, empathy, and compassion and if I’m willing to open my life to their companionship. Without that sense of reciprocity, human relationship becomes case work or a task list: it’s my responsibility to improve you…

This is the genesis of true co-development, both personal and communal. As we walk as companions in God’s mission, it is critically important that we walk in the freedom of unconditional love, freeing the other to be the person God intended them to be and not what we would desire them to become. This prevents us from treating the people God invites us to accompany as the objects of our mission and safeguards their place as subjects in the mission of God.

Honestly examining our plans and actions against a commitment to relate to our companions as the primary subjects of God’s mission in their community can free us from old, colonial patterns in ways that can upend hierarchical mission relationships and open a space for a closer, more authentic companionship in mission. I am convinced there are few actions we can take that so profoundly improve our mission relationships and enhance the changes our companions and we seek.

B. Hunter Farrell

B. Hunter Farrell (doctor of anthropology, Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú) is the director of Pittsburgh Theological Seminary’s World Mission Initiative (WMI). He worked for over thirty years as a missionary, director of world mission for the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.), and a professor of mission and intercultural studies.

He has published articles in *The Journal of Latin American Theology*, *Christianity Today*, and *Missiology* and is the co-author, with Baljiedlang Khyllep, of *Freeing Congregational Mission: A Practical Vision for Companionship, Cultural Humility & Co-Development* (InterVarsity Press, January 2022).

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Eric D. Barreto 1/31/22 Eric D. Barreto 1/31/22

Not later. Today.

Then Jesus, filled with the power of the Spirit, returned to Galilee, and a report about him spread through all the surrounding country. He began to teach in their synagogues and was praised by everyone.
When he came to Nazareth, where he had been brought up, he went to the synagogue on the sabbath day, as was his custom. He stood up to read, and the scroll of the prophet Isaiah was given to him. He unrolled the scroll and found the place where it was written:
            “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,
                        because he has anointed me
                                    to bring good news to the poor.
           He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives
                        and recovery of sight to the blind,
                                    to let the oppressed go free,
            to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.” Luke 4:14-21

Friends, I want us to dwell on one word in this reading, one word that makes all the difference in how we read this text, how we come to understand the shape of God’s salvation, how we come to embody a ministry faithful to the good news of Jesus.

That word is today. Today.

But here’s the problem.

I don’t know about you, but these pandemic days have distorted my sense of time so calling our attention to a word about a measure of time might not be such a great idea!

Two weeks to bend the curve turned into months of uncertainty and waiting. Weeks and months of online school for my kids blended together while the seasons turned seemingly more slowly than usual. The promise of better days, a so-called return to normal always on the horizon but seemingly not drawing closer. The birthday parties and celebrations and holy Sundays were just not the same on a screen. Sometimes, I’m not even sure I know what day it is or exactly how many months we have been living under the weight of so much loss and worry and stress.

And there’s a second problem too, at least for me. In the tradition in which I was nurtured, I was taught a faith that was less today and more focused on later. Salvation was a future reality we would taste only after death. And while apocalyptic dreams were in the air and being “left behind” was a thing before the books were a thing, the urgency of the moment was always about the future, not so much about the present. I heard every Sunday, “Now is the time to answer God’s call by walking down the aisle and accepting Jesus as your savior!” Later was the time to really taste the goodness of God in a body resurrected but only after death.

But perhaps the “later” of salvation is not just a problem in certain churches. I think we are used to asking where we can find good news. We are accustomed to seeking out the what of the gospel. We are used to wondering why the good news matter. We know all too well the who of the good news: yes, the Triune God as well as those many on the margins seeking God’s justice.

But how often do we ask when? Do we ask when is the good news of Jesus with urgency and hope? Do we ask when this good news will come to fruition?

That is, how often do we ask, do we ever ask this: When is the gospel? When is the gospel?

When will the poor hear good news? When will the captives be set free? When will the oppressed find their chains loosened? When will the dead taste life once again? When, God, when?

Jesus’ answer in Luke 4 is clear. Jesus’ answer is unequivocal. Jesus’ answer is transformative: today. Today.

Let’s set the scene.

Right before our scene, Luke narrates how Jesus faced a trio of temptations after the Spirit drives him into the wilderness. Notice that the Spirit is living and active even when propelling Jesus into uncertainty and danger. Tempted to feed himself, to prove his trust in God, to grasp at the imperial power that would seem to guarantee the advent of the reign of God, Jesus persists in the path of faithfulness, a path marked by the prophetic example of his own mother and the urgent call to repentance of John. Jesus emerges from the wilderness, tested, perhaps a bit scarred, but also carried by God’s grace and God’s promises.

Still filled with the Spirit, he comes back home to the acclaim of many. And as he has done throughout his life, he is at his local synagogue, gathering with his neighbors in the expectation that they would heard good news about God in a world marked by imperial aggression, by sickness and loss, by the everyday sorrows and joys of life.

At a familiar synagogue, at a spiritual home, Jesus is handed a scroll of Isaiah where he finds written an ancient prophecy. Notice that he does not thumb through a codex looking for his favorite passage. The text is chosen for him, certainly by wherever the reading left off the previous week but also by the Spirit paving his every step. He reads from Isaiah a transformative promise. I often tell my students that if Luke had enough papyrus to write a one-verse Gospel and not a 24-chapter Gospel, he would chosen these words from Isaiah. Here is the breadth and depth of the good news according to Luke in one, okay maybe two, brief verses.

            “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,
                        because he has anointed me
                                    to bring good news to the poor.
           He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives
                        and recovery of sight to the blind,
                                    to let the oppressed go free,
            to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”

The good news, it turns out, is not an ethereal expectation of intangible hopes. No, the good news is embodied. Such good news sets the world right. Such good news shatters our expectations and starts at the margins of the world. It starts with people we have chosen to lock away, to neglect, to harm by our action and inaction alike.

These promises are to be found within the year of the Lord’s favor. They unfurl over a period of time, not to delay God’s good gifts but to proliferate them.

Because notice Jesus’ simple yet profound interpretation of words of Isaiah: “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” Today, my friends.

But what could that possibly mean?

I mean, Jesus, look around. We are surrounded by death and division, injustice and peril, harm and hurt. Jesus, I get that you want us to hope for the future, but you can’t be serious that you mean “today.” Not literally, right, Jesus? You can’t be serious?

I think Jesus means exactly this. I think Jesus knows what he’s talking about.

Today. Today this Scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing. When it comes to God’s salvation, there will be no delay. When it comes to God’s justice, there will be no delay. When it comes to God’s goodness, there will be no delay. When it comes to God’s grace, God’s love, God’s call on our lives, there will be no delay.

What does the today-ness of God’s promise mean for us today then? In the middle of a pandemic that lingers still, what does today mean? In the wake of protests for racial justice that linger over the generation, what does today mean? At the bedside of the dying and alongside the grieving, what does today mean?

It is striking to me that Jesus declares, “Today this Scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing,” at the very beginning of the Gospel of Luke. He declares “Today” before the healings he performs, before the multiplication of food in a deserted place, before he eats with the sinner and the tax collector, before his resurrection. But he also declares, “Today,” before he calls Herod a fox, before John is executed, before he cries over Jerusalem, before he is betrayed by a friend, before he is tortured and lynched on a Roman cross.

The Jesus of Luke is not unfamiliar with the power of God’s Spirit. Neither is he unfamiliar with the sharp realities of living in the shadow of empire’s might. So, his “today” is not naive or optimistic or positive thinking.

No, his “Today” is a prophetic declaration that echoes his mother’s song in Luke 2, a song where Mary declared the powerful would be brought down from their thrones and the hungry would be filled. His “Today” is accompanied by the work of his hands and his choice about with whom he would eat. His “Today” talks the talk and walks the walk. His “Today” faces disappointment and hopelessness and doubt. His “Today” dies upon a Roman cross. His “Today” rises from the grave, scarred and delivered.

Declaring “Today” is an act of trust in God’s promises, a bold voicing of faith, a step toward the reign of God.

The “Today” Jesus speaks does not trust just in the power we might have to overcome temptation. No, his “Today” rests on what God has already done, on God’s assured victory, on God’s resurrection power. “Today” is not about us; it is about the God who sets the world right.

My friends, we are still living in that “Today.” We are still living in God’s victory. We are still living in the wake of the resurrection. “Today.”

In the eye of a hurricane, today.
In the victory over injustice, today.
In the death-dealing of a pandemic, today.
In the healing of the sick, today.
In the trauma of violence and division, today.
In the bridging of broken relationships, today.
In the overflowing ICU, today.
At the soup kitchen, today.
Behind the pulpit, today.
At the table Christ has set before us, today.

With every breath and every step you take, with every anguished word you whisper in the dark of the night, with every blessing you give, with every tear you shed, today.

Not tomorrow. Today.
Not next week. Today.
Not next year. Today.
God’s promise. Today.
God’s grace. Today.
God’s justice. Today.
God’s good, good news. Today.

Dr. Eric 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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Rev. Jenny Sung 1/26/22 Rev. Jenny Sung 1/26/22

The Church on Noah’s Ark - What will you bring?

What if we are currently in a Noah’s ark situation within the Church?

We can hear the waves rising, and screams of Church leaders telling us not to panic. However, every part of us knows something is about to give. The story of Noah’s ark is horrifying and confusing when you think about it. Is this how The Holy One truly responds to their created when things aren't going well? Perhaps the cuteness of animals walking two by two distracts us from the fact that mostly everything in the story is destroyed.

Ann Frank shared fairytales to the youngest inmates in her final weeks at Bergen-Belsen concentration camp. Her fairytales were not consumed with princesses and happily ever after. In her fairytales nasty war-like things happened to the main characters and they had to overcome something devastating. These fairytales lifted the spirits of everyone because she spoke into the truth of their experiences while offering a hope that required all of them. The solution was not just up to one person, or one hero.

Perhaps Noah’s ark is that kind of story. The kind where awful things happen and the promise is SOMETHING WILL SURVIVE, something will last even when it feels like all hope is lost. The Church has survived the rise and fall of many empires and leaders. The story of resurrection is not just a core belief, it's who we are. It’s what stops us from dealing in the currency of fear and grounds us in naming a thing what it is.

We have the opportunity right now to be in holy conversation about what we want to put on the ark together.

What needs to survive? Let’s be clear, God will have God’s way and maybe our Creator is inviting us to dream with them. So much in our culture is changing. How do we authentically honor what was, what new things need to surface, and what will last into the future? Like Ann Frank’s fairy tales, it may require all of us. How can we enter into this holy work together?

As a body we are notorious for fighting over miniscule things such as paint and carpet colors. How do we get past the cerebral egos of our rightness and commit our bodies, a simple pebble, to joining the many on this path? How do we shift our lens of measuring outcomes and success to prioritizing genuine connection to God and one another? I don’t think we even need to be right. We just need to be brave in love. Naked Pastor had a meme on Instagram that read, “What got Jesus into the most trouble wasn’t what he believed but who he loved.” Who do we love and what kind of holy trouble does it get us into?

Is it possible to understand we are in a Noah’s ark situation and we need to work together and to get something onto the ark? Perhaps it is even something simple like Love God, love one another as you love yourself? Once Noah and his family got off the ark things spread out. What if we don’t have to judge the way God calls each of us to live out this story? What if we are all called to different places in the vineyard? Maybe we must trust, encourage, and love one another and God where we are planted?

I know it may feel like I am asking a lot of questions rather than giving you a bunch of answers, and maybe this is the movement of the Church. Perhaps, we need to pause in assuming we have all the answers. Start asking each other honest questions, and listen to one another’s responses. I am not suggesting we continue to ask the same leaders the same questions we have been asking the last 500 years.

What if we ask different people, different questions? Could it take us somewhere new? Where I have witnessed beautiful collaboration and powerful movement is among organizations working toward disability justice, liberation, food justice, and racial reconciliation. To be honest it makes sense. God has always been asking people from the margins to rise up and teach the appointed leaders how to follow. Maybe if we are used to leading it is time to now follow, and if we are used to following perhaps God is inviting us into a leading role? For all this and more I give thanks to God who continues to challenge us to see beyond ourselves and never stops inviting us to create something beautiful together.

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Natalia Terfa 1/4/22 Natalia Terfa 1/4/22

After the Manger: an Epiphany Lesson

And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they left for their own country by another road. (Matthew 2:12)

In Matthew’s Gospel we hear of the visiting Magi, strangers from another land, who came to offer gifts to Jesus.

They had made a stop on the way to see the regional king, Herod, who told them to “come back and let him know” where exactly that new king was.

No reason in particular, just so that he could “pay his respects” as well.

These magi were no fools, thank goodness.

They went home another way, and Herod?
Oh, Herod raged.

There is a whole story with two important things to notice in verse 12 above.

First, the magi listened to their dreams.

I find this part of the story very compelling this year.

When we’re tired (beyond tired, really) and feeling a little hopeless, it can be hard to listen to our dreams.
Hard to hear what the longing of our hearts really is trying to tell us.

We cover up that deep inner longing, that voice that is quietly whispering the dream within us. We cover it up with resolutions
and goals
and intentions,
which, let’s be honest, are all basically the same thing.

What if we took a little bit of time at the start of this new year and wondered - what are my dreams telling me? What is my deepest inner voice trying to say?

Imagine if the magi hadn’t trusted themselves.
Imagine if they had ignored or suppressed the little voice telling them that it was not safe to return to the regional king.

The first part of this story asks us to tend the whisper that we don’t often pause to hear, and often don’t trust.

To the Magi, it whispers:
What if the regional king is lying?

I know this is a dangerous question to ask, but the skeptic in me loves that it’s at the core of the magi’s dreams.

What is the regional king that keeps lying to you?
Is it capitalism?
Patriarchy?
White supremacy?
A culture that tells you you should be having your best life now?
Some sense of inferiority or worthlessness?
All of the above?

What are your dreams warning you about?

Our dreams are telling us to go another way.

That’s the second part of the story in this single verse.

The magi go another way.

They have listened to their dreams, and have faced the reality that Herod was lying to them, and they return home by another way.

This is so hard.

When we’re tired (again, beyond tired) and even listening to our dreams feels like a big ask,
this next part definitely feels like too much.

So we don’t.

Most of the time, we just don’t go another way.

I get it. It’s easier to go where you’ve gone before.
To do things the way you’ve done them.
To follow a path you’ve already been on.

But sometimes we need to go another way.

And I think this is one of those times.

We need to go another way.

The world is pushing us to go back to the way things were, and it’s obviously not working out real well for us. Not mentally or physically. Not emotionally or spiritually.

Many, if not most of us are not ok.

So what might it look like, even now - especially now - to imagine a new way?
To try something new?

To not do it the way we’ve always done it but to listen carefully to our dreams and set out on another way?

This feels particularly relevant in the church right now.

If we’re honest, many of us don’t want to go by another way. We want to go back to the way it was.

Maybe it’s because so much of our theology and liturgy and practice is grounded in tradition.

And don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing bad about tradition, it’s beautiful and meaningful and connects us to generations past and future.

But what if our inability to go another way is putting us in danger?
What if we aren’t willing to risk the anger of the regional king and put the whole story at risk instead?

This article has more questions than answers, I am very aware. But I know I’m not alone in asking them. I know many clergy colleagues and congregation members asking these same questions. People who are daring to listen to their dreams, and risking the anger of the powerful in service to the daring dreams of Gospel.

As we enter into the season of Epiphany, I wonder if we can look to the magi for not just a lesson on how to follow a star, but for what happens next.

What happens when we listen to our dreams and dare to go another way?

Rev. Natalia Terfa

Natalia is a Lutheran pastor and author who lives in Minneapolis with her hubby, kiddo, and kitty babies. She loves to bake, to read, practice yoga, and find nature adventures. She is passionate about the church of the future, one with no boundaries and filled to the brim with love and grace and laughter and snark and a lot of fellow “not that kind of Christians.”
Natalia co-hosts Cafeteria Christian, a podcast for people who love Jesus but aren’t so sure about his followers.

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Paul Raushenbush 12/22/21 Paul Raushenbush 12/22/21

Today We Went to Church

We went to church today. We went two weeks ago for the first time in two years and the kids looked surprised, unused to such music, procession and murmurings, but perhaps sensing a familiarity in the scene of their baptisms not too too long ago. This morning we entered again, encountering Advent making its familiar promise that I still want to believe.

We walked out two hours later with Walter cast in the role of a lifetime — Shepherd. People urged us to consider putting Glenn in the show as well, but we know better. Let's stick to the “silent night, holy night, all is calm all is bright" version of Jesus' birth, rather than the more true chaotic mess of the birth in the manger in Bethlehem that would be re-produced if our three-year-old was in the role of Sheep.

We went to buy a tree after the service and Walter and Glenn eventually landed on a beautiful one, the tallest we've had with the star almost scraping the ceiling. After our traditional spaghetti dinner, prepared by Brad, we all sat on the couch and gazed at the tree and began singing the Christmas songs that we sing every year — which involve Brad and my best efforts at the first verses of Hark the Herald Angels Sing, O Little Town of Bethlehem, O Come Emmanuel, and Walter's current favorite, "Joy to the World, as he loves the line “and heaven and nature sing” - I love that line too. We also sing We Wish You A Merry Christmas and Jingle Bells.

Half way through the singing we stopped, remembering the Advent wreath Walter had made two weeks ago in Church, and we lit the second candle of Advent, with its urging to prepare God room in our hearts, echoing to cries John the Baptist.

We sang a bit more, and after cleaning up the magna tiles in the bedroom, the kids climbed in and we said their prayers that I had created a few weeks back.

Why am I writing all of this? I guess because I am viewing myself as a parent, an identity that I'm still amazed is me, watching Brad and me along with Glenn and Walter craft together traditions that will be our family's own. As real to my children as the traditions my parents crafted were to me. I am becoming more clear that this work of translating tradition is our own to do — it is responsibility, a privilege, and a right. No tradition is 'pure' passing untouched from one generation to the next. It is all handcrafted, all homemade, and, if offered with love, the traditions will give our loved ones something to hold on to that gives them life.

This includes the tradition inherent in faith. I hope Brad and I can offer an expansive, open faith with Jesus at its core teaching a way of love. We offer it with an open hand, hopeful that such things as wonder and joy and the possibility of radical new birth are a part of our own lives and the lives of our children. Glenn and Walter already receive all this with grace and curiosity, and even now they are forging something new as new lives considers what is wheat and what is chaff for them. And so it goes, and I feel so grateful for it all as I sit, gazing at our tree — thinking of the new words that Walter is learning to read right now in school — beautiful, friends, family, together.

Paul Raushenbush

Paul Raushenbush is Senior Advisor for Public Affairs and Innovation at IFYC (Interfaith Youth Core) promoting a narrative of positive pluralism in America, while researching and developing cutting edge interfaith leadership. He is the Editor of Interfaith America.
Facebook | @raushenbush
Twitter | @raushenbush

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Bishop Michael Curry 12/20/21 Bishop Michael Curry 12/20/21

Presiding Bishop Michael Curry’s Christmas Message 2021

A number of years ago I read a book by Roberta Bondi who at that time was teaching at the Candler School of Theology at Emory University. The title of the book was “To Love as God Loves.” Professor Bondi in that book looked at and examined early Christians. And one of the things she observed was that early Christians saw their vocation of following Jesus as learning how to love as God loves. And that was the title of the book, “To Love as God Loves.”

If that is true, as I believe it is, when we look at the New Testament stories of Jesus, and particularly the stories around Christmas, we see early glimmers of Jesus showing us how to love as God loves. The Christmas stories found in Matthew and in Luke, for example, actually show us something about God's way of love.

We all know the Christmas stories, the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes as it's found in Luke's gospel, the baby that's born of Mary, the stories of Mary while she was pregnant meeting her cousin Elizabeth, and the words of the Magnificat—“My soul doth magnify the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.”

We know the stories of Mary giving birth in the manger because there was no room for them in the inn, the stories of the shepherds out on the field beholding the angel choir— “Gloria in Excelsis Deo.” The stories of a baby born is the story of beauty, a story of hope; for as the Jewish tradition says, every child who is born is a reminder that God is not finished with the world yet. In this case, the baby that was born was named Jesus.

Matthew tells the same story but highlights other dimensions that remind us profoundly of the way God loves. In Matthew's story, the child is born and there is great beauty in it, but there is some difficulty, even in the relationship between Mary and Joseph when they discover that she is with child before they're actually married. But an angel intervenes and tells Joseph in the dream that this child is God's miracle.

And so Joseph accepts his responsibility and cares for Mary and the baby Jesus who is to be born. And all moves along well. And in Matthew's version there is the star, the Magi or the wise men who come from afar, but then the story takes a dark turn.

And all of a sudden the same beauty that surrounded the birth of a child now is tinged by an ugliness of tyranny, the ugliness of injustice, the ugliness of hatred, the ugliness of unbridled selfishness as King Herod hears rumors of a rival to his throne being born and begins plans to execute children to stamp out his rival. In Matthew, that is the context for the birth of Jesus.

And Mary and Joseph and the baby Jesus when he is born are forced to flee as refugees seeking political asylum, eventually in Egypt, because of the wrath of King Herod. They are saved from the destruction, but many do die.

In the late 1930s, The Episcopal Church embarked on efforts to save refugees who were fleeing tyranny, evil, injustice, bigotry, hatred in Europe at the advent of the Second World War. In The Episcopal Church, Episcopalians and many other Christians and Jewish people in the United States and people of goodwill and human decency worked together in a variety of ways to save as many refugees as they could.

And at that time, Episcopalians created this image. And it shows Mary holding the baby Jesus in her arms on the donkey with Joseph walking with them. And as you can see, the sign said, “In the name of these refugees, aid all refugees.”

The Christmas stories are reminders that this Jesus came to show us how to love as God loves. And one of the ways we love as God loves is to help those who are refugees, those who seek asylum from political tyranny, poverty, famine, or other hardship.

In the 1930s, Episcopalians did this to love as God loves, and today, ministries like Episcopal Migration Ministries, the work of this church, have helped to resettle some 100,000 refugees as of December 2021. And that work goes on for refugees from Afghanistan and from other places around the world.

The Christian vocation as Jesus taught us is to love as God loves. And in the name of these refugees, let us help all refugees.

God love you. God bless you. And, this Christmas, may God hold us all in those almighty hands of love.

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Jessica Gulseth 12/17/21 Jessica Gulseth 12/17/21

Reigniting Purpose in Your Ministry

Maybe I should do something else for work?

If you're working in ministry through this season, raise your hand if you've thought this, said this in confidence to your friends, or just blatantly set it out loud. I keep thinking about all the other things I could be doing. People tend to play out different scenarios in their head — kind of like picking the ending of those Goosebumps books. If I didn't like the outcome, I just went back and picked the other option. Sometimes I play the “What If'' game. What if I had gone to dental school and spent my days telling people they should floss more? What if I had stayed in the field of journalism? What if I hadn’t moved or had taken a different job?

My friends in ministry have spent many hours dreaming about everything from starting our own churches, inventing cool gadgets, driving for UPS, to creating content. A lot of this dreaming is just for fun. But the dreams have hit a little heavier and have been a little more frequent lately.

So why do we feel like this so often?

For me, it starts with false logic. It goes a little like this: when things are hard, I feel like I'm doing a bad job. I believe if I'm doing a bad job, I must not be a good fit. And if I'm not a good fit, then I should just give up. Well things have been hard a lot lately. We claim that it's “just a season,” but that season seems to keep getting extensions. So then I have to ask why things are this hard?

Well, the demand to produce ministry is so high. Too high. It feels like we have to make up for Covid lost time. I feel so much pressure to perform at a certain capacity, to get a certain amount of things done, to push for more and better ministry. That is exhausting, and not exhausting like how I feel after Christmas Eve, or a mission trip, or family game night. It's fatigue, it is a lack of energy, and it's really hard to get pulled out of that.

We’re close enough to the new year to be setting resolutions and goals, right? Here are some of the things I'm going to strive to remind myself and put in practice moving forward:

It’s not my job to solve everything myself.
I can manage my energy more efficiently.
I can focus on the values behind my ministry that give me purpose and joy.

Sometimes I get so wrapped up in trying to solve problems, trying to build relationships with everyone, being a really good team leader, preaching a really good message, and upholding the church that I lose sight of God. One of my friends and colleagues is really good at reminding me of this: I am not Jesus. I am not the savior of the world. I do not carry the weight of salvation on my shoulders. God is God, I am not. And not only does that provide me relief when I remember it, but also it reminds me that God is at work – that we are working in tandem with God.

One of my professors said it this way: “God is responsible for God's Church.” Meaning, at the end of the day, there is truly only so much that I can do. There is only so much you can do.

So I'm going to ground myself in the truth that God is at work in our ministries, through us and around us.

Second, I want to manage my energy better. Energy plays a key role in my attitude and in my ability to enjoy my work. I always talk about how I have 10 coins. These 10 coins represent the amount of energy that I have every day. I start the day with 10 coins and throughout the day different tasks and social interactions deplete the bank. At the end of the day I go home and relax. I do the things that I need to do to replenish the bank.

I want to pay more attention to how expensive certain tasks are. In particular, I know there is one project in my ministry that almost depletes my entire energy bank. So I know I should hand-off that project to someone for whom it will cost less to do. Now this doesn't work for every task that I have, and it might not work for every task you have. But I do have the authority to delegate and give tasks to somebody for whom it will bring life. This may be support staff or a volunteer – somebody who will be excited about the project and will be willing to invest in it; this will be better for me and better for the ministry itself.

Third, I want to spend more time focused on my ministry values instead of ministry tasks.

I’ve found this to be a more helpful lens through which to view my work. Two very important elements of ministry for me are relationships and team dynamics. I want the relationships I have with students, parents, and other congregants to take priority. This might seem like a no brainer, but it often feels like a genuine challenge to prioritize relationships. This might be pausing just a little bit longer between worship to catch a few more people or to have longer conversations. This might mean less teaching and more listening.

Team dynamics are also of high value because I believe a cohesive team can withstand turmoil, handle conflict, encourage creativity, and carry out vision. My, oh my, do team dynamics take a lot of time and care. But I’ve seen the work pay off and it’s worth it.

In sum, please know you are not alone in your struggles, in your weariness. There is so much in this moment that we do not get control over and that demands our mental, physical, and spiritual energy. We can acknowledge and accept that, while also working toward practices that reinvigorate the why of our calling to ministry.

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Julian Davis Reid 11/24/21 Julian Davis Reid 11/24/21

Notes of Rest, A Musical Mini-Retreat

With the holidays on the country’s doorstep, now is as good a time as any to think about how the church values rest. Sadly, we can easily see how often we do not value it enough. After all, there is always more righteousness we can pursue or sins to redress. Yet the arc of Scripture shows us the importance of choosing rest as a means of living in a rhythm not fully governed by the patterns of this world. For instance, on Day 7 of creation God took time to refrain from creating anymore, and on Holy Saturday God chose not to raise Jesus from the dead, but instead wait until Sunday morning. Neither extreme destroyed God’s sense of rest, and that is an invitation for we the church too: to follow after ancient Israel and receive God’s gift of rest. This is why I created Notes of Rest.

Notes of Rest is a spiritual mini-retreat that interweaves Scriptural meditations with solo piano music in order to cultivate rest, contemplation, and creativity in all who will hear Jesus’ call. I offer these virtual and in-person sessions for churches, seminaries and affinity groups (e.g., lawyers, healthcare workers, caregivers, parents). The goal of the ministry is to let contemplation of God emerge from our resting in Scripture and music such that we can see and hear more of God. The Lord is not only at work, but at rest too.

The name Notes of Rest is a play on the word “notes.” In musical terms, notes and rests must come together in order to create music. So from that perspective, Notes of Rest is about giving people music that helps them pause and “center down” as Howard Thurman would say. But the name also emerges from the practice of preaching. A sermon is a series of notes on a passage towards a particular end. So in the case of the retreats, my brief meditations and resultant questions are designed to help you rest and be introspective. When the notes from Scripture meet the notes of music, we can be formed to experience the gift of rest anew.

If you have ever attended a worship service, you have probably experienced the formative power of joining music and Scripture together. In many traditions, the service is a constant interplay between Scripture and music. When we aren’t hearing one, chances are we are hearing something based on the other. The back and forth is characteristic of so many traditions because since biblical antiquity, we have recognized the capacity of text and sound joined together to shape us for Christian life. So in Notes of Rest, I join them in order to form us to be well-rested disciples.

A Notes of Rest session flows through three movements: Rivers, Banks, and Wellsprings. During Rivers, I read Scripture and then surface from the text several questions about your spiritual journey. As you sit with the questions and text, I play familiar church music for you — such as Great is Thy Faithfulness or Give Me Jesus — so you can travel this journey of introspection with familiar companions whose theologies can help you find your responses. (As an aside, the grassroots organization Fearless Dialogues, another space I serve, helps people explore hard conversations around taboo subjects using familiar objects such as music.)

After swimming in the Rivers, we dry ourselves off on the Banks (short for riverbanks), where we talk about what happened for us in the waters of Scripture, music, and questions. Participants’ responses are rich in diversity. Some talk about their feelings. Some talk about their thoughts. Some just give thanks for being able to sit still in the music. As they share, I can sense the spirit of rest radiating out of people, even over Zoom!

Concluding our time is Wellsprings, which is when retreatants get to respond to what is bubbling up inside them due to Rivers and Banks. As I play for the retreatants again, they are invited to engage one of four verbs: rest (some more), pray (for yourself and/or someone else), encourage (yourself and/or someone else), or create! The diversity of responses during Wellsprings astounds me. One of my favorite stories comes from a session on marriage a few months ago. Welling up in a participant was a profound longing for her husband who couldn’t attend, so she used Wellsprings as a time to dance. Only God can birth such a creative impulse!

Notes of Rest creates a moment for us to receive the gift of rest that God demonstrates for us in Genesis and the Gospels. Whether we are in a time of great productivity and/or of lamentable death, Rivers, Banks, and Wellsprings becomes a space for us to respond with the rest Jesus provides in abundance.

As an outgrowth of the retreat’s impact on my own life, tomorrow (Thanksgiving) I am releasing my debut solo album entitled Rest Assured. This project comprises some of the retreat’s music that specifically addresses God’s faithfulness and our ability to rest assured as a result. From traditional Anglophone hymnody such as “His Eye is on the Sparrow” and “It Is Well With My Soul,” to the Negro Spirituals “Give Me Jesus” and “I will Trust in the Lord,” to the Taizé community’s chant “O Lord, Hear My Prayer,” the album invites us to embody the posture of trust that Jesus summons his disciples to have in Matthew: “Look at the birds of the air, they neither sow nor reap, nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.”

No matter how you enter this holiday season, be it a time of Eden-level fruitfulness or Golgotha-level despair, I pray that you and your community find rest in God. For when we choose stillness, the Spirit reminds us that our rhythms with God are always bigger than the good we produce or the evil we witness. May we rest assured knowing that salvation has come and is coming.

Julian Davis Reid

Julian is an artist-theologian who creates beauty with music and words to amplify Jesus' sound. His debut solo project Rest Assured will be on all streaming platforms Nov 25.

In addition, he stewards two ministries: Notes of Rest (spiritual retreat) and The JuJu Exchange (jazz-fusion group). He studied theology & the arts at Candler School of Theology (M.Div.) and philosophy at Yale College (B.A.). He and his wife Carmen are based in his beloved hometown of Chicago. You may learn more about him at juliandavisreid.com.

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Julian Davis Reid is an artist-theologian who uses words and music to invite us into the restful lives we were created to live. He is a founding member of the jazz-electronic fusion group The JuJu Exchange and hosts contemplative retreats called Notes of Rest.

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Facebook | @raushenbushTwitter | @raushenbush

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So why do we feel like this so often?

So I'm going to ground myself in the truth that God is at work in our ministries, through us and around us.

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