I cannot hear about [the woman at the well] now without hearing echoes of the horrors etched across the millions of pages in the Epstein files. Girls, children, preyed upon because like this woman, they would be seen walking home from school alone. In need of companionship, of friendship, of being wanted.

The painting captures something frequently overlooked in discussions of faithful discipleship: when Christ beckons us to follow, this requires a radically transformed relationship with our own coins on the table. And I believe this to be true for both individuals and churches alike.

Kids don’t have the same notions about what the Bible is or how it works that adults have. If adults welcome kids’ thoughts and insights, if we want to hear their questions and reactions, we will find ourselves having totally different (and better) conversations about the Bible.

So when Jesus — a Jewish rabbi — sits alone with a Samaritan woman, speaks kindly to her, engages her theologically, and reveals himself more clearly to her than to almost anyone else… this scene is already scandalous in all the right ways.

It’s a story about crossing boundaries, not shaming sinners.

Becoming alert to our dominant thinking—a barrier to listening to God—is generating a way into new freedoms. Contemplative praying encourages a gracious and compassionate approach to uncovering—gently and patiently removing the obstacles to God’s way for our inner life and for our public life.

The Parable of the Talents has, at least functionally, come to be interpreted through the lens of congregational finance and wealth stewardship. In many places, it is emphasized as a consoling text that softens and contextualizes other, more challenging things Jesus said about wealth.

It’s a good time to remember what has already been accomplished by God, to declare publicly what is universally and uniquely and unconditionally true, and to practice carrying promises as a community instead of fending only for ourselves.

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. 

 I want to pause here and speak directly to those who lean conservative, consider themselves evangelical, or Republican. I do so as someone who has, at different points in my life, considered myself conservative, evangelical, and Republican — and who still understands why those commitments feel meaningful, especially in uncertain times.

… If you feel caught between what your faith is asking of you and what your community expects from you, you are not alone.

This post is not a call to abandon conservatism or to embrace a different tribe. It is a call to something older and deeper: the freedom to remain loyal to Jesus even when that loyalty complicates our political identity.

 If faith is trust, if religion is really about what you trust enough to organize your entire life around, then what are those of us who call ourselves “nones” supposed to do with that? […] in this particular moment of instability and violence and fear and anxiety, I keep wondering: what lessons are religious leaders offering that might matter to those of us outside their communities? […] But how can they function as conversation partners—helping us ask better questions even if they can’t give us answers?

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.

Revelation cuts both ways. It comforts the vulnerable and indicts the powerful. It saves some and judges others—not because God changes, but because people respond differently when the truth is made visible. You cannot unleash chaos on communities, terrorize people in broad daylight, and then claim innocence when fear and resistance follow. You do not get to be both the author of violence and its victim.

Psalm 88 ends with a sentence no one has ever cross-stitched onto a pillow: “Darkness is my closest friend.” And yet… the ancient community kept this psalm. They copied it. Prayed it. Sang it. Preserved it as Scripture. Why?

Since the summer, I’ve been accompanying immigrants on many Fridays to their initial asylum hearings in New York City, watching as judges decide people’s fates while ICE agents loom over and harass asylum seekers at every turn. That experience has led me to hear the Christmas story with different ears this year – namely, as Good News proclaimed to people living on the edge of an abyss.

There is so much life and evidence of creativity in the space left behind when they tore down the building. The large green space now has the potential to become a park, or a field for kids to play soccer, or a sculpture garden, or a home for a new family, or space for birds to fly, or…

The time is indeed now for communities to provide opportunities to channel their giving toward what they value the most: actions that provide meaning, and tangible human support in times of hardship.

Octavia Butler and Mary the mother of Jesus both show us that love in the midst of chaos is not naïve; it is revolutionary. It is courageous. It is, quite literally, a world-making force.

For many of us shaped by immigrant families or marginalized communities, this Mary feels familiar. She looks like our abuelas—complicated, courageous, caught between survival and hope. Women who resist in their own quiet ways while also carrying the weight of harmful narratives they inherited. Women whose faith is not perfect, but persistent.

Perhaps there were adults too,
She suggests,
But in the agrarian societies
Of the First Century,
Much like in agrarian societies of today –
One of the first jobs
Of children
Was to tend the sheep and the goats
Out in the fields –
Like David
Of old.
The.
Shepherds.
Were.
Children.

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.