When I feel the most joyless is when it is most essential for me to practice joy, to seek out this Godly abundance. Not to disassociate. Not to demean my own suffering or the realities that have brought me low. But because God calls — compels — us to remember: the things that speak death over us don’t get the last word.

I think about all these people floating around in the world who aren't gonna walk into a regular church – for whatever reason. When I started asking, “What are those reasons?”, there were so many answers that sounded like: “I found this thing that is meaningful, but someone said you can’t do it that way.” And the throughline became me saying: “Why? Why not?”

It’s the Sunday after Easter and everyone at church has a kazoo.

Everything is different now. I returned home to find this occupation is cruel and pervasive and completely disorienting. And. I returned home to find the resolve of our community familiar and fierce. Steady like salt. Huddled for warmth. Lighting the way. 

The line between theatrical production and reverent worship is as thin as the veil between heaven and earth, a veil that was torn when Christ died, or perhaps long before. After all, Jesus was a storyteller who followed the models of the prophetic storytellers, who were inspired and guided by the source of all stories, our heavenly Creator.

When I’m coaching, it’s not about me or my ministry. And since I’ve been bearing witness to Sandy’s ministry all year, through these sessions, site visits and engagement with her congregational leaders, I have a robust sense of why her ministry is fantastic. I could ask, “Why did you want everything about your ministry to change?” But I don’t. Instead, I just listen because coaching might be the only place Sandy gets to name these things aloud so she can hear them, share them, and loosen some of their power.

On November 16th, the 33rd Sunday in Ordinary Time, the Roman Catholic Church will celebrate the eighth World Day of the Poor. This global observance was established by the late Pope Francis in 2017 [to remind us that] that, in Francis’ words, “so long as Lazarus remains at our gate” (Luke 16), the Church’s work is not yet done.

I’m convinced that if pastors engaged their congregations with the same intentionality comedians bring to a club, our sermons would not just inform but truly connect, inspire, and transform.

I recognize that I am not offering a single neat or easy alternative, and I am well aware of how deeply ingrained stewardship is in the mainline church. It will take years of exploration and experimentation to move beyond it. What matters is that we keep seeking language and practices that draw us closer to the witness of the Gospels.

To be clear, I love pet blessings. But what if we also recovered Francis’s radical poverty, simplicity, and love of the human Jesus as an essential way of rebuilding the Church anew?

My spiritual director asked me, “Have you ever heard of Mary, Untier of Knots?”

As we approach “stewardship season,” I want to question the language of stewards and stewardship. To be clear, this is not a critique of fundraising. I serve a small Spanish-speaking congregation, and I know firsthand how vital annual pledge drives are for a workable parish budget. My concern, rather, is theological. My question is whether stewardship is still the best framework for what we are doing this season.

Praying together helps me see how God has already torn open the heavens through Christ’s death and resurrection, and is alive and actively working to bring hope where we thought it a lost cause and to topple all the would-be gods and emperors with a love stronger than any evil and a life stronger than death.

Independence and autonomy are not the gifts of baptism or communion. Instead, these sacraments remind us that God comes to us from beyond ourselves—that salvation is given, not earned.

We were early adopters of the Pray Without Ceasing (PWC) ministry opportunity. When I suggested PWC, some shared that praying for thirty whole minutes seemed like a very large hill to climb. Folks were nervous, asking, “What will we do for thirty minutes? Will there be awkward silence? Is this even Lutheran?”

Why is it different here? What is so different about Martha that her “ministry” becomes “tasks” and “meal prep”? It is curious, indeed.

The Sunday Scaries—the creeping dread that arrives as the weekend slips away and the responsibilities of the new week inch closer—aren’t just cultural noise. They reflect something deeper: our desire to be in control of our lives, to meet expectations, and to stay ahead of what’s next. But into this anxious reality, the Gospel speaks a quiet and disruptive word of grace.

How can we stand “close enough” to Presiding Bishop-Elect Curry and Secretary-Elect Mills? What is our call as ELCA Lutheran Christians to love, support, and protect our newly called leaders?

What about when I open the door for someone whose arms are full? When I stopped to smell the lilacs while walking in my neighborhood? When I didn’t respond to that mean email with another mean email? Let this offering be acceptable, O Lord.

I would like readers to know that despite discrimination against ordained women, "through many dangers, toils, and snares," there is a significant way through, by the grace and guidance of God.