Not who impressed me.

Not who won debates.

Not who had the biggest churches or the cleanest doctrinal statements.

Who actually carried Jesus to me.

A lot of them were women.

Lottie Moon taught me that devotion to Christ should cost something.

Cheryl Bridges Johns showed me that Spirit and intellect are not enemies.

Fleming Rutledge taught me to preach the cross bigger than my tribe.

Sojourner Truth reminded me that sometimes the people closest to Jesus are the ones the religious establishment explains away.

Shirley Arnold preached like she believed the gospel would knock us down.

Gerry White sparked my curiosity about the Old Testament.

Mandy Smith helped me see God’s power by embracing my own vulnerabilities.

And before all of them—

my mother.

A kids pastor in the 80s.

Before “leadership pipelines.”
Before podcasts.
Before churches figured out how to celebrate women publicly while quietly keeping the keys.

She preached to children.
She prayed.
She discipled.
She did the work.

No platform.
No spotlight.

Just faithfulness.

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And if I’m honest—

I would not be in ministry if women had stayed in the places some Christians still think they belong.

That should bother us.

Not because it settles every theological question.

But because at some point we should become suspicious of our (the church’s) odd fascination with being “right.”

I belong to a fellowship that, decades ago, had the courage to affirm women in ministry.

That matters.

But if I can say this as family—

sometimes we have celebrated our theology more than we have practiced it.

We wrote statements. We looked right on paper.

And before we congratulate ourselves too much, maybe we should ask why we felt so good about that. The statement was never broadly implemented.

But this isn’t really about one issue.

This is about something deeper.

There is something in us that loves being right.

And Christians baptize it.

We take our understanding, polish it until it shines, frame it, defend it, and then slowly—almost without noticing—we begin bowing to it.

Not Jesus.

But to our understanding of Jesus.

We divide churches over it.

We pass policies over it.

We elevate leaders because they protect it.

We look down on brothers and sisters who read the same Bible and somehow arrive at different places.

And all the while we convince ourselves this is faithfulness.

Shocking thought:

Maybe we do not understand as much as we think we do.

Maybe being able to quote Greek verbs and systematize Romans doesn’t mean we’ve mastered the mind of Christ.

Maybe certainty is easier than humility.

Maybe defending our position feels safer than kneeling at the cross.

Because the cross is lower than we think.

Nobody kneels at Calvary carrying trophies.

Nobody gets extra grace for winning doctrinal arguments.

Nobody arrives, and Jesus says—

“Thank God you protected Me from those people.”

At the cross, everybody comes empty.

Everybody.

And if that’s true—

then maybe the church should carry itself with more trembling than triumph.

I love the church.

I really do.

But man—

sometimes I wish the church I know in the Southeast—the Protestant, evangelical, homecoming under the trees with sweet-tea church I grew up around—felt less like the family’s weird aunt.

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You know the one.

Always offended.
Always suspicious.
Always explaining why somebody else shouldn’t be speaking.
Always protecting something.
Always one committee meeting away from a split.

Quick to correct.

Slow to listen.

Certain about everything.

Curious about nothing.

Meanwhile Jesus keeps showing up in places we swore He wouldn’t.

Among people we underestimated.

Using voices we did not authorize.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Church history is full of Christians who had verses.

And still missed God.

That possibility should terrify us.

I do not want a church that worships uncertainty.

But I also do not want a church that worships being right.

I want a church low enough to repent.

Low enough to listen.

Low enough to say:

“This is where we stand.

And Jesus may still have something to teach us.”

Because if Pentecost taught us anything—

it is that the Spirit has never asked our permission before falling on sons and daughters.

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Which is exactly why I need to say this.

Somewhere along the way, many of us (church people) stopped being curious.

We inherited answers and called them faith. We inherited traditions and called them doctrine. We inherited interpretations and called them the Bible itself. We learned what to think, but forgot how to wonder.

And that worries me.

I think we’ve confused faith with certainty.

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Not all of us. Not everywhere. But enough of us that it’s become part of the air we breathe. We’ve created churches where people feel pressure to have answers before they’ve even learned how to ask questions. We’ve built cultures where changing your mind feels like failure. We’ve treated growth like a threat, or worse, like something that is only visible on a graph or spreadsheet.

And somewhere along the way, we started acting like whatever we learned first is whatever we have to believe forever.

But that’s not how life works.

And it sure isn’t how discipleship works.

When I was a kid, I learned things about God that were true enough to get me started. But if I still understood God exactly the way I did at ten years old, something would be terribly wrong. The faith that first introduced me to Jesus was never supposed to be the finished product. Seeds are not failures because they become trees.

The first thing you learn is not the last thing you learn.

At least it shouldn’t be.

Yet I see Christians holding onto ideas they inherited decades ago as though questioning them would somehow betray God.

What if we’ve mistaken loyalty to our assumptions for loyalty to Christ?

What if the thing we’re defending isn’t actually God at all?

What if it’s just what we’ve always been told?

That’s a frightening thought. And maybe it should be. Because real growth always carries risk. The carpenter who learns a better way has to admit the old way wasn’t the best way. The mechanic who discovers a problem has to take the engine apart before it can run right again. The farmer who wants a harvest has to tear up the ground.

Nothing grows without disruption.

Nothing matures without change.

Nothing comes alive without leaving something behind.

Including faith.

The older I get, the more convinced I become that some of the things I feel absolutely certain about today may need to be challenged tomorrow.

Not because truth changes. Not because God changes. ot because scripture changes.

Because I do.

Because I am still learning.

Because I still have blind spots.

Because I have not arrived.

And frankly, neither have you.

That’s not weakness. That’s being human.

I worry that many churches have become places where people are welcomed as they are but expected to stay exactly the same. Of course, the church expects people to lay down their sin, but have we also expected each other to lay down our minds? Our curiosities? Our fantasies?

Or worse, we’ve become places where people learn very quickly which questions are acceptable and which questions are not. Places where curiosity gets treated like rebellion. Places where doubt gets treated like disease. Places where people quietly stop growing because growth might upset someone. But if we cannot question what we believe, do we actually believe it? Or have we merely inherited it?

If our convictions cannot survive examination, are they convictions or just habits?

If our faith requires us to stop learning, is it faith at all?

I don’t want to be part of a church that demands this type of certainty.

I want to be part of a church that demands honesty.

A church where people can say, “I don’t know.”

A church where people can admit, “I used to think that, but now I’m not so sure.” Or even a church where people can say, “I know what the Bible says in that particular place, but it seems to say something different in this particular place. What the heck?”

A church where Scripture is not a weapon used to shut down conversations but an invitation into deeper ones.

A church where people are free to wrestle.

Free to investigate.

Free to wonder.

Free to grow.

Because that’s where I’ve found life. Not in pretending I have God figured out. Not in defending every opinion I’ve ever held. Not in acting like my understanding can’t change. I’ve found life in discovering that God is always bigger than my categories. Always deeper than my assumptions. Always ahead of me.

And maybe that’s the real danger of certainty. Not that we’ll be wrong. We’re all wrong about plenty of things. The danger is that certainty can make us stop listening. Stop learning.

Stop growing.

Stop noticing where God is trying to lead us next.

A faith that never changes is not necessarily a faithful one.

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Sometimes it’s just a stagnant one. And stagnant things don’t stay alive for long.

So here’s my plea:

Stay curious.

Read widely.

Ask better questions.

Refuse easy answers.

Interrogate the beliefs you’ve been given, scrutinize them.

Hold your convictions with courage and your conclusions with humility.

And never confuse the place where you started with the place where you’re supposed to stay.

Because following Jesus has never been about arriving. It’s always been about becoming. And I don’t know exactly where that road leads.

I just know that I don’t want to stop walking it.

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She wasn’t looking for hope.

That’s the part we tend to forget about Easter morning.

Mary Magdalene shows up while it’s still dark—not just in the sky, but in her understanding. She’s not coming with expectation. She’s not coming with anticipation. She’s coming with grief.

And when she sees the stone rolled away, her first thought isn’t, “He’s risen.”

It’s, “They took Him.”

Of course it is.

Because when trauma hits, your mind doesn’t reach for hope—it reaches for an explanation.

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When Everything Gets Worse

The crucifixion didn’t just make them sad. It shattered them.

Public humiliation. Brutal execution. The man they believed would change everything… dead.

And now this?

The tomb is open. The body is gone.

It feels like it just got worse.

You ever been there?

Like you’ve already lost something… and then something else happens that makes you think, “Are you serious? What now?”

That’s where Mary is standing.

So she runs.

Because that’s what we do. We move. We look for support. We find people who can help us make sense of what we’re seeing.

She finds Peter and John. And then they start running too.

Not casually. Urgently.

Grief has a pace to it.

Different Speeds, Same Search

John outruns Peter.

But Peter goes in first.

Isn’t that interesting?

Some people process pain quickly. Others move slower—but go deeper. Some hesitate at the edge. Others step right into the mess.

But all of them are trying to answer the same question:

What just happened?

They look inside.

And what they see is… strange.

The grave clothes are still there.

Not scattered. Not stolen.

Folded. Intentional. Undisturbed.

Which means this wasn’t theft.

This wasn’t chaos.

This was something else.

Not an Escape—A Departure

When Lazarus was raised from the dead, he walked out still wrapped in grave clothes. He needed help. He came back to life—but it was the same kind of life. Temporary. Fragile.

Jesus is different.

He leaves the grave clothes behind.

He doesn’t need them.

He doesn’t take them with Him.

He doesn’t even disturb them.

It’s almost like death itself has been… stepped out of.

Not escaped.

Abandoned.

Jesus didn’t run from death.

He walked out of it and left it behind.

Forever.

Belief Before Understanding

And then John sees it.

And something clicks.

Not fully. Not completely. Not with all the theology worked out.

But enough.

He sees… and he believes.

And here’s what the text says next:

They still didn’t understand.

That’s important.

Because we tend to think faith comes after understanding.

But in this moment, belief shows up first.

Understanding comes later.

That’s how faith works.

You don’t wait until everything makes sense.

You respond to what you’ve seen.

The Kind of Faith That Grows in Storms

There’s a kind of belief that exists before the cross.

It’s real—but it’s simple. Untested.

And then there’s the kind that comes after.

After loss. After confusion. After everything you thought was stable falls apart.

That kind of faith is different.

It’s deeper.

Stronger.

Rooted.

I was driving after a storm not too long ago—hours of relentless wind and rain. The kind that keeps you awake at night.

The next morning, I saw trees down everywhere.

Young trees. Healthy-looking trees. Completely uprooted.

But the older ones?

Still standing.

Scarred. Damaged. Missing branches.

But standing.

Why?

Because they’d been through storms before.

Every time the wind hit them, something happened underground.

Their roots stretched. Reached deeper. Wrapped around stability they didn’t have before.

So when the next storm came, they weren’t the same tree.

They were stronger.

What looked like damage… actually developed them.

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What You Can’t See Is What’s Holding You Up

Some of you have walked through storms you thought would take you out.

And if you’re honest, it shook everything.

But what you couldn’t see is what God was doing underneath the surface.

While everything above ground felt unstable…

Your roots were growing.

Your faith was stretching.

You were becoming harder to move.

Because a storm doesn’t weaken a rooted tree.

It deepens it.

While You’re Still in the Dark…

Here’s what I love about this moment in the story:

While Mary is confused…
While Peter is processing…
While John is just beginning to believe…

Jesus is already walking in the garden.

Alive.

Free.

On the other side of the worst thing that ever happened.

They’re still in the dark.

He’s already in resurrection.

This Is the Invitation

Some of you are still standing in that dark place.

You’ve buried something.

Lost something.

Watched something fall apart.

And it feels like even your last bit of hope is gone.

But Easter says this:

You don’t have to understand everything… to believe something.

Faith doesn’t wait for full explanation.

It responds to resurrection.

So What Now?

You can’t go back to life before the cross.

But honestly—why would you want to?

Because if death itself has been defeated…

What can actually take you out now?

Hope isn’t weaker after the cross.

It’s stronger.

It’s been tested.

It’s been buried.

And it came back alive.

One Question

Today, the question isn’t:

“Do you understand everything about God?”

It’s this:

Have you seen enough to believe?

Because Jesus is alive.

And He’s already on the other side of what you’re walking through.

And He’s inviting you forward.

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You get up. Go to work. Pay your bills. Handle your business. Keep your head down. Try not to make a mess of things. And if something does break—your truck, your marriage, your finances, your faith—you just figure out how to live with it.

That’s how the world works.

And then Jesus shows up… and messes all of that up.

The Kind of Miracle That Offends People

In John 11, Jesus raises Lazarus from the dead. Not almost dead. Not “barely hanging on.”

Dead. Four days dead.

The kind of dead where people have already grieved, cried, buried, and started figuring out how to move on.

And here’s what gets me—Jesus waited.

He heard Lazarus was sick… and didn’t rush in like a hero. Didn’t sprint to fix it. Didn’t do what we would expect a “good friend” to do.

He let it die.

That bothers us.

Because if we’re honest, we’ve all had moments where we said:

• “Jesus, if You had shown up earlier…”

• “If only You had done something…”

• “If only You didn’t wait…”

That’s real life. That’s raw faith. That’s where Martha and Mary were standing—next to a grave, full of disappointment.

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Jesus Isn’t Just Late—He’s Doing Something Bigger

Martha basically tells Jesus, “You missed it.”

And you can hear it in her voice: It’s too far gone now.

But here’s the truth most of us don’t want to hear:

We don’t just doubt God’s timing…
We doubt His ability to do anything right now.

We believe He used to move.
We believe He might move later.
But in the middle of the mess?
We assume it’s over.

Jesus looks at her and basically says:
“You’re not dealing with a missed moment… you’re dealing with Me. And I am the resurrection.”

Not “I bring resurrection.”
Not “I know about resurrection.”

I am resurrection.

Jesus Will Step Into Your Pain—But He Won’t Leave It Alone

Before Jesus raises Lazarus, He does something that surprises everyone:

He weeps.

Not a polite tear. Not a quiet sniffle.

He breaks down.

Which means this—when your life falls apart, Jesus isn’t distant.

He’s not standing back saying, “Well, you should’ve had more faith.”

He’s right there in it. Feeling it. Carrying it.

• When life crushes you, He feels it.

• When injustice makes your blood boil—He sees it.

• When your heart breaks—He’s not ignoring it.

He weeps.

But don’t miss this:

Jesus will sit with your pain… but He refuses to leave things dead.

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“Roll the Stone Away”

Then comes the moment.

Jesus walks up to the tomb and says something that sounds completely unreasonable:

“Roll the stone away.”

And everybody pushes back.

• “Jesus… it’s gonna stink.”

• “Jesus… it’s been too long.”

• “Jesus… that’s not how this works.”

And honestly, we do the exact same thing.

Jesus says:

• “Forgive them.”
  We say: Not them.

Jesus says:

• “Love your enemies.”
  We say: Let’s be realistic.

Jesus says:

• “Trust me.”
  We say: Let me think about it.

Jesus says:

• “Open that thing you buried.”
  We say: No thanks. That part of my life is done.

We’d rather manage death than believe for resurrection.

Here’s the Problem: Jesus Doesn’t Take Votes

Nobody at that tomb believed this was a good idea.

Not Martha.
Not Mary.
Not the crowd.
Not the religious people.

And it didn’t matter.

Because Jesus isn’t asking for consensus.
He’s not running a committee meeting.

He’s about to bring something dead back to life.

And here’s the line you need to hear:

Jesus will resurrect things—regardless of who it upsets.

Because when dead things come back to life:

• It comforts the broken

• But it threatens the comfortable

That’s why right after this miracle, people started plotting to kill Him.

Resurrection disrupts systems.
It exposes control.
It proves that God—not people—has the final say.

When Jesus Calls Your Name

Jesus prays.
Then He shouts:

“Lazarus, come out!”

And a dead man walks out of a grave.

Wrapped up. Bound up. But alive.

And I can’t help but think—what if Lazarus had stayed in there?

What if he thought, “Nah… I’ve been dead too long.”

But he didn’t.

He responded.

So What About You?

What have you buried?

• A dream?

• A calling?

• Your faith?

• Your joy?

• Your marriage?

• Your hope?

And you’ve already made peace with it. You’ve moved on.

You’ve told yourself:
“It is what it is.”
“Too far gone.”
“Wouldn’t work anyway.”

And Jesus is standing there saying:

“Roll the stone away.”

Yeah—it might stink.
Yeah—it might be uncomfortable.
Yeah—it might shake things up.

But He’s not intimidated by dead things.

Final Thought

You don’t need a perfect past.
You don’t need cleaned-up emotions.
You don’t need to have it all figured out.

You just need to respond when He calls.

Because Jesus is still in the business of resurrection.

And He’s not waiting on approval.

He’s bringing dead things back to life—whether it fits your timeline or not… and whether it makes people comfortable or not.

So if you hear His voice today—

Do whatever he says. There’s resurrection power in that voice.

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Think about a precious newborn baby, all sweetness and wide-eyed wonder. But when that same baby develops an ear infection, something shifts. The discomfort transforms the child completely. What’s within totally changes what comes out. This isn’t just true for babies. It’s true for all of us.

The Pressure We’re All Feeling

Let’s be honest: we’re stressed out. If you’ve “lost it” this week, you’re not alone. A quick search reveals what Americans are most anxious about: inflation, cost of living, personal finances, politics, crime and safety, health concerns, the future of our nation, and anxiety management itself. The list is exhausting just to read.

We’re living in a time when circumstances seem to control us rather than the other way around. Uncertainty doesn’t come in waves anymore—it feels like a flood that never recedes. And here’s the uncomfortable truth: Christians, who supposedly possess the secret to peace and contentment, are often among the most anxious people around.

Beyond Bumper Sticker Theology

“Faith over Fear” became a popular mantra, especially for political manipulation. But let’s be real—this surface-level statement often has a shelf life of about five minutes when a real crisis hits. We need more than catchy phrases. We need something that works when we’re staring down the giants in our lives, when trauma becomes our daily reality.

The Bible isn’t someone else’s story. It’s your story, right now. Those Old Testament accounts—the Red Sea crossing, David slaying Goliath—these aren’t just ancient metaphors. They’re testimonies about the God we serve and His power, available to us today.

So what happens when everything feels like hell? What comes out when you’re squeezed?

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“The Secret of Contentment”

The apostle Paul wrote to the church in Philippi from an ancient prison—not a cell with three meals a day, but essentially a sewer in the ground, downhill from everything, catching all the crap refuse. Yet in this four-chapter letter, Paul uses the word “joy” eleven times. Five times he tells Christians to be joy-filled, to rejoice.

Let that sink in. A man in a literal sewer is writing about joy.

Here’s what he wrote:

”I rejoiced greatly in the Lord that at last you renewed your concern for me. Indeed, you were concerned, but you had no opportunity to show it. I am not saying this because I am in need, for I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want.”
(Philippians 4:10-12)

The word “content” is fascinating. Its root connects to satisfaction and to substance—what’s contained within. Contentment is when what’s contained within brings satisfaction. Using the example from the beginning of this piece, contentment can be something that is SQUEEZED out.

Paul speaks of learning a “secret.” In his culture, mystery religions and pagan cults kept their practices hidden from outsiders. By using this language, Paul is saying he’s been initiated into something—the cult of contentment. But what secrets have we been initiated into? What have we trusted to satisfy us? Social media with its filtered reality? Career promotions? Material success?

The Most Misused Verse

Then comes one of the most quoted—and most misinterpreted—verses in Scripture:

“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” (Philippians 4:13)

This verse has been wrapped around personal desires, posted as motivation for landing that job, and turned into a prosperity promise. But read in context, it means something far deeper: “I can be content in any and every situation through the One who is my power and strength.”

The secret isn’t about getting whatever we want with God’s help. The secret is Christ Himself. Through Christ. In Christ.

What’s Really Inside?

Paul’s experience of Christ transformed everything. In Philippians 2, he describes Jesus’s humility and sacrifice. In chapter 3, he lists his impressive credentials—then declares them worthless compared to knowing Christ. Something in Jesus was so life-giving, so powerful, that everything else became secondary.

Before revealing his secret, Paul writes:

“Always be full of joy in the Lord. I say it again—rejoice! Let everyone see that you are considerate in all you do. Remember, the Lord is coming soon. Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank him for all he has done. Then you will experience God’s peace, which exceeds anything we can understand. His peace will guard your hearts and minds as you live in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 4:4-7)

This isn’t just ancient history. The Bible is true not only because it happened, but because it continues to happen. The “through Christ” part is fluid, present, and active.

The Paradox of Contentment

Here’s something remarkable: being content with our circumstances may actually be what allows us to be discontent with the right things. Paul endured prison and faced death for preaching the gospel. He didn’t do that because he was satisfied with the world as it was. He was deeply discontent with injustice, with people suffering, with souls lost.

When Christ’s love transforms us, it turns our eyes from ourselves onto others. We become less focused on our own situations and more stirred by justice issues—people without food, without help, without hope.

The question becomes: What is your discontentment stirred up about? Are you wasting energy on things that don’t matter, leaving nothing for the things that do?

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Practical Contentment

Close your eyes for a moment. Take time to reflect. What are you anxious about right now? What’s inside you when you’re squeezed? Is it concern for yourself, or concern for others?

The Scripture reminds us: “Fix your thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise.” (Philippians 4:8)

Then comes the practical action: “Keep putting into practice all you learned and received...Then the God of peace will be with you.”

Christians practice hope in active ways. Schedule time for prayer—set it as a rhythm in your life. Sit, breathe, pray, listen. Even if all you can do is repeat the Lord’s Prayer, start there.

Then ask: What’s one action I can take that will invoke hope? How can I be the hands and feet of Jesus to my neighbor, my community?

What’s inside will come out. The question is: what are you filling yourself with? When life squeezes you—and it will—may what pours out be the peace, joy, and love of Christ that surpasses all understanding.

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I used to print this out in full and hand it out on the Sunday before MLK Day. I may start back. We need the provocation. We need to listen. We need to be willing to sit in the uncomfortable silence that is the Holy Spirit at work, rather than speed to applaud and fill the space with noise.

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While in jail for participating in the Birmingham desegregation campaign, the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. began writing what became known as the “Letter from Birmingham Jail” on April 16, 1963. In this rare and direct response to his critics, Dr. King defended the actions of the Birmingham protesters, questioned the role of white moderates and southern faith leaders in the civil rights movement, and expounded on the intended consequences of non-violent resistance. Although initially addressed to eight “liberal” Alabama clergymen, the letter gained a wider audience once published in the June editions of Christian Century magazine and Atlantic Monthly.

In his letter, Dr. King insisted on the need for immediate racial change and the absolute necessity of protest until change occurred. He called on leaders in the southern church to actively support social reform. As you read the excerpts below, notice King’s focus on the role of the individual in combating racism and the legal segregation that then existed in the South.

Source: “Letter from Birmingham Jail’” The Christian Century: An Ecumenical Weekly, June 12, 1963, 767-773.

My Dear Fellow Clergymen:

While confined here in the Birmingham City Jail, I came across your recent statement calling our present activities “unwise and untimely.” Seldom, if ever, do I pause to answer criticism of my work and ideas. . . But since I feel that you are men of genuine good will and your criticisms are sincerely set forth, I would like to answer your statement in what I hope will be patient and reasonable terms.

I think I should give the reason for my being in Birmingham, since you have been influenced by the argument of “outsiders coming in.” I have the honor of serving as president of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, an organization operating in every Southern state with headquarters in Atlanta, Georgia. We have some 85 affiliate organizations all across the South . . . . Several months ago our local affiliate here in Birmingham invited us to be on call to engage in a nonviolent direct action program if such were deemed necessary. We readily consented . . . .

II

In any nonviolent campaign there are four basic steps: collection of the facts to determine whether injustices exist, negotiation, self-purification and direct action. We have gone through all of these steps in Birmingham. . . Birmingham is probably the most thoroughly segregated city in the United States. Its ugly record of police brutality is widely known. Its unjust treatment of Negroes in the courts is a notorious reality. There have been more unsolved bombings of Negro homes and churches in Birmingham than in any other city in this nation. These are the hard, brutal facts of the case. On the basis of these conditions Negro leaders sought to negotiate with the city fathers. But the latter consistently refused to engage in good-faith negotiation.

Then last September came the opportunity last September to talk with the leaders of Birmingham’s economic community. In the course of the negotiations certain promises were made by the merchants—for example, the promise to remove the stores’ humiliating racial signs. On the basis of these promises the Rev. Fred Shuttlesworth and the leaders of the Alabama Christian Movement for Human Rights agreed to call a moratorium on all demonstrations. As the weeks and months went by we realized that we were the victims of a broken promise. The signs remained.

As in so many experiences in the past, our hopes had been blasted, and our disappointment was keenly felt. We had no alternative except to prepare for direct action, whereby we would present our very bodies as a means of laying our case before the conscience of the local and national community. Mindful of the difficulties involved, we decided to take a process of self-purification. We began a series of workshops on nonviolence, and we repeatedly asked ourselves: “Are you able to accept blows without retaliating?” “Are you able to endure the ordeals of jail?”. . . .

III

You may well ask, “Why direct action? Why sit-ins, marches, etc.? Isn’t negotiation a better path?” You are quite right in calling for negotiation. Indeed, this is the very purpose of direct action. Nonviolent direct action seeks to foster such a tension that a community which has constantly refused to negotiate is forced to confront the issue. . . .

. . . My friends, I must say to you that we have not made a single gain in civil rights without legal and nonviolent pressure. Lamentably, it is a historical fact that privileged groups seldom give up their privileges voluntarily. Individuals may see the moral light and voluntarily give up their unjust posture; but as Reinhold Niebuhr has reminded us, groups tend to be more immoral than individuals.

We know through painful experience that freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed. Frankly I have yet to engage in a direct action campaign that was “well timed” in the view of those who have not suffered unduly from the disease of segregation. For years now I have heard the word “Wait!” It rings in the ear of every Negro with piercing familiarity. This “wait” has almost always meant “Never.” As on of distinguished jurists once said “Justice too long delayed is justice denied.”

IV

We have waited for more than 340 years for our constitutional and God-given rights. The nations of Asia and Africa are moving with jetlike speed toward gaining political independence, but we still creep at horse-and-buggy pace toward the gaining of a cup of coffee at a lunch counter. Perhaps it is easy for those who have never felt the stinging darts of segregation to say “Wait.” But when you have seen vicious mobs lynch your mothers and fathers at will and drown your sisters and brothers at whim; when you have seen hate-filled policemen curse, kick, and even kill your black brothers and sisters with impunity; when you see the vast majority of your 20 million Negro brothers smothering in an airtight cage of poverty in the midst of an affluent society; when you suddenly find your tongue twisted and your speech stammering as you seek to explain to your six-year-old daughter why she can’t go to the public amusement park that has just been advertised on television, and see tears welling up when she is told that Funtown is closed to colored children, and see ominous clouds of inferiority beginning to form in her little mental sky, and see her beginning to distort her personality by unconsciously developing a bitterness toward white people; when you have to concoct an answer for a five-year-old son asking “Daddy, why do white people treat colored people so mean?”; when you take a cross country drive and find it necessary to sleep night after night in the uncomfortable corners of your automobile because no motel will accept you; when you are humiliated day in and day out by nagging signs reading “white” and “colored”; when your first name becomes “nigger,” your middle name becomes “boy” (however old you are) and your last name becomes “John,” and your wife and mother are never given the respected title of “Mrs.”; when you are harried by day and haunted by night by the fact that you are a Negro, never quite knowing what to expect next, and are plagued with inner fears and outer resentments; when you are forever fighting a degenerating sense of “nobodiness”—then you will understand why we find it difficult to wait. There comes a time when the cup of endurance runs over, and men are no longer willing to be plunged into an abyss of injustice where they experience the bleakness of corroding despair. I hope, sirs, you can understand our legitimate and unavoidable impatience.

. . . .

VI

I must make two honest confessions to you, my Christian and Jewish brothers. First, I must confess that over the last few years I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro’s great stumbling block in the stride toward freedom is not the White citizens’ Councilor or the Ku Klux Klanner but the white moderate who is more devoted to “order” than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says “I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I cannot agree with your methods”; who paternistically feels he can set the timetable for another man’s freedom; who lives by a mythical concept of time and who constantly advises the Negro to wait for a “more convenient season.” Shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection. . . .

VII

You spoke of our activity in Birmingham as extreme. At first I was rather disappointed that fellow clergymen would see my nonviolent efforts as those of an extremist. I began thinking about the fact that I stand in the middle of two opposing forces in the Negro community. One is a force of complacency made up of Negroes who, as a result of long years of oppression, are so completely drained of self-respect and a sense of “somebodiness” that they have adjusted to segregation, and of a few middle-class Negroes who, because of a degree of academic and economic security and because in some ways they profit by segregation, have unconsciously become insensitive to the problems of the masses. The other force is one of bitterness and hatred, and it comes perilously close to advocating violence. It is expressed in the various black nationalist groups that are springing up across the nation, the largest and best known being Elijah Muhammad’s Muslim movement. Nourished by the Negro’s frustration over the continued existence of racial discrimination, this movement is made up of people who have lost faith in America, who have absolutely repudiated Christianity, and who have concluded that the white man is an incorrigible “devil”. . . .

VIII

. . . The Negro has many pent-up resentments and latent frustrations and he must release them. So let him march; let him make prayer pilgrimages to the city hall; let him go on—and try to understand why must do so. If his repressed emotions are not released in nonviolent ways, they will seek ominous expression through violence; that is not a threat but a fact of history. So I have not said to my people, “Get rid of your discontent.” Rather I have tried to say that this normal and healthy discontent can be channeled into the creative outlet of nonviolent direct action. . . .

IX

In spite of my shattered dreams, I came to Birmingham with the hope that the white religious leadership of this community would see the justice of our cause and with deep moral concern would serve as the channel through which our just grievances could reach the power structure. But again I have been disappointed.

I have heard numerous southern religious leaders admonish their worshippers to comply with a desegregation decision because it is the law, but I have longed to hear white ministers declare “Follow this decree because integration is morally right and because the Negro is your brother.” In the midst of blatant injustices inflicted upon the Negro I have watched white churchmen stand on the sideline and mouth pious irrelevancies and sanctimonious trivialities. In the midst of a mighty struggle to rid our nation of racial and economic injustice I have heard many ministers say, “Those are social issues with which the Gospel has no real concern,” and I have watched many churches commit themselves to a completely other worldly religion which made a strange unbiblical distinction between body and soul, between the sacred and the secular. . . .

. . .

XIII

I hope this letter finds you strong in the faith. I also hope that circumstances will soon make it possible for me to meet each of you, not as an integrationist or a civil rights leader, but as a fellow clergyman and a Christian brother. Let us all hope that the dark clouds of racial prejudice will soon pass away and the deep fog of misunderstanding will be lifted from our fear-drenched communities and in some not too distant tomorrow the radiant stars of love and brotherhood will shine over our great nation with all of their scintillating beauty.

Amen. Thank you, Dr. King.

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Not that anything new was said, I just had really expected my generation to be better than the last.

She talked about the standard drama stuff with school, the petty, self-indulgent kind of things you expect from others who haven’t yet learned how to be a friend.

And she talked of teachers, other adults, and the like. They all had something in common.

They all went to church. They all vote (or would vote) the same way. They all had some kitchy phrase sewn, etched, or bedazzled (ok, prob not) on a product from an eager Etsy seller. You know, something that takes a cliché and makes it feel like this piece of fabric, sticker, whatever—this thing displays an original thought.

You know, something like, “Live, Laugh, Love.”

Everyone knows it isn’t original (or even very real), but they pawn and smile when they see it because it’s permission to play in their world. It’s nice enough.

And then she said it. “I just wish these people knew that they could choose kindness. Like, it’s a real option. You don’t even have to be a Christian to be kind. But they all say they’re Christians. I just wish the Christians knew they could be kind.”

At this point, dear reader, you’re probably asking— what in the world did they do? What mean-spirited thing was said? And that’s the damning thing of it all— it wasn’t words so much as action.

It was a roll of the eyes and a snicker when a certain person walked into the room.

It was an arrogant certainty about border control.

It was an overzealous reliance on their parents’ (or whichever echo chamber) opinions that seemed to foster a critical mass against anyone who thinks differently, regardless of unsupported data.

It was a closing of the friend circle when someone broke the unwritten rules.

It was an absence of grace. Grace had been choked out long ago by the fun of shame.

And I lamented again—this isn’t a teenage-drama problem. This isn’t a generational thing as I had hoped. This is who we’ve become, whether we believe in it or not. We’ve collectively given in to the fear. And we’ve built our own walls among our groups.

But there is hope. There is a way to break it down. We can embody the Christ in these moments of conditioned response. We can rebel. We can disrupt it all.

We can choose to be kind.

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Interrupting perspectives with no pushback

Imitating authority, demanding allegiance

Intoxicated by a loud version of morality, or spirituality, or whatever

Impressed when our biases are confirmed

Imagination suppressed-- fear stoked

Itching for resolve, we collapse into an echo chamber

Insulated, protected, we feel safe

It’s all the same

In a turn of phrase that feels biblical,

Injecting their poison, Newly and Bricusse wrote in 1971,

“If you want to view paradise, Simply look around and view it...”

Infected by this tiny virus called curiosity

(It’s the healthiest sickness I could’ve hoped for)

I’ve been forever marked with

Impressive bite marks that still swell red 40+ years later.

Instructing me, no,

Imploring me

To be curious. Ask questions. Talk back.

Seek perspective. Don’t be told how to think.

And it’s served me well. I hope I never get better.

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The ones in front of me were the first to be named: one, two, three...

And then I looked to the right, and the left.

Four, five six...

I got to eleven before it became overwhelming.

There were too many waves. Coming to shore way too fast for me to catch.

I sat there in silence; I knew I couldn’t count the waves.

And I heard the voice say,

“Yeah, this is my focus on you.

This is how small you are in front of my crashing love.

Wave after wave, up and down the shore, dwarfing you.

Enjoy.”

And I did. I enjoyed it. I felt the tears of surprised gratitude circle my eyes.

And I sat there. Overwhelmed.

And started counting the waves again.

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This past week broke my heart. It sucked.

When I was a kid, I wasn’t allowed to say the word I that I just used there, but words sometimes fail us, and silence feels worse. I look at my children and I don’t have tidy answers for murder, terror, or the sudden, ordinary fear that no one is safe. We have grown sadly familiar with tragic headlines — 9/11, Katrina, Charlottesville, COVID — but familiarity must never become acceptance. I pray we never grow used to evil.

As your pastor, I want to speak plainly and pastorally to remind you of a few things. I know how quickly strong opinions can splinter a church family. I also know how fear can keep us from saying or doing what we should: fear of saying the wrong thing, or not saying enough, or not being strong enough. But fear is never the path God calls us to. Fear always keeps us from the best things in the Kingdom of God. So, what do I feel, after much prayer, that we need to be reminded of? Well, here goes...

1. Evil is real — and so is the power of Christ.
   What we saw this week was not merely bad behavior; it exposed a brokenness and a spiritual darkness that wounds our world. But we serve a Savior who meets that darkness. When Christ cast out demons, there was a pattern: the demonic activity was most violent right before the casting out. I am holding on to the Christ that can save us, and I point you in that direction. I pray for a holy exorcism of evil that claims one person has more value than another. Discrimination and hatred do not exist in God's Kingdom. I pray for a cleansing mercy in our land and in our hearts — a holy reckoning that the lie “one person is worth less” be undone. In God’s kingdom, there is no place for hatred or discrimination.

2. The church is the image of Jesus in this world...or it isn't the church of Jesus. Together, we bear not only the image of Christ, but the power of the Holy Spirit within us. While the darkness and the evil have real effects, it does not diminish our calling. No, we worship in defiance. The highest form of worship that we can give is to show up, refuse to sit quietly, and love loudly. We are a hub of hope for people in this community and around the world. The church is a safe place for the oppressed, the depressed, and the possessed. We are the freedom champions: freedom from sin, hate, anger, depression, sickness, rejection, and denial. We are not small-minded or ashamed of who we are in Christ. We are the image bearers of Christ, inflicting this world with acceptance and understanding, with an outward focus of love and respect for everyone; with an attraction, an appetite to find the kids in the lunchroom who have been made fun of and invite them to our table. We bring dignity to people.

3. Nothing — not politics, nationality, job, or ideology — must come before Christ. If anything stands between you and complete submission to Jesus, hear this as an invitation to repentance. The church is a place of welcome, but also of honest conviction: we will love you through your struggle, and we will pray for you, and we will ask the Holy Spirit to guide you into surrender. The gospel is not neutral; it is disruptive. We follow Jesus before any empire, party, or agenda. If your politics, or your job, or your nationalism, or anything else comes before being a fully devoted follower of Jesus, repent. Turn from that false gospel.

So what do we do now? Here are a few things to pray through and see what the Spirit says to you:

• If you follow Jesus, go all in. Stop playing it safe. Let your life be shaped by God’s story more than comfort, reputation, or fear. Find your place to serve, take a step to grow in faith, and let God give you courage through purpose.

• If you’re not a follower of Jesus, keep coming. Let us love you well. Come as you are and let this community welcome and care for you. You are not here by accident — you are why we exist.

• If you are a long-time believer who’s grown weary, pray with intensity and obey boldly the next thing God puts in front of you. There is resurrection for passion; worship can be your protest against the powers of despair. Sing, serve, and let obedience rekindle the flame.

We will grieve together. We will not trade our worship for fear or for any cause that contradicts Christ. We will stand for dignity, justice, and love. We will keep pointing to Jesus.

I love you, AFA. We will walk through this season together — grieving, praying, and refusing to let evil have the last word.

Your fellow image bearer,
Pastor Nate

I remember (a version) of this quote from when I first read Lewis’s A Grief Observed.

The confident AMENS from confident church go-ers echo off the sanctuary walls immediately when I imagine using this quote in a sermon. It’s a good quote. Clickbait worthy, even.

But it is not a pithy, shallow quote. Honestly, I don’t fully remember if this is the actual quote or if it was something I inferred from what he said. But I know the heart of this quote is at the heart of what he wrote.

The truth is that it takes a great deal of humility to embody. I cannot just say this statement, smile, and move on as if I have agreed with the great thinker. This statement demands humility.

Firstly, I must be willing to admit that my idea of God may be wrong. And this sucks because if I have been wrong about my idea, then what good is what I believe? See, I have studied, wrestled, and worked hard to be certain of my beliefs. But what if God’s purpose has nothing to do with my certainty?

That means I have to give up control. I don’t like that. Control gives me a feeling of safety. And it is certainly not safe to say that my ideas about God— the things I’ve learned, studied, heard preached, preached myself, etc.— evolve. Yikes.

To say these words requires a vulnerability that is accompanied by fear and trembling— feelings that do not come with certainty. I must be willing to meet the God who is God, and not just my version of Him. What happens when he changes my ideas, grows me in suffering, and marks me beyond my control? I can’t control that. I can’t even predict or plan for that.

I can only experience and grow into it. And I want to want to know that God.

We live in a world addicted to speed. Do more. Build more. Post more. Achieve more. And when you can’t keep up? Well, you feel like a failure.

Sound familiar? Welcome to the disease of our age. Call it FOMO. Call it hustle culture. Call it the lie that says your worth comes from how much you can cram into a day. Whatever name you slap on it, the result is the same: burned-out bodies, numb hearts, and lonely souls.

And pastors aren’t immune. Actually, pastors might be the worst offenders. We baptize busyness and slap a Jesus sticker on it. But at the end of the day, we’re exhausted, sulking like Jonah outside Nineveh—mad that God didn’t do things our way, too tired to notice He actually just saved an entire city.

Jonah and the Shrinking Imagination

Eugene Peterson once said Jonah was “seething with gospel creativity” but too unpracticed in God’s ways to recognize it.1 His imagination was too small. He could only picture God’s wrath. When God’s mercy showed up, Jonah missed it—because he was locked into his own script.

That’s us. We sulk when ministry doesn’t go the way we planned. We want the wins to look a certain way—attendance, budgets, relevance. And when God moves differently, we can’t see it because our imagination has flatlined.

It’s not just pastors. Most of us live with stunted imaginations. We can dream up ways to produce, consume, and control, but we can’t imagine what it would look like to actually rest, to live as humans instead of machines.

Why We’re Dying Inside

Here’s a brutal truth: our hearts are hard. The pace, the ambition, the endless proving—layer by layer, it calcifies us. And then we wonder why nothing stirs us anymore.

But God designed us differently. Flip back to Genesis: humans were created on day six. And what happened on day seven? God rested. Which means humanity’s very first full day was spent doing nothing. Resting. Being.

That wasn’t an accident. God wasn’t dangling rest as some prize we earn after hustling hard enough. Rest was the starting line. The first sunrising breath of human life was inhaled in God’s Sabbath.

Andrew Root puts it plainly: “When the seventh day is lost, the other six days no longer provide life to us.”2 Without rest, we’re just cogs—alive in body but dead in soul.

Fast forward to today. We’ve traded that gift for a productivity cult. We treat Sabbath like a self-care hack, a way to refuel so we can go back to hustling even harder. But Sabbath was never about efficiency. It’s rebellion. A holy disruption of the "success" system.

Rest as Resistance

When Israel received the Ten Commandments, they weren’t handed a set of arbitrary rules. They were given a survival guide for freedom. Former slaves don’t just need chains broken off their wrists; they need slavery beaten out of their imagination.

The Sabbath command wasn’t busywork—it was liberation. God saying: You’re not cogs in Pharaoh’s machine anymore. You’re free people. Live like it.

That’s still true. Sabbath rest isn’t a spiritual to-do list. It’s a state of being, a refusal to play by the world’s scoreboard of success, influence, and nonstop motion.

Taking a day of rest isn’t about “balance.” It’s about declaring, with your schedule, that you belong to God and not to the system (a sanctified middle finger to the system, if that can be a thing).

Resonance > Hustle

Resonance is what happens when your soul and God’s Spirit hum in tune. When life stops being about white-knuckling control and starts being about living awake to grace. It’s not a formula. Not a strategy. It’s more like a posture. A new imagination.

Think about music: one note alone is fine, but when it hits the right frequency, the whole room vibrates. That’s resonance. And that’s what God designed us for—not frantic noise, but deep vibration with His heart.

But here’s the catch: resonance doesn’t come when you’re sprinting at full speed. It comes in the pauses. In the stillness. In the waiting. In the sacred space where you quit trying to prove and start learning how to receive.

Some Wise Guides

I’m not the first to notice this. Peterson called pastors back to slow, rooted, ordinary faithfulness. Root points out how Sabbath reminds us we are more than the “life” six days can offer.

Others like Pete Scazzero (Emotionally Healthy Spirituality), Rich Villodas (The Deeply Formed Life), and Bessel van der Kolk (The Body Keeps the Score) have all said the same thing in different ways: if you don’t stop, you will die. And when you die in this cult, all the noise, hustle, and grind won’t resurrect you.

The Invitation

So maybe the most countercultural thing you could do this week isn’t downloading another productivity app, or squeezing more “quiet time” into your already bloated schedule. Maybe it’s stopping. Turning off the noise. Saying no to the system.

Rest isn’t weakness. Sabbath isn’t laziness. Resonance isn’t passivity. They’re acts of resistance. Weapons against the grind. And maybe, just maybe, they’re the only way back to actually feeling alive.

So stop hustling. Start resonating.

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Pastors always seemed to be a different species. They had a way of talking to us that varied from smiling salesman to angry scream preaching. When I felt that God may be calling me to be a pastor, I outright refused. I don't know that I ever vocalized this, but, as a teenager, the last thing I wanted to do with my life was to ruin it by becoming a pastor. And for good reason.

Today, I am a pastor. And now that I have reached "midlife" (in my 40s), I look back at the teenage version of Nate and I have a very clear perspective on that hesitancy I felt. After twenty+ years in ministry and after pastoring in a few different settings, I can confirm that my teenage instincts were spot on-- at least as it relates to the version of pastor that I knew of at the time, and the version of pastor that seminaries and churches have tended to produce.

My experience with most pastors has taught me that most of us don't really know what we're doing (gasp). Many folks have written about this, and my experience certainly isn't shared by most. But what I have seen and personally experienced is that pastors are too often no different than other corporate leaders: they are bombarded by the need to succeed. And what does it mean to succeed as a pastor? Well, in our context (American SOUTH), it means more butts in seats (pews, back in the 80s and 90s), more bucks in the budget (good offerings), and more smiles on people’s faces than frowns. One of the biggest differences is that pastors usually have far less money, employees, and ways to generate income than most business owners.

The pressures for success are exacerbated in denominational meetings, which are more of an environment that fosters shame rather than encouragement. Successful pastors are often platformed and voted into important offices, while those who are less successful are perceived as the ones holding back the denomination. They are the pastors who need the "help" of the successful ones-- and this is practiced but never said out loud.

Of course, my teenage self didn't know any of this as I curled my nose in disgust at the thought of being a pastor. All I saw was the effect of such things, which I interpreted only to be that pastors were nerds, salesmen, serious all the time, sad, poor. I clearly see now what people like Andrew Root have written about. It isn't that pastors have a personality defect (well, some certainly do), but that the church has been captured by the secular age.

That last sentence is a pretty damning indictment. Let me unpack it. Root has written extensively about the secular age and the church (for the better part of a decade in multiple volumes), and the bottom line that I perceive is that the church of Jesus only has an imagination for the secular age (at least most of the churches that I've experienced in the American SOUTH) and interprets their success or failure to be a result of what their pastors do or don't do. Essentially, if a church has more butts in the seats and more bucks in the bank than they did last year, then they are considered okay, successful, and oblivious to the national decline in church attendance and efficacy. "The secular age accelerates our lives, and we can only imagine more or nothing. Secular logic tells us there are two speeds-- fast or dead."* And herein (according to Root) is the real threat: the American church embodies the secular age and no longer holds an imagination for their God to do anything that matters. It is all dependent on them.

Back to pastoring:

Eugene Peterson wrote of how pastoring is more than "keeping shop" in a couple of his books on pastoral theology. I see this description to be another example of Root's secular age descriptions. And we pastors will keep shop, fall into the secular imagination's rut of "MORE;" we have repressed our very humanity at times (to our own and our family's detriments). And why? Because our imagination has been hijacked, and it has, in turn, hijacked the church. This is the crisis as Root sees it.

The crisis isn’t that pastors and churches are bad. Please hear my heart, here— pastors and churches are victims to the secularization that Root points out. None of the pastors from my youth and childhood were bad people— they were products of the system (the secular system). I have much love for pastors. So much so, that I can see how dehumanizing the secular age of success has been for each of them, personally— and for me.

And this whole time I just thought pastors weren't cool (well, we aren't). It goes much deeper. It goes to our very human experience. "If we find meaning only in activities that pay us, then there is a very big draw to do more work. More work equals more value, and more value equals more meaning. Want a meaningful life? Work more." What a fallacy! And, if you stop to think deeply about it, this isn't just a pastor's experience. It's yours, too.

To this day, this is the person I never wanted to be (but tragically I have sometimes become), trapped within the prison of the secular imagination. Yes, I haven't walked through this vocation unscathed, and, thank God, the friction has never left. I thank God for that teenager who grimaced, because, even though I didn't know it at the time, I saw something that should have turned my stomach. I saw people who were refusing to be fully human, and I (to this day) want to be fully human.

I want to experience fullness, laughter that causes drink to come out of my nose, closeness with others that plunges past my insecurities. Root calls this "resonance" (a concept I first read about from Hartmut Rosa). It is "the opposite of more, an... experience of being so present to someone or something else that we feel like we have discovered ourselves again. Life must have resonance; otherwise it is just busyness."

This sounds more like the Abundant Life promised by Jesus in John 10 than anything else I’ve seen in our modern secular age. I want to write more on this way of being, because I’m going to keep grimacing like a teenager (side eye included) at our other versions of pastor.

*Quoted statements taken from When Church Stops Working by Andrew Root

Becoming a pastor is the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done. I assumed seminary would provide the foundation for pastoring, leadership, and life—and, if successful, I would celebrate several accomplishments: growing church attendance, increasing income, and more baptisms each year. And this would be fulfilling— because, based on what I have seen, these were the things that fulfilled successful churches and pastors. As a junior in seminary, I distinctly remember our then seminary president angrily challenging us would-be ministers:

• Are you a fighter jet pastor or a hot air balloon pastor?

• Are you a Ferrari or a Prius?

• Are you a racehorse or a jackass?

Like most evangelical graduates, I didn’t want to be a jackass (or a Prius). I had clear goals when it came to ministry, and I knew that being a great pastor meant that I would have to achieve these goals.

I’ve been pastoring for over two decades now, and guess what? I might be a jackass. These goals haven’t fulfilled me— they’ve strained me. I’ve become even more uncertain about what being a pastor really means in this ever-changing landscape of the American church.

Not only because of the strain to perform, but also due to stories of abuse (money, sex and power), shocking secrets and podcasts like “Bodies Behind the Bus”—to divisive denominational outcomes, and the realities that have followed the 2020 pandemic, my deconstructing peers, there’s a whole bunch of stuff I could dive into and dissect regarding our American church.

We're really good at naming and recognizing the damage inside the church-- and if we articulate or double down with more vision, more events, more strategy, we are adding to the trouble. No. We need healing-- we need Jesus-- we need to say God's name.

But we also need to understand what has happened in ourselves and within our churches.

Pentecostal scholar, Cheryl Bridges Johns, bottom lines the straining very well.

By the mid-twentieth century, the immanent frame of modernity, the assertion that lives should be primarily natural, was fast becoming a core part of the Evangelical world. Seeker-friendly churches seemed to be working hard at blocking out transcendence and any sense of the sacramental. The emphasis on meeting individual needs and programs facilitating "purpose-driven lives" made it difficult to imagine divine action. Excarnation became normative.

Excarnation is the opposite of incarnation. Instead of God becoming human, humans have been unsuccessfully attempting to become fully god, which drips with original sin. THIS EXCARNATION is the problem that pushes us into strain rather than strength. What I have had to realize is that I have lived within the EXCARNATION more than the INCARNATION— and man, have I missed His Holy Presence— and the Holy Presence of his church.

Eugene Peterson offered me an imagination for what pastoring without straining could look like:

Pastoral work is fundamentally creative work. …If we in fact believe in the Holy Spirit, then we must not at the same time try to moonlight as efficiency experts in religion. We cannot nurture the life of the Spirit in a parishioner while holding a stopwatch. We cannot apply time management techniques to the development of souls.

There is more to pastoring than the straining. There is strength and healing for our hearts, especially those of us, like me, whose hearts have already been damaged.

The pastoral vocation isn’t something that is achieved, only lived. Holy presence is incredibly elusive when it is reduced to a task or a goal. Here are a few grounding perspectives/wonderings that I have found helpful— imagine us having a conversation, and I lean forward and ask you a few things:

• I wonder how the ministry has strained you?

• Tell about a time in ministry when you had a certain expectation that didn’t align with the reality of what God had called you to do.

• I wonder what it looks like for the church to be a holy presence for you?

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