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What happens when a book on the unreasonableness of Critical Theory becomes itself, quite unreasonable?

As I shared in a recent post, I came across an intriguing title at my local library in the usually disappointing Religion and Christianity section.

Titled Critical Dilemma: The Rise of Critical Theories and Social Justice Ideology—Implications for the Church and Society by Neil Shenvi and Pat Sawyer, I began the book with some measure of suspicion, especially given the publisher being Harvest Apologetics—a publishing house that certainly sounded conservative-coded.

Early on, I was actually quite impressed.

What I found was what felt like a very honest and accurate assessment of various forms of what the authors call “contemporary critical theory” (CCT): critical race theory, queer theory, and related schools of thought. At times, I was unsure whether they were even proponents of these ideas, based on how carefully and sympathetically they explained them. More than that, I found myself understanding these theories in greater detail than I had before.

Now, before I get too deep into critique, I want to acknowledge a few things.

First, I do think Shenvi and Sawyer make a genuine good-faith effort to describe these theories fairly.

Second, as much as I expected a culture-war diatribe, this was anything but—at least at first.

And finally, they rightly acknowledge the reality of injustice in America, writing:

“Real social injustices do exist. Racism does exist. Sexism does exist. Actual oppression does exist” (19).

And again:

“Too few Americans are sufficiently acquainted with America’s racist history. For those of us who are citizens of the United States, our nation has been marked and marred by the scourge of racism” (42).

I could share several more examples.

But beyond that, the book falls short in a few fairly obvious ways.

First: Less is More Sometimes

Simply put—it’s too long.

As an avid reader, I can often tell when a book begins to run out of gas, so to speak. It’s something I worry about in my own writing and forthcoming book.

This book clocks in at nearly 500 pages and, as much as I appreciated the detail, by the end it became exhausting. I genuinely think a hundred pages could have been trimmed without sacrificing much.

The authors clearly know their material.

But knowing your material and sustaining reader momentum are not always the same thing.

Second: Throwing the Baby Out With the Bathwater

My deeper concern, however, is that Shenvi and Sawyer become almost too suspicious of CCT—as though it is essentially unredeemable.

I’m not convinced.

Ironically, I think they do a good job naming what concerns me most.

They describe a kind of works-based moral framework in which:

“White privilege is [the] original sin; it has stained [every] White person. It has corrupted… every thought and action and cannot be avoided. Yet [white people] can achieve a ‘clear conscience’ by trying [their] best to disrupt… oppressive behavior, to apologize to people of color, and to ‘do the work’ of unlearning… whiteness” (357).

I hope to write more about this broader dynamic later, but for now I’m reminded of a point made in Disabling Leadership by Draper, Michel, and Mae.1

They write:

“We do not fear or demonize critical studies, nor do we end in deconstruction alone, but rather we use critical studies to help us describe the kingdoms of this world that will fall before the kingdom of God” (20).

And further:

“critical studies alone does not sow the seeds of new life” (19).

That distinction strikes me as exactly right.

Where critical studies can fall short—and where Draper, Michel, and Mae are helpful—is not necessarily in diagnosing injustice but in offering a compelling path toward redemption.

And this is where I think Shenvi and Sawyer overcorrect.

Rather than critically engaging and selectively receiving what may be true or useful, they sometimes seem to proverbially throw the baby out with the bathwater.

I don’t think critical studies are always wrong in their diagnoses of injustice. Rather, like Draper, Michel, and Mae suggest, they may struggle to offer redemption beyond forms of moral labor or works-based righteousness.

That, I believe, stands at odds with the gospel.

But even then, I still think there are things to learn from critical studies—provided they do not become our totalizing ideology.2

Third: The Problem of Voice

A third critique.

The authors spend considerable time critiquing critical race theory and Black Christian leaders aligned with aspects of it.

Now, I understand their critique of “lived experience” and agree that truth ought to be identifiable regardless of one’s skin color—those are my words, not theirs.

Regarding lived experience, they lament how it has trumped:

“even… pastors seeking to apply the Bible’s teachings to social issues” (294).

Fair enough.

But even still, I found myself struggling with something.

All this critique of critical race theory and Black Christian leaders is still coming primarily from a white man and a half-white/half-Indian man (Shenvi describes himself this way).

And honestly?

By the end, it just started to feel a bit…icky.

Maybe I’m too shaped by the very critical studies they critique and the prioritization of lived experience.

Maybe.

But I still think that section would have landed far better had portions been written—or at least substantially informed—by African American scholars or pastors.3

Finally: It Goes Off the Rails

And perhaps most disappointingly, the book simply seemed to lose its footing by the end.

On page 405, the authors write:

“Therefore, we urge our egalitarian brothers and sisters in Christ to recognize and reject the underlying assumptions of queer theory. If they don’t, it will be difficult to put the genie back in the bottle.”

I read widely across the Christian tradition and honestly cannot remember seeing egalitarianism correlated so directly with queer theory.

I can only imagine the eye rolls from someone like , who has advocated for egalitarianism from a deeply orthodox Christian perspective for years.

But I digress.

That was my last highlight before I largely skimmed the rest.

By that point, the book stopped feeling insightful and started becoming the sort of culture-war argument I had worried it might be from the beginning.

Final Thought

I’m not looking for critical studies to be the gospel.

But neither am I willing to say they have nothing to offer altogether.

In fact, what this book has helped me realize is that my own questions are becoming more specific.

If critical studies can help diagnose injustice, where exactly do they fall short?
What happens when critique becomes an identity or ideology unto itself?
And perhaps most importantly, what does redemption look like once deconstruction has done its work?

I hope to explore those questions in some follow-up posts.

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Are We Really Free?

Recently I was having coffee with a good friend, and as we are wont to do, we began talking about what the other had been reading. Myself, as someone who’s a pastor and general church nerd, always tends to read around church or theology or culture. He is a business executive coach, so he often reads about topics such as leadership and coaching and that sort of thing.

And sometimes he even reads beyond those boundaries.

But when he shared the name of the most recent book he had been reading, I was quite surprised. The topic and the title were a bit taboo, in fact.

I was immediately curious.

As someone who cannot, cannot, cannot resist an intriguing title, ⁓ I’ve already, in fact, taken home a book and read it from the church library here.

I was immediately drawn by the title and went to our local library to download the audio version of the book.

The book title is this:

Existential Kink: Unmask Your Shadow and Embrace Your Power, a method for getting what you want by getting off on what you don’t.

No.

Now I must admit I feel a little sheepish saying those words in church and even especially from the pulpit, but I figure ⁓ this is Pride Month, so we say things that are unorthodox or untraditional, and I can get away with it perhaps.

And if not, I’m only here for, you know, how many more weeks?

As it turns out, this is a sermon about a kind of freedom that most would not understand.

The Patterns We Keep Repeating

Existential Kink is a self-help book by Carolyn Elliott, and she argues that our recurring negative patterns persist because at some level we are unconsciously attached to them. And by bringing these hidden desires into light, they lose their power over us and we become free to live differently.

She’s seeking to build off the words of the famed psychologist Carl Jung.

Who was German, guess, right? So it fits well in this context.

That he said,

Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.

Listening to the author as she reads these words, I couldn’t get away from the question:

What if she’s right?

What if we’re not nearly as free as we think we are?

We say we’re free, but we don’t live like it.

And while Elliot’s language is certainly provocative, I suspect most of us would recognize that same basic premise.

We know what it’s like to find ourselves stuck in these same patterns again and again and again.

We swear we’ll respond differently next time.

We promise we’ll finally let it go.

We tell ourselves that we’re done.

We’re done with that bad habit, that resentment, that way of thinking.

And yet somehow.

Somehow we find ourselves there again and again.

Alas, I found myself there this past week.

Which raises, I suppose, for us a rather uncomfortable question.

Are we really as free as we think ourselves to be?

And if we’re not, what do we do about it?

We often move toward tactics of control and strategy.

We make vision boards, vision statements, we practice visualization, but these can sort of function like wallpaper over a deeper rot.

And until we address these underlying issues, the same black mold will just seep through, infecting our relationships, our actions, and our overall well being.

And perhaps this is where I suppose things get a little interesting, because maybe the deeper issue is not that we need to get a better hold of ourselves, develop better strategies for when we lose our temper, or even become more disciplined versions of ourselves.

Again, none of these are bad per se.

But it’s sort of like wallpapering over the black mold.

It’s not solving the root excuse me, it’s not solving the rot at the core of the problem.

And the deeper question is this:

Why do we keep returning to the things that hurt us?

Why do we keep repeating those same patterns?

Why do we keep finding ourselves stuck again and again in those same places?

In short, why do we say we are free yet live as anything but free?

A Very Pauline Question

I’m only a few chapters into this book and immediately after listening to the introduction I texted my friend and said:

This sounds very Pauline.

Meaning, this sounds very similar to the questions that the Apostle Paul is wrestling with in the book of Romans.

In his own way, I think Paul is asking a very similar set of questions.

Why do humans keep returning to the very things that diminish them?

Why do we say we’re free but keep living as though we’re under the power of something else?

The details, of course, are different.

We turn to vision boards, affirmations, strategies for self-improvement.

Not again that these are inherently bad per se, but Paul’s audience did something similar too, except their move was to turn to strict adherence to religious rules and practices.

The challenge, of course, is that underneath both practices, both moves is the same instinct:

If I can just get myself under control, then I will finally be free.

And that’s the very instinct that Paul here is trying to challenge.

Don’t You Know You’re Dead?

So Paul says something perhaps equally unorthodox and surprising to his hearers.

Don’t you know that you’re dead? he says.

Don’t you realize that the old person you used to be is buried and the corpse of your old self is dead and gone?

I mean he doesn’t quite say it like that.

He says this:

This is what we know that the person we used to be was crucified with him in order to get rid of the corpse that had been controlled by sin. That way we wouldn’t be slaves to sin anymore because the person who’s died has been freed from sin’s power.

Remember the question we’ve been wrestling with:

Why do we keep returning to the things that hurt us?

Paul’s answer is not what we might immediately expect.

He doesn’t offer a better strategy.

He doesn’t offer a more disciplined approach.

He doesn’t tell us to try harder or to go back to my children’s sermon to pull harder.

Instead, he proclaimed something else.

Something that God has already done.

That the old self is dead.

That the old self has been crucified with Christ.

And that the good news is that in death we are freed from that which once had control or dominion over us.

A few verses earlier, Paul writes that if we are united together in death like Jesus, we will also be united together in resurrection with Jesus.

In other words, Paul isn’t simply talking about self-improvement.

He’s talking about death and resurrection.

He’s talking about God doing something so profound that the person we were once no longer has the final word.

Trust the Promise

We tend to think we’re free from our past self, our old lives, our old habits.

Or perhaps more accurately, we think we can control them.

We think we can manage them, contain them, keep them in check.

Yet for all of our assumptions of freedom and control, we’re often more bound to these old ways than we would care to admit.

And Paul’s entire argument is that the old self is dead and buried, and sin no longer has dominion over us.

Sin no longer has control over us.

Death no longer has dominion.

And the question I invite you to consider this morning is whether we trust that promise to be true.

In his book The Church in an Age of Secular Mysticism, theologian Andrew Root writes that faith is about reception, not right actions or beliefs.

This is quite a contrast to our modern understanding of faith.

And today in some Christian contexts we understand faith as right beliefs, mentally assenting to the right sort of beliefs.

With the assurance that if we just think the right thing or believe the right thing, then we will be okay.

In other contexts, Christian contexts, faith is understood purely as right actions, that if we just do the right thing, then we’ll be the right way.

Again, none of these are bad per se, but they’re both moves of control.

And they can become assumptions that if we can simply get a hold of ourselves, if we can simply believe the right thing or simply behave the right way, then we can steer ourselves in the right direction.

What Paul is saying, what the good news of Jesus is saying, I believe, is something quite different entirely.

It’s saying:

Trust the promise.

Trust that this has already happened.

Trust that the old self is gone and the new self is come.

And to be sure, this is quite contrarian to our modern ears.

Shaped as we are for command and control, our move in most places is just to try harder.

To try harder.

And the good news of Jesus is essentially:

Try less.

I mean, again, the finger traps.

Try less.

Don’t produce, receive.

So then it becomes not about self mastery, but instead death with Christ.

It’s not about more effort, it’s about God’s action.

It’s not about finding ourselves, excuse me, fixing ourselves.

But rather trusting the promise.

And it’s not about I will change, but rather Christ is already changing me.

And that’s good news.

The way Paul describes is one of reception, and it’s only in a life of reception can the unknown be made known, and our cells be made attentive to the dramatic truth of God’s transformative love and grace.

Two Stories

So then in a way it’s not about self control, but rather about accepting our own mortality.

I see us quite often in my work as a hospital chaplain.

Not too infrequently I encounter people who have been hospitalized for what they assume is simply one too many drinks.

They often say the same thing.

This is my wake-up call. I’m going to get my life together. I’m going to get this thing under control.

Rarely, of course, do I get to see the fruit of their actions.

Except one time I did.

And it was not pretty.

It was a middle-aged man, not too much older than me, who had been hospitalized and was in quite bad shape.

He was unconscious and had the telltale signs of a person whose liver had quite literally taken too much.

Yellow and jaundiced, he lay there unconscious in the bed.

And as I sat there and talked with his family and his loved ones and prayed with them and encouraged them, something about his story rang familiar.

Sure enough, looking back in his chart when I was going back to track my meeting with this family and patient, I scrolled down a little bit in the chart notes and I noticed that I had actually seen this same man some months prior.

I remember hearing many of the same things from him.

This is a wake up call. I’m going to get my life together. I’m going to get this thing under control.

Quite clearly he had not.

What he had thought he had control over had in fact turned out to be his slave master.

And why, as unorthodox and pre-modern as those words sound to us today about slavery and bondage, I think in many ways they still ring true.

The man had been unable to admit that alcohol was his slave master, and that he was in bondage to it.

He thought he was free, but he was anything, anything but free.

And this is why I find the path of Alcoholics Anonymous so intriguing.

Each and every time they meet together, they say willingly, they say this:

I’m an alcoholic.

I am defeated.

I’m a slave to this.

Perhaps not so much in those certain terms.

See, us modern people today, we tend to think that if we’re a slave to something, we’re not free.

Paul says quite the opposite.

That when we finally stop pretending that we are in control, when we finally acknowledge our own bondage, we become open to a different kind of freedom.

Not by our own power or efforts or trying harder, but by the power of the one who already conquered death:

Jesus.

And that brings me to a second story.

The first man sought freedom through control.

The second man found freedom through trust.

A few days ago, I think it was driving perhaps to and from church here, that I was listening to an evangelical podcast about a man sharing his story about sex addiction.

And he had tried it all.

More rules.

More control.

More attempts at behavior modification.

None of it worked.

And none of it worked because none of it got to the heart of the matter.

The deeper rot inside of him that was a deep woundedness and brokenness that he could neither fix or control on his own.

One day his wife came home and asked him straight out:

“Is this you?”

Directly confronted with the reality, he did the unthinkable.

He didn’t try to fix things.

He didn’t try to manage.

He didn’t try to control things.

He simply surrendered.

“Yes”, he said.

And in surrendering and admitting that he could not fix things on his own, he joined a recovery group where he opened himself up to the radical and transformative grace of God.

He made himself receptive to this truth.

That when he finally acknowledged his own death and failure, newness could be born within him.

Whereas in the past he sought freedom through control and trying harder, instead he found freedom through trust.

The Good News

Friends, this is the good news of the gospel.

Like this is it right here.

Not that we finally can get our lives under control, but that in Jesus Christ, as we’ve already sang this morning, our chains are broken and we’ve been set free.

Thanks.

Thanks be to God.

Amen.

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Ambitious and Impressive

Those are the two words that come to mind when I think about ‘s latest book, A Systematic Theology of Love: Volume 1, God and Creation.

Ambitious because Oord is attempting nothing less than a comprehensive theology centered on love.

Impressive because, whether one agrees with his conclusions or not, it is obvious he has spent decades thinking deeply about God, creation, suffering, and what it means to say that God is love.

I’ll be honest and admit that I struggled through portions of the opening chapters. The early sections are dense and detailed, and at times I found myself weighed down by the sheer volume of theological argumentation.

I’d also acknowledge that I’m not entirely sold on open and relational theology.

But Oord certainly has some compelling ideas.

God as Becoming

One intriguing concept is what Oord calls “gino-theology,” which “describes God’s becoming” (132).

Oord argues for a “becoming” understanding of God as a “dynamic person who engages in moment-by-moment relations with creatures and creation” (129). He prefers this language over traditional “being” language, suggesting that “becoming” language “names what moves” and that God “lovingly becomes” (132).

While I’m not entirely persuaded, I appreciate what Oord is trying to accomplish. He wants a vision of God that is relational, active, and genuinely engaged with creation.

Amipotence and the Problem of Evil

As an open and relational theologian, Oord also argues against omnipotence and in favor of what he calls “amipotence.”

I’m still not entirely sure how to pronounce the word.

I first encountered the idea in his earlier book Pluriform Love, where he began developing the concept. While I remain unconvinced in some respects, I do think it offers a thoughtful response to the problem of evil and suffering, a topic that clearly motivates much of Oord’s work.

As I understand it, Oord’s argument is essentially this: God always acts out of love.

He writes:

“Amipotence says a universal Spirit—One in whose nature love comes first—prompts us to act in good ways and live good lives. This means that God’s nature is the ultimate measure of goodness and the wellspring for the possibility of well-being” (390).

Again, I’m not sure I agree with all of Oord’s conclusions. But I appreciate that he is wrestling seriously with questions that matter deeply to people who suffer.

A Progressive Theology with Content

Another aspect of the book that I found refreshing was Oord’s insistence on theological substance.

Although Oord would certainly be identified as a Progressive Christian—and I suspect would willingly embrace the label—he is also critical of the tendency within some progressive circles to become overly vague or imprecise when speaking about God.

He writes:

“it’s impossible…for progressives to believe in an utterly mysterious God. There’s not content there to believe” (242).

Similarly:

“I also worry about a much less-discussed problem found more often in progressive circles…a God that’s too vague…” (250).

And later:

“Without belief in God, we can’t explain well our intuitions about—and the actualization of—the good, true, beautiful, just, and loving” (395).

I may disagree with some of Oord’s conclusions, but I appreciate his commitment to theological clarity.

Even when I found the book dry or overly detailed—and there were certainly moments when I did—it was obvious that Oord is trying to build a coherent vision rather than simply gesture toward mystery.

Healing, Prayer, and Hospital Rooms

Perhaps the most intriguing section for me came later in the book, when Oord discusses healing and miracles.

As a hospital chaplain who regularly encounters patients and families desperately hoping for healing, I often find myself wondering how best to pray and even what exactly I should be asking for.

Again, I’m not entirely sold on open and relational theology. But I’m also not convinced by the strongest versions of divine sovereignty often associated with Calvinism.

That’s why I found Oord’s discussion so interesting.

He suggests that an:

“amipotent Spirit…wants everyone healed. But miracles require creaturely cooperation or conducive conditions in creation. We should blame neither the cooperating victim nor God when miraculous healing doesn’t occur, or when things don’t align sufficiently” (414).

Whether or not I ultimately agree, I find the proposal thought-provoking.

And honestly, it resonates with some of my own observations.

Beyond my experience in hospital settings, I think about church life as well. I have heard countless Christians confidently declare that “God wants” or “God wills” something to happen.

Yet I also think there are times when human beings genuinely resist or obstruct what God desires.

I’m reminded of Paul’s warning not to “quench the Spirit” (1 Thessalonians 5:19).

If that command means anything, it seems to imply that our actions matter.

Final Thoughts

So, I’m still not entirely sure what I think about open and relational theology.

And I’m certainly not sure I agree with everything Oord says.

But that may actually be part of the value of reading him.

Few contemporary theologians push me to think as deeply or carefully about God, love, suffering, and prayer.

I found A Systematic Theology of Love ambitious.

I found it impressive.

And even when I found it frustrating, I found it thought-provoking.

That’s not a bad combination for a theologian.

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“Dark Woke”

Perhaps you’ve heard the term before.

And for those unfamiliar, the term comes from a social media phenomenon and political messaging strategy that emerged following the president’s second inauguration in 2025.

The New York Times described it as an attempt to step outside the bounds of political correctness.

Examples offered feature dark humor, sarcasm, and a willingness to mock or demean opponents in ways that would have been unacceptable to previous generations.

Basically, it’s an abrupt U-turn from the old “when they go low, we go high” approach.

Instead, the mood is often closer to:

When they go low, we go lower.

Now, before we dismiss such thinking too quickly, we should acknowledge why it resonates with so many people.

Younger generations have come of age amid economic uncertainty, climate anxiety, political polarization, and a growing sense that the institutions around them are irreparably broken.

In many ways, we can understand why we got here.

Why people feel this way.

But perhaps what’s most troubling about such an approach is that it’s far deeper than anger and outrage.

As one source noted, younger generations have already tried anger and outrage.

But when they repeatedly saw little, if any, change while watching unjust systems burrow themselves deeper into power and oppression, the mood shifted toward something darker:

Despair.

Nihilism.

A “why even try?” mentality.

A very much “burn it all down” attitude.

Whereas previous generations often worked within institutions to bring about reform, many younger people have become convinced that these institutions—such as the church—are themselves the problem.

Why reform them?

Why not just tear it all down and start over?

But perhaps the most significant shift is this:

Suffering itself has increasingly come to be seen as irredeemable.

Whereas past generations might have seen oppression, persecution, or sacrifice as the cost of pursuing justice—or even something that could move the needle toward change—increasingly suffering is viewed as having no tangible benefit.

Nothing good can come from it.

Nothing can be learned from it.

Nothing can emerge except more pain.

And if suffering has no meaning, then hope itself becomes quite foolish.

Why suffer?

Why sacrifice?

Why risk more disappointment?

Why not simply protect yourself?

After all, if the world is burning and you’ve tried putting out the fire only to get burned yourself, why keep risking your own health and well-being while others are simply fanning the flames?

You might as well grab some chocolate and marshmallows and make some s’mores while everything burns.

Nothing wrong with s’mores, by the way.

It’s obviously a dark and dystopian vision.

But not entirely illogical.

The problem, however, is that it simply produces more of what we might expect:

More disillusionment.

More despondency.

More despair.

And neither human history nor experience suggests that despair has ever built a better future.

So what can we offer instead?

I would posit this morning that we can offer hope.

Christian hope.

Paul’s Radical Alternative

In his letter to the church at Rome, the Apostle Paul offers a radically different approach.

Hope.

In chapter five, Paul is telling his readers that because of Jesus, they have access to God’s grace and therefore have peace with God.

But Paul makes a bit of an aside, a bit of a parenthetical reference, as one commentator said.

And from this, two things stand out to me almost immediately.

The first is somewhat shocking:

Paul says that he and his colleagues take pride in their problems.

Other Bible translations say that they boast or even rejoice in their suffering.

The second is that Paul believes all the problems, all the suffering, actually produce hope.

From another Bible translation we read:

“We also boast in our suffering, knowing that suffering produces endurance, endurance produces character, character produces hope. And hope does not disappoint us.”

Paul is saying, as silly as this sounds:

Hope does not make us foolish.

Now this sounds quite silly when we think about all the bad things in our world.

So bad that many have presumed that hope is not simply impractical.

It’s foolish.

It’s flat-out wrong.

Paul Knew Something About Suffering

But lest we think Paul to be some privileged person immune to pain and suffering, he writes elsewhere in the Bible that he’s encountered quite a bit of suffering himself:

“I’ve been imprisoned and beaten more times than I can count. I faced death many times. I’ve been brutally whipped five times. I was beaten with rods three times. I was stoned once. I was shipwrecked three times. I spent a day and a night in the open sea.

I faced dangers from rivers, robbers, people of all kinds, dangers in the city, dangers in the desert, dangers on the sea.

I faced these dangers with hard work and heavy labor, many sleepless nights, hunger and thirst, often without food and in the cold, without enough clothes.”

This is quite clearly a guy who has encountered his fair share of challenge and suffering—or as we might say today, systemic abuse and oppression.

And yet he acknowledges how silly, how foolish he sounds in boasting of all this.

What If Paul Was Right?

But the question, I think, for us to consider this morning:

What if Paul was onto something?

What if he was right?

What if he knew deep down that God could bring life and renewal from even the most painful experiences?

And of course then we might wonder:

How?

How did he know it?

Paul says he knew it because God’s love had been poured into his heart because of the Holy Spirit.

As Christians celebrated a few weeks back at Pentecost and the arrival of the Holy Spirit, Paul also took comfort in the lasting and abiding presence of the Spirit and God’s love made known through the Spirit.

But as one commentator notes, rather than being destroyed by challenges and experiences, for Paul these instead strengthened his hope.

And he realized that this hope in God does not disappoint.

Rather, he already had a measure of it in the Holy Spirit.

For Paul, he saw the Holy Spirit as a reminder that the same God who gave Jesus life from the dead will give us life too.

And for him, that gave Paul a measure of trust that God is at work amidst all of this.

That God can bring life and renewal from even the most broken, unjust, and painful parts of our lives.

God can bring renewal and life.

I mean, it’s no wonder, right?

It’s no wonder that Paul recognizes the foolishness in all of this.

As another commentator notes:

It is at the place of social failure and ostracism that God is present and active, transforming victims.

The Mystery and Gift of the Cross

See, if I can be so bold this morning, the problem in our culture and in our world today is that we tend to think that pain, suffering, and brokenness are irredeemable.

The mystery and gift of the cross, I believe, is that in the resurrection of Jesus, God said to all that is oppressive, unjust, and evil:

Give me your best shot.

Not only can I take it, but I can actually transform it and bring new and renewed life.

I mean, that’s good news.

Now, to be clear:

Paul is not saying that suffering itself is good.

He’s not saying injustice is good.

He is not saying that we should seek suffering or ignore injustice or allow others to suffer.

Rather, Paul is making a more surprising claim:

Even in the midst of suffering, God can bring about endurance, character, and hope.

Because of this then, let’s live with hope.

Not in our neighbors, ourselves, or our ability to change things.

Rather, let’s hope in God.

Because Paul says God’s hope will not disappoint us.

It will not prove us a fool.

Optimism Is Not Hope

Now again, I want to differentiate between optimism and hope because they’re not the same thing.

I recently spoke to one pastor who described herself as a:

Pessimistic hopeful.

She understood that God’s hope is not about some kind of blind optimism or Pollyanna attitude.

I’m reminded of this poem from Henry Nouwen:

Optimism and hope are radically different attitudes.

Optimism is the expectation that things will get better.

Hope is the trust that God will fulfill God’s promises in ways that lead to true freedom.

The optimist speaks about concrete changes in the future.

The person of hope lives in the moment with the knowledge and trust that all of life is in God’s hands.

All great leaders, all great spiritual leaders, were people of hope.

Abraham, Moses, Jesus, Gandhi, Dorothy Day.

They all lived with a promise in their heart that guided them toward the future without the need to know exactly what it would look like.

Optimism expects circumstances to improve.

Hope trusts God will fulfill God’s promises.

Hope Does Not Disappoint

You know what a powerful thing happens when we begin to live into God’s hope?

God’s love becomes our central and determining motive.

No longer are we dependent on our own ingenuity or efforts.

We’re simply content to share the love and grace of God, as foolish as it may be.

Because we root ourselves, we ground ourselves in God’s love and God’s promise that:

Hope does not disappoint.

There are many in life today who would presume that living with hope is foolish, naive, or even privileged.

Friends, if I may be so bold, I do not believe that is a recipe for hope and well-being.

But hope—that groundedness—that’s what guided so many of the faithful and prophetic leaders of our time.

The Witness of Hope

I’m reminded of Martin Luther King Jr.

The famous civil rights leader had every reason to be cynical.

Churches were segregated.

Laws were unjust.

Racial violence was commonplace.

Yet he continued to hope that the moral arc of the universe was long and bent toward justice.

God’s hope did not disappoint Martin Luther King Jr.

Nelson Mandela, the post-apartheid president of South Africa, had every reason to be cynical.

Twenty-seven years in prison might do that to a person.

Yet he emerged believing that reconciliation was possible.

God’s hope did not disappoint Nelson Mandela.

Gene Robinson, the Episcopal clergy person who was the first gay man to be consecrated as a bishop within the Christian church, had every reason to be cynical.

He endured criticism, rejection, and controversy from fellow Christians, even within his own church.

Yet he stayed believing that the church could be more faithful than it was.

God’s hope did not disappoint Gene Robinson.

The Promise

Now again, let me be clear on this.

The inauguration or fulfillment of our hope may not come on our own timeline and as quickly or immediately as we want it to.

Martin Luther King Jr., even after many victories, still faced an assassin’s bullet that ended his life.

Robinson, even after his historic election, still faced much criticism and prejudice.

And lest we forget, Nelson Mandela sat in prison for twenty-seven years.

We cannot presume that living with hope means everything will be fixed right now or even in the foreseeable future.

Rather, living with hope means trusting that God, even in the midst of pain and suffering, is making things right.

And more, that when we ourselves go through pain and suffering, that suffering will produce endurance, which then produces character, which ultimately produces hope.

God’s hope within us.

I think it’s a bit like Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech, in which he referenced the promissory note of the Declaration of Independence.

He said:

“I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed—that all men are created equal.”

King trusted in the promise.

The promise that guaranteed unalienable rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness for all Americans.

He trusted that promise would ultimately be fulfilled despite generations of injustice and broken promises.

Truth be told, in some ways Martin Luther King Jr.’s dream is still yet unfulfilled.

There is more hoping and dreaming to be done.

But King himself warned against satisfying our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred.

Our Hope Is Jesus

Our hope as followers of Jesus, as Christians, is in Jesus Christ, the one who was crucified and is now resurrected.

That same God who raised Jesus from the dead will give us life and can bring redemption and renewal to even the most broken, painful, and unjust systems within our own lives and communities.

That’s good news, friends.

Thanks be to God.

Amen.

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Conversations in the Car

A few years ago, I started noticing something whenever my kids and I were in the car together: they were far more open to a real conversation than when I was sitting directly across from them.

They would say things that I might never hear face to face.

I’m, um, already seeing some nodding heads in the congregation.

There’s something about standing shoulder to shoulder, moving in the same direction that makes it easier to be honest.

I encounter this dynamic often as a chaplain.

People will tell me things as I sit aside their hospital bed, that I might never hear sitting face to face with them in an office setting or some other context.

For the last year, I have not been preparing messages.

I’ve been listening to the people they were meant for.

Sunday May 31st was the first time I had preached in a church in over a year.

And in that time, I’ve been sitting in the pews like a regular person, listening, talking, interacting, listening with people and their stories.

And from what I’ve gathered from their conversations, there seem to be two overarching questions that people seem to be asking.

First of all, is this God thing even real?

And if this God thing is real, does it even matter beyond Sunday morning?

Because they’re not entirely sure that it does.

And the more I listened to people and their stories, the more I began to wonder if the real challenge facing the church is simpler than we make it to be.

We spend a lot of time talking about doctrine, formation, even compelling preaching.

But I think the more basic question that people actually wrestle with is:

Does any of this actually matter?

Life Works Pretty Well Without God

Throughout his Ministry in a Secular Age series, Andrew Root argues that people have become convinced that life works pretty well without God.

Ryan Burge, a sociologist, has noted that church has increasingly become a luxury good, something nice, but something we don’t really need, much like a country club membership.

People have become convinced that if church disappeared tomorrow, they’d probably be fine.

I mean, remember, that’s what literally happened right during COVID.

It’s not that people reject or are, uh, hostile to faith, but rather they’ve learned that they don’t really need God.

Religion has become obsolete, says sociologist Christian Smith.

And in its place, they’ve made religions of work, sports, especially politics.

And for many, that seems to work.

Until, that is, they find themselves or a loved one in a hospital bed.

The Corinthians Thought They Had Arrived

That’s why I find Paul’s words to the Corinthians so compelling, because Paul seems to be speaking to people who had similarly bought into an alternative religion, perhaps we might say a gospel of acquisition.

And while written to people two millennia ago, I swear, Paul could have written these words to the average American churchgoer today.

You can practically hear the sarcasm dripping from his voice:

Already you have what you want.

Already you have become rich.

Quite apart from us, you have become kings.

In other words:

You’ve made it.

You’ve arrived.

You have everything you need.

Paul keeps laying it on thick:

You are strong, but we are weak.

You are held in high honor, but we are in disrepute.

You are well fed, but we are hungry and thirsty.

At first hearing, it sounds absurd.

Who in their right mind would want to trade places with that?

And yet, by the end of the passage, something really interesting happens.

Paul and his crew, the self-described rubbish of the world, dregs of all things, seem to have something going for them.

After all:

When reviled, they bless.

When persecuted, they endure.

When slandered, they speak kindly.

It’s as bizarre now as it was then.

Maybe more so.

Why Are We Still Searching?

And I think this is Paul’s brilliance.

Because beneath all the sarcasm, Paul is asking a question.

If you’ve arrived, why are you still searching?

If you’ve become kings, why are you still so restless?

If more really delivers, why are you still looking for something else?

Paul never comes straight out and says it, but he lays out the contrast so clearly that his hearers, both then and now, can’t help but wonder:

Maybe these morons know something that the kings don’t.

And maybe I should listen.

Life Before Death

Now, friends, I know we’re preachers.

We care about doctrine.

We should.

We care about theology.

We should.

We care about compelling preaching.

We should.

These things matter.

But if I may be so bold, if this stuff doesn’t have real life implications, then what good is it?

And after a year of sitting in the pews and alongside hospital beds in the ministry of presence, I’m increasingly convinced that what keeps people awake at night isn’t orthodox theology.

Maybe I’m wrong.

But what I think keeps people awake at night is their loneliness, their broken relationships, their seeming inability to stop scrolling and buying and drinking as much as they know they need to stop, but they can’t.

And if our preaching, if our presence doesn’t speak to these things, then what good is it?

The good news can’t just be about life to come, but this life now.

It’s got to offer not just life after death, but life before death.

And you know what the good news is?

It does.

It absolutely does.

The gods of More

The foolishness of the cross is that when we stop chasing salvation through status, through stuff, through success, we discover God meets us precisely where those things fail.

And man, that is good news.

As Andrew Root writes, the gods of more demand that humans do better, be better, acquire more.

But our God...

Our God comes to the brokenhearted, loves the lost, gives rest to God’s children.

And man...

If that’s true, let’s preach that.

Let’s come alongside people and show them not just good theology, but how to live this life now.

The Secret Hope

See, here’s the thing.

While the folks in the pews, I do think, are questioning whether this stuff really matters, whether it’s actually true, I think they’re secretly hoping it really is true.

Like they really want it to be true.

And I think it’s a bit like Paul is doing with the Corinthians.

Calling them rich.

Calling them kings.

Buttering them up in such a way that deep down they know it’s not true.

Like the Corinthians and many of our hearers today, they’re drowning in debt, their relationships are in tatters, their kids won’t return their calls.

And eventually they start wondering:

Maybe I’m not really a king after all.

And that’s where the gospel becomes good news.

Because beneath all this status, all this stuff, all the success, there remains this longing:

I want some good news.

I need some good news.

And Paul says, not that you can have your best life now, but rather:

Even when your life doesn’t look that grand,

Even when you’re quite clearly not a king,

You may in fact be experiencing a bit of the life to come right now.

How foolish.

How moronic.

But when the voices around us insist that fulfillment is found through acquiring more, the gospel says otherwise.

And to borrow from our host, David Zahl:

What a relief.

Because people don’t need more information.

They need good news.

Thanks be to God, we have some.

Amen.

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Rethinking Romans

It’s a well-known movie trope.

Two characters stand facing one another.

One warns the other about what is coming. Maybe it’s revenge. Maybe justice. Maybe consequences long delayed.

The warning is brushed aside or mocked.

And then comes the line:

“That’s not a threat—it’s a promise.”

What makes the scene memorable is that it shifts the conversation.

We move from possibility to inevitability.
From warning to certainty.

And honestly, that’s often how Christians have approached Paul’s Epistle to the Romans.

Short of the book of Revelation, Paul’s Epistle to the Romans—or simply, Romans—has to be one of the “scariest” books of the Bible to read, or especially, to hear preached on a Sunday morning.1

Depending on the Christian context we come from—or perhaps no Christian background whatsoever!—we may carry stronger or weaker associations with this book of scripture.

In many conservative Christian contexts, Romans is often presented through what is called the “Romans Road”—a step-by-step evangelistic method using key verses from Romans to explain salvation.

The Romans Road often begins with Romans 3:23:

“All have sinned and fall short of God’s glory.”

Then moves to Romans 6:23:

“The wages that sin pays are death, but God’s gift is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

The fourth stop is Romans 10:9:

“Because if you confess with your mouth, ‘Jesus is Lord,’ and in your heart you have faith that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.”

And the Romans Road often concludes with Romans 5:1:

“Therefore, since we have been made righteous through his faithfulness, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

There are other variations as well.

Now, to be clear, I don’t think the Romans Road is entirely wrong.

But often, at least in my own experience, it can feel like mostly threat and very little promise.

Because of this, in more liberal or progressive Mainline contexts, Romans is sometimes avoided altogether—or at least approached cautiously—because it has become so associated with coercive or fear-based forms of evangelism that seem more concerned with securing decisions or winning arguments than sharing the love and grace of God made known in Jesus.

As a Christian, pastor, and preacher—and especially because of my experience with the Iowa Preacher’s Project—I’m increasingly convinced that the gospel is fundamentally about good news for us.

That is, after all, what the word gospel literally means.

To say it differently:

The gospel is about promise.

And Romans, I believe, is ultimately a promise—not a threat.

Take Romans chapter 8 alone.

In this one chapter we encounter at least eight promises:2

#1 No condemnation

“So now there isn’t any condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus” (v. 1).

#2 Nothing can separate us from the love of God

“Nothing can separate us from God’s love in Christ Jesus our Lord” (v. 39).

#3 Freed from the power of death

“The law of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus has set you free from the law of sin and death” (v. 2).

#4 We are adopted children of God

“You didn’t receive a spirit of slavery to lead you back again into fear, but you received a Spirit that shows you are adopted as his children” (v. 15).

#5 We are led by the Spirit

“All who are led by God’s Spirit are God’s sons and daughters” (v. 14).

#6 Both the Spirit and Jesus are praying for us right now

“The Spirit comes to help our weakness” (v. 26). And also:

“Christ Jesus… is at God’s right side pleading for us” (v. 34).

#7 God is working all things for our good

“We know that God works all things together for good for the ones who love God” (v. 28).

#8 Nothing coming against us can ultimately win

“If God is for us, who is against us?” (v. 31).

That sounds a lot more like promise than threat.

And so, through the weeks I’ll be preaching in June and July, I’ll be spending time with the Revised Common Lectionary readings from Romans.

My hope is not simply to explain Romans, but to hear it again—not as a weapon or warning—but as good news.

A promise, not a threat.

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A Diamond in the Rough?** (edited to add, it turned out pretty rough itself…)

Recently, while perusing the normally disappointing religion section at my local library, I came across an intriguing title: Critical Dilemma: The Rise of Critical Theories and Social Justice Ideology—Implications for the Church and Society by Neil Shenvi and Pat Sawyer.

I checked it out with more than a little skepticism.

If I’m honest, I expected something closer to a right-wing, culture-war critique of Critical Race Theory and social justice discourse—heavy on hot takes and light on nuance.

So far, it’s been anything but.1

And to be clear, I’m not approaching this as someone hostile to conversations about race, power, injustice, or historical inequity.

What has interested me as I’ve read on was instead a different question:

How do certain theoretical frameworks shape the way we understand institutions—especially institutions like the church?

While I’m not yet sure I’ll agree with all of Shenvi and Sawyer’s conclusions, I’ve been struck by the seriousness of their work.

More Nuanced Than I Expected

Their treatment of what they call “contemporary critical theory” (CCT) stretches more than 200 pages before even reaching any of their critiques.

This is no strawman effort.

To be honest, I haven’t done a tremendous amount of reading in the anti-CRT world, short of Susan Neiman’s Left Is Not Woke, in which she boldly argues that the modern progressive “woke” movement has little to do with the foundations of the traditional liberal left.

I’ll skip a broader evaluation of Neiman for now, but one line stuck with me:

“If everything is power, does the concept have no bounds?” (63)

The same question about power lingered in my mind while reading Critical Dilemma.

What I’ve generally understood about critical theories is that power tends to be a central concern. What I hadn’t fully grasped, however, was just how thoroughly this lens of power shapes the interpretation of reality itself.

The other day, while reading Critical Dilemma, it struck me:

If unequal outcomes necessarily imply inequality, then of course Christianity did not “win” because it was true, but because it possessed power and cultural hegemony.

Again, Shenvi and Sawyer write:

“If we assume that equitable treatment would result in everyone achieving the same outcome, then unequal outcomes can only be the result of inequitable treatment” (134).

A few weeks later, at the same library, I grabbed the book Black and Catholic by Tia Noelle Pratt off the shelf. She makes this assertion:

“The legacy of this systemic racism is found not only in the disproportionately low number of Black Catholics in the United States but also in the dearth of Black priests and vowed religious'“ (16).

Now, it is entirely possible that I—or Shenvi and Sawyer—simply misunderstand these theories.

But honestly, I don’t think so. Looking at Pratt’s quote for example, she asserts that a lack of Black people in Catholicism means racist structures. Now, to be fair, there may be deep structural racism within Catholicism. I’m not disputing that. What I found compelling is how her words provide a real-life example of what Shenvi and Sawyer discuss.

So, if anything, I’ve found myself understanding them better through reading this book. And interestingly, there were moments where I almost wondered whether the authors were more sympathetic toward CCT than opposed to it.

That’s part of what has made the book so compelling to me.

It is nearly 500 pages long and engages all the notable figures—Kendi, DiAngelo, hooks, and others—with considerable nuance and detail.

Andrew Root and the Logic of “More”

But while reading, something from Andrew Root’s latest book, Baal and the Gods of More, kept coming to mind.

To be fair, Root spends most of his time critiquing the church’s obsession with growth, especially since 2000. But he also critiques what he calls the “identitarians,” those who continually urge the church to “do better.”

Root shares a story—I honestly can’t remember whether it is real or imagined—but recounts the following:

“This pastor has shaped his leadership around his hope that the church is moving into declension. He says that the church has hurt too many people. ‘What needs to expand,’ he explained, ‘is our awareness of all the trauma the church has caused. All the people it has hurt. My leadership has nothing to do with growth; I want the opposite of growth. I want the church to diminish. That’s what I’m after’” (26).

I’ll admit, Root’s critique of the “identitarians” did not always feel fully integrated with his larger critique of evangelical growth culture.

But where I do think the connection becomes clearer is here:

Both the “identitarians” and the “techno-optimists,” as Root calls them, remain caught in the same logic of more.

For the techno-optimists, it is more growth, more scale, more innovation.

For the identitarians, it can become more recognition, more affirmation, more awareness.

As Root laments:

“We can’t signal our recognition and affirmation enough…to ever satisfy people” (117).

Again, there is no such thing as enough.

And reading Critical Dilemma, that logic suddenly made more sense to me.

Sawyer and Shenvi write:

“Based on these [critical theory] statements, you cannot—by definition—extend privilege to everyone. You can only eliminate privilege by eliminating oppression, which is the goal of social justice work” (99).

What I’m Wrestling With

So while I will probably write fuller reviews of both Root’s book and Critical Dilemma, I think I’m finally understanding something for the first time.

I can now see how some pastors and church leaders, deeply shaped by this form of CCT, might genuinely conclude that the church achieved its influence primarily through hegemonic power and that, therefore, the morally right response is not institutional renewal but institutional diminishment.

As Root says, that’s why the common thinking amongst identitarians is that they should even “resist… ecclesial structures” (147).2

To them, decline is seen as welcome news.

To be clear, I’m not saying every advocate of critical theory or social justice work arrives at this conclusion. Nor am I suggesting that churches should avoid hard conversations about power, exclusion, or injustice.

In fact, one of the more refreshing things about Critical Dilemma is that Shenvi and Sawyer are themselves quite direct about the reality of injustice, writing:

“real social injustices exist. Racism does exist. Sexism does exist. Actual oppression does exist” (19).

I’d completely agree.

What I’m wrestling with instead—particularly the tendency to interpret institutions primarily through the lens of power and oppression—is whether certain theoretical assumptions can make it difficult to imagine the church as anything other than a problem to be managed, resisted, or dismantled.

And maybe that’s the question I’m really trying to ask here.

Am I missing something?

Because at least right now, I don’t think I am.

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As a chaplain, I am an evangelist: Matthew 28:16–20

What if I told you that when I work as a hospital chaplain,

I see my role not primarily as an supportive presence
or crisis responder

but rather as an evangelist?

For those of you in this room who have experience in chaplaincy or hospice settings

—or even my now-colleague and former CPE supervisor, Janet Barriger—

perhaps some alarm bells are already going off in your head.

Stay with me for a moment.

It’s not that I misunderstand the role and function of a chaplain.

Rather, it may be that we don’t fully understand what it really means to be an evangelist…

The E-word Problem

The E-word, evangelism, is a problematic word in many mainline church contexts.

After all…

--Evangelism has become intertwined with abuse, oppression, and injustice

--Faith has been weaponized rather than shared,

--Christianity entangled with coercion and fear.

Likewise, many of us have encountered forms of evangelism that felt harsh, pushy, or judgmental

—more concerned with winning arguments or securing decisions than embodying the love and grace of Christ.

And yet, in other contexts, evangelism has been reduced to branding and marketing—

graphics, giveaways, & curated social media presence.

I’m sure we’ve all seen that sort of thing.

If this is what it means to practice evangelism

—or to be an evangelist

—no wonder we’re so averse to the word and the practice.

But what if much of what passes for evangelism is anything but?

In rejecting harmful evangelism, we may have forgotten how to offer good news.

So let us hear again the Gospel reading for today…

¹⁶Now the eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain to which Jesus had directed them. ¹⁷When they saw him, they worshiped him; but some doubted. ¹⁸And Jesus came and said to them, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. ¹⁹Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, ²⁰and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you. And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”

The Great Commission and God With Us

In the reading for this Sunday, we encounter what is often called
“The Great Commission,”

where Jesus sends out the remaining disciples to “make disciples” and “baptize… in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”

As commentator Meda Stamper writes,

“Matthew ends with the words of Jesus… his voice, his commission, and his promise of presence move the narrative into a future shaped by the good news of the kingdom—a future not only for the disciples in the text, but for all disciples always.”

There’s a LOT happening in this story,

as Matthew is tying together several loose ends from the broader narrative.

--The naming of the eleven disciples reminds of Judas’ painful betrayal and despair.

--The mountaintop setting recalls both Jesus’ temptation and the teachings of the Sermon on the Mount.

--The worship and the doubting point back to the magi in the birth narrative and to the women who have already worshipped.

Among those many callbacks—or perhaps “Easter eggs,” as we might call them today—is this:

Jesus says,

“Remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”

Even here, in those few words, is another callback

—a reminder of the birth narrative,

in which Joseph is told by the angel

that the child shall be called Emmanuel,

meaning “God with us.”

Quite literally, at the beginning & the end of the story,

the message is the same:

You are not alone—I am with you.

Of course, between those two pronouncements lies the rest of the story.

A story filled with terror and heartbreak, challenge and temptation, wisdom and teaching, betrayal and great suffering.

The in-between, we might say.

Or the now and the not yet, as we say during Advent.

And much of what Jesus encountered, we still face today.

--Terror and heartbreak?

Herod’s violence and the holy family’s flight into Egypt sound less like ancient history and more like recent headlines.

--Temptation?

We see the temptation toward outrage, tribalism, and aligning Christianity too closely with political parties, as though the gospel belongs to one side.

--Betrayal and suffering?

We know these too through war, displacement, and communities living beneath the shadow of violence.

But amidst challenge and suffering,

God was with Jesus—because God was and is Jesus.

And even as Jesus prepared to leave our physical realm, he promised his disciples

—and us still today—

that in the midst of pain and sorrow we would not be abandoned.

The Spirit would come so we would never forget:

We are not alone.

Listen again to Jesus’ words:

“And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”

Consolation and Evangelism

This promise of divine presence—God with us, even still—reminds me of theologian Andrew Root’s understanding of consolation.

He writes:

“This God … arrives with the consolation of God’s name and the promise of God’s presence” (147).

Yet God does not enter our pain and struggles merely to sit with us in misery.

As Root also shares,

“God enters all sorrows for the sake of redemption” (25).

And this, I believe, is part of the task Jesus calls us to in evangelism.

As Root writes:

“To accompany another in their… sorrowful goodbye is to evangelize, because in walking with the sorrowful we’re directed [to God] in and through the goodbye.

The church is called not to fix the sorrow but to journey with the one who bears it” because “our goodbyes are the place where God chooses to work” (233, 268).

And lest one wonder what this has to do with Jesus’ call to make disciples, Root adds:

“Evangelism and discipleship are fused.

Evangelism is the invitation to receive consolation, to receive ministry. [It] is the reception of care that places a person on the path of encounter with the divine…

We are Jesus’ disciples when, having received consolation, we go into the world to give consolation to others” (Root, 2).

Behold

We might wonder then, what does this actually look like?

I noticed, while preparing this sermon, that the word translated as “remember” in Matthew 28:20 is the Greek word idou,

which means “to see, to perceive, to realize.”

In some Bible translations, the English word behold is used.

Behold means to perceive, to realize, to truly see.

When we behold God’s grace in the abiding presence of the Holy Spirit we find ourselves saying yes again and again.

As Meda Stamper writes:

“Jesus tells his followers to reenact his story in the baptism of new believers, enfolding them in the life of the Trinitarian God, with the Son as their Immanuel, the Father loving them as their own, and the Spirit descending like a dove to lead them out.”

Evangelism, then, is following Jesus into sorrow

—not trying to fix or solve anything—

but helping others to see.

Behold.
God is with you.
You are not alone.
And God can redeem even this.

My task as a chaplain is not to fix or solve anything,

but to be a physical reminder, a vessel, of God’s loving presence.

See—God is here. God is with you, even to the very end.

A Different Kind of Evangelism

As Episcopal priest Natalie Hall puts it:

“Proselytizing is leveling a threat; evangelism is offering truth.

Proselytizing is making a demand; evangelism is presenting a gift.”

Proselytizing is often driven by anxiety—as though the Holy Spirit is absent or ineffective.

But evangelism trusts that God is already at work.

The gospel, Hall reminds us, is

“constantly coming after us, being offered and given to us.”

And when people ask,

“For me?”

The gospel says:

Yes. Again and again.

This past weekend, my wife and I took a trip to the eastern plains,

staying at a small bed & breakfast.

While there, we enjoyed dinner with another couple staying at the inn.

As these things often do, conversation eventually turned toward work.

“It’s complicated,” I said.

“I’m a chaplain, I work with a Christian nonprofit, I write, I podcast—I do several things.”

Wine was flowing, and the woman leaned in.

“Wait,” she said, “I thought I heard you were a pastor. Is that true or not?”

“Well,” I said, “I’m not currently employed by a church.”

She then told us about her brother-in-law,

who was also a pastor—and, in her opinion, a bit of a Bible thumper.

“He always has a Bible within five feet of him,” she said sarcastically.

I quickly replied that I did too—which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely untrue,

as I had brought one along for the trip and it was back in our room.

We laughed together.

She then shared how, on a previous visit to this same place,

they had walked to the nearby Catholic prayer garden featuring the luminous mysteries.

Her brother-in-law had insisted on running back to retrieve his Bible so he could read the corresponding scriptures at each station.

He was, she thought, a little overzealous.

And honestly, I agreed.

“I’m more ecumenical,” I said.

“I’ve heard that word before,” she replied.

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” I said, “I try to get along well with all Christians.”

And so we kept talking.

Eating. Drinking. Laughing. Sharing stories.

Thankfully, Corinna, not me, is quite engaging!

Eventually, the conversation turned toward something more tender

—their concern for a young grandson whom they sensed might be gay or trans,

and their hope that he might find a school where he would be welcomed & accepted.

Through it all, I did not say very much.

I nodded.

I affirmed their fears and concerns.

I empathized.

But more than that—I believe—

I evangelized.

Not in the command-and-control kind of way.

Not in the trying-to-force-an-outcome kind of way.

But in trusting that, by simply being present,

God was already there—in the midst of them—

working, redeeming, bringing new life.

And trust me, I felt the temptation to do more,

say more, be more—evangelistic.

Later that night, back in our room,

I told my wife that I had briefly considered

praying before dinner.

I’m not sure how that would have landed.

But what I hope I was able to do was something else.

To help this woman behold.

To help her see.

God is with you.
God is with your grandson.
Even to the very end.

And that trusting that God is already at work

—and doesn’t need me to make something happen—

gives me courage to enter some of the hardest rooms.

The Sidewalk

A few months back,

I was called into the hospital for a challenging situation.

Self-harm, I was told, and I’ll leave the details imprecise.

The staff asked me to come in.

The family was acting hysterical, I was told.

I immediately got in the car and started praying.

“God, this is a lot.

But I believe that you’re out in front of me,

already in that room with that woman.

Help me remember that.

Help me be a vessel of your love and peace.”

About five minutes from the hospital,

I saw a police cruiser pull a U-turn

and begin following me.

I bet we’re headed to the same place, I thought.

Walking into the hospital,

the social worker met me at the door

and started explaining the situation.

I’d never had that happen before.

Then security came over.

We walked to the window and saw a woman

sitting on the sidewalk, officers hovering over her.

She had apparently made some veiled threat, prompting alarm.

“Let me go see her,” I said.

I walked outside and did the only thing I could think to do.

I sat down with her on the sidewalk.

I had been praying for more opportunities to share the gospel.
I hadn’t specified how.

And upon reflection, it struck me:

In that moment, I was an evangelist.

Eventually, the nursing staff invited us into the room.

It was uncomfortable, tragic, painful.

But as I stood there beside that woman,

I stood there not with the burden

that I needed to fix something

or make everything better,

but with the assurance

that I was simply trying to be a visible reminder

of God and a vessel of God’s love.

Behold.
God is with you.
You are not alone.
God is with you to the very end.
And God can redeem even this.

The Final Commission

When I enter a room filled with pain and suffering

—or come alongside a loved one in crisis—

I am not trying to fix things,

redeem the situation,

or even bring immediate relief to pain.

Rather, I am simply trying to be a visible reminder

of God and a vessel of God’s love.

I trust that when I enter the pain of another,

God is already at work.

All I need to do is show up.

In that way,

I am an evangelist.

Evangelism is entering the sorrow of another to help them behold:

God is with you.
You are not alone.
And God can redeem even this.

“Behold,” Jesus says,

“I am with you—even to the end.”

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Unmistakable Joy

A few weeks ago, while looking through photos from my children’s baptism, I noticed something unexpected.

It wasn’t my kids who first caught my attention. It was the pastor.

More specifically, the unmistakable joy on Pastor Thomas’ face as he poured the baptismal water.

And the more I sat with that image, the more I realized I was seeing something increasingly rare: a pastor leading not from exhaustion, cynicism, or performance—but from joy.

A grateful day

Ever since my own faith “deconstruction,” and especially after having kids, I’ve wrestled with what it looks like to pass on the faith without either repeating the rigid, prescribed faith of my youth or continuing another trend I’ve noticed in some Mainline spaces—the assumption that kids may or may not make the faith their own, and that it’s fine either way.

So I was grateful when the opportunity came for my daughter to participate in confirmation at our church. And because she had not yet been baptized, baptism became an important part of that process.

And since we already had family coming in to celebrate her baptism and confirmation—all on the same day!—we encouraged our son to be baptized as well. Being as we both grew up Baptist, my wife preferred baptism by immersion, hence the tank that Pastor Thomas is enthusiastically pouring into.1

Thankfully, the church had someone there taking pictures,2 because amidst all the logistics of coordinating family, changes of clothes, and lunch plans afterward, we completely forgot.

An Epic Pour

Looking through the photos later, what struck me most was this image above of Pastor Thomas gleefully pouring the water. He is an epic pourer after all—a running joke I have with another friend at the church. Anytime there’s a baptism and he misses it, I’m always texting him, “You missed an epic pour today!”3

The point isn’t to make fun of Pastor Thomas. Rather, it’s to highlight his joy in ministry.

It’s local church pastors like Pastor Thomas whom I so admire, so much so that I dedicate my forthcoming book to them and their leadership.

Maybe it’s because I don’t think I was ever a particularly good pastor myself. Maybe it’s because I know how hard the job really is. Maybe I’m just jealous.

But one thing is certain: Pastor Thomas exemplifies so much of what I admire in faithful local church ministry.

Joy Forged in the Wilderness

There is a joy that seems to overflow from Pastor Thomas. When he pours that water—like so much else he does in ministry—it comes from a place of deep gratitude, faith, and trust in God.

And notably, not from obvious success or church growth, but from wilderness seasons.

Pastor Thomas has shared openly in sermons about difficult chapters in life and ministry: divorce, diagnoses, disruptions, and hard seasons of leadership.

Nor is he untouched by the pain and injustice of the world around him. I’ve heard him regularly pray peace in places of war, for residents being priced out of local mobile home communities by greedy developers, and for victims of school shootings.

What I mean to say is:

His joy is not cheap.

Joy and Grace

The other day, while listening to Pastor Betty4 preach on joy, I noticed again in my Greek New Testament that the word for joy is closely tied to the word for grace.

In the Greek New Testament, the word for joy is chara (χαρά), the word for grace is charis (χάρις), and the verb “to rejoice” is chairō (χαίρω).5

That struck me as exactly right.

Joy is not mere happiness, optimism, or good vibes. Joy is living from a deep awareness that we have received abundantly from God’s grace.

That’s what strikes me about Pastor Thomas. His joy seems rooted in grateful recognition of God’s grace overflowing toward him. That’s why he can, as James writes, “count it all joy” amid trials and hardships.6

To be sure, Pastor Thomas did not feel joy immediately in many of those moments.7 But afterward, through them, it’s clear that joy was formed in him because he recognized God’s grace even in the wilderness.

And it makes me wonder:

How might churches and pastors be different if more ministry flowed from this kind of deep joy and gratitude? How much more compelling would churches become if pastors embodied this sort of rooted joy?8

Where Joy Comes From

This isn’t to say we ignore pain, injustice, or suffering. I don’t think Pastor Thomas does that at all.

But I do think that when we are deeply rooted in God’s grace, even amid difficulty, some measure of joy begins to emerge.

I think this is part of what James was trying to say, and why Corrie ten Boom’s sister Betsie comes to mind for me. Even amid the suffering of a Nazi concentration camp, Betsie insisted on seeing God’s grace at work.

In Boom’s recounting of the story in her book, she shares how Betsie thanked God for lice, realizing it kept the guards out of their barracks and therefore safe from abuse and harm.

Above all else, though, joy is not something we manufacture. It comes through surrender—through recognizing our own limitations, weakness, and need for grace. I know Pastor Thomas had to learn that in the wilderness.

And honestly, I think this may be part of why joy can sometimes feel elusive in progressive Mainline spaces.

We are often so focused on affirming our own uniqueness and enoughness that grace can subtly become little more than divine validation rather than God meeting us in our sin, frailty, and brokenness.

Meaning, we tend to act like grace is something we deserve.9

But I wonder if the opposite is true.

What if joy begins precisely when we become deeply aware of our limitations and need—and discover that God’s grace still meets us there?

That, I think, is where joy begins to overflow.

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The Two Religions—Still on My Mind

This week I attended an ordination service within the Mainline tradition.

I’m going to try to be intentionally generic here. My aim is not to belittle or insult the newly ordained pastor or the church involved.

But earlier that same day, I had listened to an ordination sermon from , and I couldn’t shake how drastically different the two services felt.

In Micheli’s sermon, he boldly declared that Jesus was truly risen from the dead—something that, if I’m honest, I suspect at least some clergy in the other service might question or at least hedge around. More than that, Micheli proclaimed that the resurrection was not merely the resuscitation of a corpse, but that “God resurrects not his remains, but Christ’s entire life,” and that “Jesus is alive and exactly because he lives with death behind Him.”1

It was strikingly different from what I heard later that day, where I repeatedly heard phrases like “Mystery untamed” and “Companion Jesus.”

And sitting there, I couldn’t help but think about a blog post I’ve had sitting in my drafts since last summer—one I wasn’t sure I actually wanted to publish.

But after experiencing those two ordination services in the same day, I keep wondering if maybe that original essay was onto something.

Again, I hesitate to say this. I generally dislike the online hot-takers who constantly trash progressive Mainline churches and pastors. So I say all this with some humility and hesitancy, recognizing I may be wildly wrong.

Faith in Jesus, or faith of Jesus?

I recently read Ben Crosby’s essay Reconfessionalization, Rechristianization—an awkwardly titled but deeply thought-provoking piece arguing that Mainline Protestantism still lives in the long shadow of the liberal-fundamentalist battles of the early 20th century.

One idea in particular has stuck with me: Crosby’s distinction between the “faith in Jesus” and the “faith of Jesus.” In the post, Crosby discusses J. Gresham Machen’s book Christianity and Liberalism and argues that “our churches at present suffer from insufficient attention to the core Christian message of incarnation and redemption.”

But what has really stuck with me since is his—and Machen’s—claim that these are two different religions.

Here’s the quote I can’t shake:

“On the other hand, there is what Machen calls liberalism: a form of religion which rejects the specific historical claims made by Christianity as untenable in the face of modern science and history, and instead sees in Jesus an ideal of a life lived in conformity to the will of a (possibly-impersonal) God. The goal is not, for liberalism, faith in Jesus but the faith of Jesus, generally understood as a nondogmatic, experiential commitment to the fatherhood of God and the brotherhood of man.”

“While Machen admits that he is treating these two religions as ideal types, and in the actual lives of mainline clergy and laity some combination of ‘liberal’ and ‘Christian’ beliefs are often held together, he argues that the two religions cannot ultimately coexist within the same ecclesial structure” (my emphasis).

A Canadian Case Study - Faith Without a Mediator

Crosby’s words stirred a memory of a trip to Canada a some years back. While there, a local pastor took us on a tour of Toronto’s historic downtown churches.

We visited three cathedrals: Anglican, Catholic, and United Church of Canada:

The Anglican cathedral was alive with music and people—an organ rehearsal filling the sanctuary with sound.

The Catholic cathedral was also buzzing with activity: people praying, a small funeral service underway, and a steady stream of visitors.

But the United Church sanctuary was eerily quiet.

A beautiful old Methodist building—now part of the UCC2 since the 1925 merger—it stood nearly empty. Aside from the few of us visiting, no one was in there.

As we drove back, I was told that in one nearby region alone, 8 or 9 United Church congregations had closed since the early 2000s. The idea, at least as I heard it, was that the UCC had leaned heavily into what Crosby might call the “faith of Jesus”—a vision of Christianity that, while morally commendable, ultimately made the church feel optional.

What I found compelling in that observation—and what echoes Crosby’s concern—is that once Christianity becomes about living like Jesus without believing in Jesus and his work through the church, then the church becomes an “unnecessary overhead.”3

This aligns with something I’ve been convinced of for a while: people want to give themselves over to something bigger than themselves. For a time, big institutions like the United Church carried that kind of magnetism. But as trust in institutions has eroded, newer generations have found little compelling about a declining and seemingly irrelevant institution that offers nothing unique or revelatory—only “unnecessary overhead” getting in the way of doing “the work.”4

The Church Matters—Because Jesus Does

This way of thinking stands in stark contrast to voices like Andrew Root and Dwight Zscheile, who emphasize that Jesus and salvation are mediated through the church.

Root puts it boldly:

“The church’s only purpose is to proclaim to the world that God acts in the world for the sake of the world’s salvation.”
— Churches and the Crisis of Decline

“Christian faith is impossible outside the church.”
— Faith Formation in a Secular Age

And again, I struggle with this idea that we’re talking about two religions, but I’m reminded of the words of Zscheile and Pogue:

“Late-modern Western culture assumes every individual’s path to meaning and purpose is equally valid. It rejects any ultimate public framework for truth other than its own secular relativist one. Many faithful members of local churches have been shaped by this cultural ideology without even recognizing how deeply it contradicts the gospel of Jesus.”

What Is Actually Happening at the Table?

I say this not as a right-wing hot-taker—or at least I hope not to be—but as someone still deeply committed to the Mainline and its often awkward but important mixture of inclusion, liberalism, academia, history, and faithfulness.

I was reminded this week of my own ordination into a Mainline denomination more than a decade ago, a burden and responsibility I still take extremely seriously. So my aim here is not simply to tear down institutions. Rather, I find myself wondering: are we unsuccessfully trying to hold together two fundamentally different understandings of Christianity within the same institutional structures?

UMC pastor and author Jack Shitama has repeatedly told me that human sexuality was never really the central issue in the UMC, but rather the most visible expression of a much deeper divide—namely, how we understand scripture, theology, and the faith itself.

I’m increasingly beginning to understand his point.

Not that everyone in the UMC or progressive Christianity5 is basically a wannabe Unitarian-Universalist.6 That would be unfair and inaccurate. But I do think Shitama is right that there are, at times, genuinely irreconcilable theological differences underneath the surface.

For my own part, I’ve chosen to remain within the more liberal branches of Christianity because, as much as they frustrate me at times, there are so many good, faithful pastors and churches whose ministry I deeply respect—plus I’ve found the faithfulness, discipleship, and spiritual fruit of many LGBT Christians impossible to simply dismiss, among other things.7

But I also don’t think this tension is merely about denominational distinctions or sexuality debates.

What struck me in the ordination service was not a disagreement over transubstantiation versus consubstantiation, to use a historical example. The deeper issue seemed to be whether communion was actually mediating something real—or whether it functioned primarily as a symbolic moral encouragement, a small spiritual and emotional boost to inspire us to do better.

By contrast, in Micheli’s sermon, he quite literally declared that “Jesus is on the table, because the table is in him.”

That is a radically different theological imagination.

Certainly, some traditions understand the Lord’s Supper more as remembrance than sacrament—I’m reminded of my own Baptist roots—but even there, what is being remembered is still death and resurrection, not merely a vague story about Jesus inspiring love, inclusion, or human flourishing.

Is What Happened in Canada Happening Here?

I’m not Canadian, nor do I have deep expertise on the United Church of Canada. But if those observations are accurate—and they resonate with what I’ve seen in similar contexts—it seems to me that an embrace of cultural ideology over theological identity can leave churches empty, both literally and spiritually.

Churches without theological confidence often become churches without people. A Christianity without creeds eventually becomes a Christianity without a congregation.

And once again, I return to Crosby’s unsettling but important question:

Can these two religions really coexist under one roof?

And this is where I come back to those two ordination services. Because, even as I sat as an observer in one, I couldn’t shake the feeling that, though the institutional words spoken over the ordinand asking their commitment and promise to serve the church and the ministry of God, there were two starkly different visions of Christianity at play.

Like, in Micheli’s vision of ministry, the pastoral role is about giving one’s life to Christ, and probably even more boldly than that—subsuming our life into the life of Christ.

In the other ordination service, the vision of ministry was something like helping people find their “divine spark” and “encounter mystery beyond themselves.”

I just don’t know how these don’t end up being two wildly different forms of ministry and quite obvious why the Mainline church is in such a state of disarray.8

A Final Hesitation

And this is where I keep finding myself torn.

Because on one hand, I genuinely do not want to become one of those cynical internet commentators constantly taking shots at Mainline pastors and churches. I know too many faithful, thoughtful, compassionate clergy within these traditions to simply dismiss them. More, I recognize my own limitations, biases, and blind spots. I may very well be wrong about all of this.

But at the same time, I can’t shake the growing sense that something deeper than “style” or “emphasis” is at stake.

When one ordination service centers on the risen Christ who conquered death, and another speaks primarily of “Mystery untamed” and “Companion Jesus,” it begins to feel like we are not merely describing the same faith with different language.9

It begins to feel like we are talking about fundamentally different religions.

Again, I hesitate even writing that sentence.10

But if Mainline Christianity becomes primarily about activism, inclusion, and human flourishing11 detached from concrete claims about who Jesus is and what God has done through him, then I think we would all be better off with the Unitarian Universalists, rather than the “embarrassing God” of Christianity.12

And perhaps that is precisely what Crosby and Machen were trying to warn about.

Not that liberal Christianity lacks sincerity or compassion.
Not that progressive Christians are bad people.
But that at some point, the theological center shifts enough that we are no longer talking about the same thing.

Maybe I’m wrong.

Honestly, part of me hopes I am.

But I also increasingly wonder if the emptiness of so many Mainline churches is not simply about demographics, secularization, or institutional decline.

Maybe, at least in part, it is because people intuitively sense that a church unsure of what it believes about Jesus will eventually become unsure of why it exists at all.

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Draw Near With Faith

Reconfessionalization, Rechristianization

I’ve been thinking even more than usual over the last few days about ‘reconfessionalization’ and ‘confessional Anglican,’ both what we mean by them and what their promise for our church might be. Draw Near With Faith is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber…

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a year ago · 25 likes · 14 comments · Ben Crosby

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I was excited when I first saw the title Doing Well by Doing Good: The Missional Benefits of Church Based Economic Enterprises by Brendan J. Barnicle.

As I’ve mentioned before, I have a book coming out on a somewhat similar topic, so whenever I encounter overlapping ideas or themes, I take it as a sign that I’m probably onto something worth exploring.

That being said, it became apparent very early on that Barnicle and I approach this topic from vastly different perspectives.

My Background with Business as Mission

For starters, I completed an MBA with a nonprofit emphasis at Hope International University, where I studied social enterprise and Business as Mission (BAM).

Which is why I found Barnicle’s treatment of BAM so perplexing.

At one point he writes:

“Both the prosperity gospel and the BAM initiatives endorse profit and wealth as evidence of God’s favor. They see the Mission of God as Business as Mission” (18).

Now certainly, I can imagine some contexts where BAM entrepreneurs may over-spiritualize business success. And historically, BAM did emerge largely in cross-cultural missionary settings focused on Unreached People Groups.1

But Barnicle’s broader characterization simply doesn’t align with either the movement’s stated goals or the way BAM is commonly understood.

What BAM Actually Is

For example, Barnicle later argues:

“BAM advocates reject any activities that are not directly related to the business or to their mission, which is largely defined as converting people to their form of Christianity. They are exclusively focused on a coupling of business and mission as a way to faithfully follow the gospels. They overlook or undervalue other aspects of Christian faith, mission, and discipleship” (23).

Frankly, I don’t know how someone familiar with the broader BAM movement could write that.

Doing some very basic searches on Business as Mission, I quickly found definitions like:

“Discover the power of business to respond to the world’s most pressing needs — for God’s glory, the gospel and the common good.”2

Or:

“Business as Mission is the creation and growth of for-profit, sustainable companies that are intentional about Kingdom of God purposes. Business as mission (BAM) addresses the economic, social, environmental, and spiritual needs of unreached peoples and vulnerable communities.”3

Or again:

“Business as Mission involves ‘the whole church taking the whole gospel to the whole world.’”4

None of those definitions remotely resemble Barnicle’s portrayal.

Even more confounding is his assertion that BAM is somehow the “logical extension of the prosperity gospel” (22).

Honestly, I’m not even sure where to begin with that claim because it feels so disconnected from the actual theology and practice of most BAM practitioners.5

A Deep Suspicion of the Church

What also struck me throughout the book was a deep suspicion—not just of capitalism or business—but seemingly of the church itself.

Barnicle argues that even if churches launch businesses or economic enterprises, they ultimately must relinquish meaningful control or else:

“they would likely perpetuate the past oppressive colonial roles of Christian churches” (52).

He goes on to acknowledge that:

“it cannot be guaranteed that the enterprise will not make poor choices” (52).

And later repeats:

“Churches may not be able to prevent businesses that they help launch from exploiting others. Churches may try to provide oversight and regulations, but such an approach risks perpetuating the past oppressive roles of Christian churches” (103).

Reading those sections, I found myself wondering:

Does Barnicle actually believe the church has anything uniquely good to offer economic life?

Or is the church primarily a liability to be managed and restrained?

That question became even harder to ignore when he later suggests that leaders of gospel-based enterprises “must not proselytize [or] sermonize” (149).

At that point, it becomes easier to understand why he dislikes BAM.

But it also raises a deeper question for me:

What exactly is the gospel in Barnicle’s framework?

Because throughout the book, there were moments where it felt less like Christianity was being presented as good news about Jesus and more like a generalized vision of human flourishing with Christian language attached to it.

And perhaps that, more than anything else, is where our approaches fundamentally diverge.

Where I Do Agree

That being said, I don’t want to suggest the book has no value. In fact, the latter portions of the book contain several strong case studies and practical insights worth paying attention to.

Barnicle repeatedly emphasizes things like:

• “the primary focus must be missional, not financial”

• “A clergyperson does not need a business background or entrepreneurial experience”

• and that leaders “need to be committed for the long term.”

He also rightly insists that faith and mission must remain central to any church-based economic enterprise.

On those points, I actually found substantial agreement.

Which is part of what made the beginning of the book feel so perplexing to me.

Because ultimately, many of the practical outcomes Barnicle advocates for are not radically different from what many within the BAM movement itself are trying to accomplish: sustainable enterprises rooted in Christian mission, serving both communities and the common good.

Where we seem to diverge is less on practice and more on theology—namely, whether explicit Christian witness and proclamation are liabilities to be restrained or essential parts of the mission itself.

And for me, that distinction matters quite a bit.

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I like big, bold, brave ideas.

And wow, sure comes out swinging in her new book Anne Boleyn: Reputation, Revolution, Religion, and the Queen Who Changed History.

Right from the jump, Martha boldly makes her case:

“Anne commands our attention. She confronts us with a character that refuses to conform to expectations. She demands we do a double take on how we got to where we are today and who made it happen. She compels us to examine our talk about her to see what it says about us. Anne Boleyn is a woman who changed history. She has the power to keep changing history, if we’re willing to let her story speak.”

Those are bold words: a woman who changed history.

If you’re like me, you probably learned the familiar version of the story, perhaps best summarized by Wikipedia:

“Henry VIII was King of England from 22 April 1509 until his death in 1547. After the Pope refused to annul his marriage to Catherine of Aragon, Henry passed legislation that severed England and Ireland from the Roman Catholic Church and established the monarch as Supreme Head of the Church of England, initiating the English Reformation.”

In the common telling, Henry simply wanted a divorce and started his own church to get one.

And notably, on Wikipedia’s page for the English Reformation, Anne Boleyn receives only a single mention—and even that is regarding Henry’s desire to marry her.

But Martha argues Anne was not merely a romantic subplot in a king’s story.

She was a reformer.

More than that, she was an intellectually serious reformer whose convictions helped shape the future of the English church itself.

As Martha writes:

“The Anglican church was created not because the king wanted a divorce but because Anne became the object of the king’s attention, and Anne was a reformer. She wasn’t just a reformer, she was a smart, witty, articulate, and well-read reformer” (32).

That is a radically different framing of history.

And honestly, a far more interesting one.

Throughout the book, Martha repeatedly highlights how women’s influence on Christianity has often been ignored, minimized, or hidden behind the actions of famous men.

She writes:

“The beginning of England’s reformation was significantly shaped by Anne’s vision and convictions” (132).

And later:

“The idea that the church is the creation of male ideas, male leadership, male voices, has been largely fanciful…failing to see the influence and hear the voice of women shaping our Christian faith” (163).

What I found especially compelling, though, was Martha’s willingness to see Providence at work in all this.

She writes:

“The accident of her long life and the early deaths of her siblings meant that the bloodline of Anne Boleyn, and something of her religious agenda, would rise again and leave a mark that has been more lasting than any of the opposing factions and violent men who tried to bring her down. As a person of faith, and particularly an Anglican person of faith, I would be tempted to call that Providence rather than accident” (142).

That line struck me.

Because so often modern history is flattened into power struggles, politics, sex, and sociology. And certainly, those things matter. But Martha is willing to ask the deeper and riskier theological question:

What if God was at work through Anne Boleyn?

Not because Anne was perfect.
Not because history is simple.
But because God has always worked through flawed, unlikely, and often overlooked people.

By the end of the book, Martha leaves little doubt about her conclusion:

“She changed history and revolutionized the church” (238).

Big claim.

But after reading the book, I’m increasingly convinced Martha may be right.

Go buy the book and decide for yourself!

https://churchpublishing.org/products/9781640658592-anne-boleyn

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This book grew out of years of ministry, nonprofit work, chaplaincy, podcast conversations, and a growing conviction that church buildings can become places of faithful presence throughout the week—not just on Sunday mornings.

The book explores practical and theological ideas around:

• housing

• childcare

• food ministries

• social enterprise

• financial stewardship

• youth and older adult ministry

• and how churches can serve their neighborhoods without losing their identity as the church.

At its core, this is not a book about “saving” the church through innovation. It’s about joining the work God is already doing in our communities.

If you’d like to support the project, here are three simple ways to help:

1. Pre-order the book from the publisher:
   https://churchpublishing.org/products/9781640659988-the-church-as-community-hub

2. Share the book with pastors, church leaders, denominational leaders, and thoughtful church nerds in your life
   Word of mouth really matters with projects like this.

3. Recommend or share this Substack
   A lot of the ideas behind this book were developed right here through ongoing writing and conversation.

Thank you to everyone who has encouraged this project along the way. I’m genuinely grateful.

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Mainline churches grew by going where people were—once rural America. But as populations shifted to cities and suburbs, many denominations failed to follow. The result: underrepresentation in population-dense areas, continued decline, and missed opportunities. The challenge now isn’t just survival—it’s whether churches will realign resources to reach people where they actually live today.

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Mainline Churches Aren’t Where the People Are

What if the biggest problem facing Mainline churches isn’t theology, attendance, or even leadership—but geography?

What if, quite simply, we’re not where the people are anymore?

I really need to write something up about Andrew Root’s new book Baal and the gods of More plus of course my podcast partner ’s new release on Anne Boleyn: Reputation, Revolution, Religion, and the Queen who Changed History.

But in the meantime, I just finished a short but important book from United Methodist leader that’s worth highlighting:

An Aura of Hope: United Methodism’s Next Chapter in the United States.

I won’t get into the whole book here—I have an interview scheduled with him for the podcast—but there was one piece of data that stuck with me.1

How Methodism Grew (and Why That Matters)

Weems notes that part of what fueled early Methodist growth in America was Francis Asbury’s commitment to send preachers to where people actually were.

At the time, that meant rural America.

Which is why, to this day, you see Methodist churches scattered across small towns all over the country.

But here’s the problem:

The population has shifted.

And now, the counties where two-thirds of Americans live have the fewest United Methodist churches.

A Problem Bigger Than One Denomination

This hits close to home for me.

Right now, I’m living in two worlds—attending a UMC church, but ordained in and still very connected to the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ).

And as the data shows, the Disciples aren’t far behind. We’re also underrepresented in high-population areas.

Which makes sense historically. Like Methodists, Restoration Movement2 churches were highly evangelistic—planting churches where people were at the time: rural communities.

The problem is, we haven’t followed people as they’ve moved.

Why This Matters

Looking at Weems’ data, it’s not surprising that Mainline Protestantism has struggled while non-denominational churches have held steady or grown.

Outside of Black Protestant churches, non-denoms are most widely represented in population-dense counties.

That’s where the people are.

And as Weems puts it:

“from the 1970s onward, the misalignment of denominational efforts with the new demographic realities led to immediate and continuing decline.”3

In other words, we’re not where we need to be.

UMC churches, he notes, are “least represented among the populations we most seek to reach.”

A Hard but Practical Solution

So what can be done?

Weems’ answer is pretty straightforward: reallocate resources.

That likely means fewer resources going to struggling churches—and more investment in larger churches located in population-dense areas.

That’s not a new idea.

What’s compelling is the data behind it: larger churches are simply more likely to reach more people.

If we’re serious about engaging unchurched communities, we have to think strategically about where and how we invest.

And this isn’t just about growing white, suburban churches.

Those same population-dense areas are also where younger and more diverse populations live.

The Reality Check

Of course, this is much easier said than done.

It’s likely more feasible in a connectional system like the UMC than in a congregational one like the Disciples of Christ.

And none of this is to say small-town churches can’t be vital.

Last summer I heard from someone at a small DOC church in tiny Frankford, Missouri—stories of baptisms, growing children’s ministry, and real community impact.

Those stories matter.

But the broader reality still holds.

As Ryan Burge has pointed out elsewhere: if we could take all those rural church buildings and drop them into major cities, we probably would.

Of course, we can’t.

So the question becomes: what can we do?

Two Takeaways

First, Mainline leaders should give ourselves some grace.

A significant portion of Mainline decline is tied to demographic shifts outside our control.

But second—and this is harder—we’ve done a poor job adapting to those shifts.

As Burge and others have shown, moving is one of the biggest factors in people leaving church.

And when they finally consider returning to church in their new community…

What do they find?

Non-denominational churches.

Not Mainline ones.

Final Thought

For anyone who cares about the future of the UMC—or the Mainline more broadly—Weems’ book is worth your time.

Because this isn’t just about decline.

It’s about alignment.

Methodism (and the Restoration movement) grew because it went where people were. The question now is whether the Mainline is willing to do the same again.

Not in theory.
In practice.

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The pastor shortage isn’t just about fewer candidates or broken systems—it’s also about formation. Many seminaries are producing leaders oriented toward activism rather than the day-to-day work of congregational ministry. The issue isn’t justice itself, but a growing mismatch between how pastors are trained and what churches actually need to survive and thrive.

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What if the pastor shortage isn’t just about numbers or systems—but formation?

What if we don’t just have fewer pastors…
but fewer people actually trained to be pastors?

In a previous post, I argued that while many churches think their biggest challenges are declining attendance and aging buildings, a deeper crisis is emerging: there simply aren’t enough pastors coming through the pipeline.

In a follow-up, I suggested the problem isn’t just the pipeline—it’s the system. Qualified, willing pastors (like me) are being sidelined by slow processes, geographic assumptions, and outdated models.

But there’s another layer to this.

Formation.

Or more directly: seminaries are turning out religious-leaning activists, not congregational pastors.

I say this as someone shaped by these same systems—someone who really bought into it for a long time.

A Strange Moment for Seminaries

More than a year and a half ago, I wrote a post asking, “what becomes of a seminary with no students?” Some seminaries are closing under financial pressure. Others—like my alma mater—are sitting on large endowments and effectively giving away degrees to access those funds.

At the same time, enrollment is declining across the board. Fewer churchgoers. Fewer job prospects. Less incentive to pursue ministry.

In his book The End of Theological Education, Ted Smith notes that many seminaries have responded by broadening their offerings—degrees in social justice, ethics, trauma, and healing.

I get it. You expand the customer base.

But it raises a real question: what exactly is being formed?

Because at some point, you’re no longer just training pastors. You’re training something adjacent to that.

Where This Becomes a Church Problem

Here’s where this actually hits congregations.

These graduates—like anyone—need jobs. And those jobs, especially well-paying ones in the “social justice” space, are hard to come by.

Churches, meanwhile, need pastors.

So the two meet.

But not always cleanly.

As one mainline pastor told me:
“seminaries are turning out religious leaning activists not congregational pastors.”

Another put it more bluntly:
“wannabe activists need jobs, so they get pulpits because they’re charismatic, but they suck at the daily congregational ministry work.”

That’s harsh. But it’s not coming out of nowhere.

Megaphones vs. Pulpits

At times it feels like grads don’t want a pulpit—they want a megaphone.

And again, to be clear, I’m not anti-activism. The church has always had a role in social engagement. Some of the best examples of justice work have come directly out of Christian communities.

But there’s a difference between activism flowing from pastoral formation… and activism replacing it.

In seminary, I remember hearing a version of this over and over: the pastor is less a preacher and shepherd, and more an activist or community organizer.

Fine.

But then where does that leave room for God? For the gospel? For the actual work of pastoring?

By “pastor,” I mean someone formed to preach, care for people, administer the life of the church, and sustain a community over time.

Because congregational ministry is not primarily about visibility or platform.

It’s about showing up.
Week after week.
In rooms that no one else sees.

In a recent post, said it far better than I could: “What the church needs from its leaders is not more statements on social media. It needs pastors willing to invest in the long, slow, costly relational work of orienting their communities…”1

The Limits of Deconstruction

The problem isn’t that seminaries care about justice—it’s that, in some cases, they’re neglecting formation for the work churches actually require.

And here’s where I think this becomes a real issue.

Many of these leaders are trained in deconstructing and dismantling. Those things have a place; the church has real failures that need to be named.

In his recent book Baal and the gods of More Andrew Root shares a story about a pastor who said “I want the opposite of growth. I want the church to diminish. That’s what I’m after” (26).

But those tools are not enough to sustain an institution.

You can’t pastor a congregation on deconstruction alone.2

At some point, you have to build. Stabilize. Endure.

And I think the last few years have made something pretty clear: we still need institutions. However flawed, they shape communities, form people, and provide continuity.

We are so drunk on the cult of individualism that we assume we can just reinvent everything on the fly.

We can’t.

A Telling Example

In my own denomination, the “new church ministry” leader recently posted a video on how to make protest signs.

Whatever your politics, two things seem obvious:

First, there are probably other departments better suited for that.
Second, making protest signs has very little to do with starting or sustaining a worshipping community.3

That gap matters.

What I’m Actually Saying

To be clear, this isn’t a call to abandon justice work. It’s not a defense of the status quo. And it’s not a denial that churches have caused real harm.

It’s a question of formation.

Are we training pastors?
Or are we training activists who happen to work at churches?

Because those are not the same thing.
And right now, in too many cases, the gap is starting to show.

The church doesn’t need less engagement with the world—it needs leaders formed deeply enough to engage it without losing the core of pastoral ministry.

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1

I’d highly recommend reading his post here:

American Blindspot: Race Religion, Power

The Court Prophet and the King: Franklin Graham, Donald Trump, and the Sociological Consequences of Unchecked Religious Flattery

I’m still thinking about Trump’s posting of himself as Jesus. It’s a memorable picture, and there’s still a lot to unpack…

Read more

2 months ago · 1 like · Gerardo Martí

Hospital chaplaincy often reveals the end result of years of unresolved grief and trauma. Watching these stories unfold has shaped how I think about faith as well. When Christianity becomes little more than our best intentions or moral effort, it cannot carry the weight of human suffering. Like recovery in Alcoholics Anonymous, real healing begins with confession and surrender—acknowledging our limits and depending on the power of God rather than our own strength.

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When Pain Goes Unexamined

The interesting thing about serving as a hospital chaplain is that I rarely see the beginning of a tragedy.

I usually see the end of it.

The ICU bed.
The machines.
The family gathering outside the room.

And almost always, when the story begins to unfold, you realize the crisis didn’t start here.

It started years earlier—with grief that was never faced, trauma that was never named, pain that was simply pushed aside until it became something far more destructive.

A dad who, isolated and alone during Covid, relents to addiction and ends up hooked up to machines in the ICU, awaiting death, leaving behind a wife and young daughter.

An older man, his siblings exasperated and exhausted as unexamined grief from the passing of his own parent decades ago cascades into an addiction that has made his life unsustainable.

A young man seeking to escape and outrun his own trauma through risk-taking and drugs, only to end up piling more trauma upon himself.

First, believe it when you hear people say men—and especially young men—are in trouble. I have more stories I could share.

Second, as I’ve said before, the hospital is often the end point of unresolved grief and trauma—the almost inevitable outcome when it isn’t dealt with but simply ignored.

And because of the way my mind works, for good or ill, I often wonder: when did this start? What was the unresolved grief or trauma that set this person on the path that led them here?

Once, a family member said it quite bluntly:

“This all started when his dad died. He’s been escalating and isolating ever since.”

For better or worse, that’s how my mind works. Seeing the end results of so much ignored pain and grief perhaps heightens my awareness of unintended consequences—or, said another way, leaves me somewhat obsessed with implications.

And that instinct doesn’t stop with the hospital. It shapes how I think about theology as well—especially the kinds of theology that try to carry the weight of the world without the resources the Gospel of Jesus actually provides.

I’ve written about it before, but I’ll say it again.

What has cooled me so much on so-called “Progressive” Christianity1 is that I’ve seen where it can end up: cynicism, mistrust, isolation, and a flattened view of divinity that reduces God to little more than a conglomeration of humanity’s best intentions.

But when sh*t hits the fan—or when a certain president unconscionably wins a second term—there’s not much left to do but fall into hopelessness, despair, and/or rage.2

After all, if Jesus is simply an example for us to follow, we have quite clearly failed to live up to his standards.

If the goal is simply to become more loving, as some might say, our nation seems to be descending further into anger and chaos.

If the Bible is merely a conversation partner, then clearly we must tell it what is what—because loving your neighbor and showing kindness to those who persecute you begins to sound quaint, old-fashioned, even irrelevant.

I don’t mean to say that every person who identifies as a “Progressive” Christian ends up bitter or despairing.

No—the message of the gospel is too powerful for that. Even in diluted form, it still transforms.

What I am saying is that, left to its own internal logic, this is where the trajectory of “Progressive” Christianity can lead: despondent, alone, exhausted.

It’s no wonder the Apostle Paul wrote, addressing those who doubted the resurrection of Jesus, that such people are “most miserable…having no hope in this world.”

Is it any wonder that those who reduce Jesus to a mere thought leader and the Bible to book club fodder can find themselves overwhelmed and exhausted when things don’t go as expected?3

This is where I say: thank God for the Bible. Within it we see testimony of God’s presence and participation in life even when things seem bleakest.

I think of Elijah and the still small voice when he believed he was defeated and alone. All his earthly efforts had failed him. He didn’t need a pep talk—he needed to be reminded of a living God. And he was.

Hospital beds are, in many ways, liminal spaces, as I’ve written about before.

They represent crossroads, where the addicted or broken must confront in real time their own inability to overcome their demons alone.

This past year in America, if I may be so bold, feels like a similar kind of acute-care moment for the health of our nation.

And yet many people—including many in our churches—seem convinced that doubling down on anger and effort will somehow fix things, as if trying harder or “fighting harder” will resolve the polarization and mistrust tearing us apart.

Sure—tell me how responding to gerrymandering with more gerrymandering will solve our problems.

But I digress.

Often when I speak with someone hospitalized after an overdose, they say the same things:

“This is a wake-up call.”
“I’m going to change some things in my life.”

Trying to be supportive, I encourage them to name who they can rely on for support, where they can find help, and what communities they can reconnect with—especially a church.

I rarely get to see the outcome.

I say rarely because I did once see a man again several months later who had made similar promises but had not implemented the changes he hoped for. Now, deeper in the grip of alcoholism and with his body further brutalized by it, the results were not pretty.

Let me close with this.

As I understand it, one of the key steps of Alcoholics Anonymous is confession and surrender—an acknowledgment that one is indeed an alcoholic and cannot defeat the addiction alone.

Recovery begins when someone stops pretending they can fix themselves.

“Progressive” Christianity, I believe, needs to come to a similar place of confession and surrender.

We cannot defeat all the evil and injustice in our world on our own. We cannot solve it through effort, outrage, or even our best intentions.

We must depend on the same power that raised Christ from the dead—the power revealed in Scripture and present with us through the Holy Spirit.

When Christianity becomes little more than our best intentions dressed up as “God,” it eventually collapses under the weight of reality.

But when we confess our limits and surrender to God’s power, something very different becomes possible.

Grace.
Renewal.
Hope.

And sometimes—like the first honest words spoken in a hospital room—the beginning of healing.

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The pastor shortage isn’t just a pipeline problem—it’s a systems problem. Qualified, willing pastors (like me) are being sidelined by slow processes, geographic assumptions, and outdated models. We don’t need to reinvent ministry formation—we need faster, supervised on-ramps that deploy pastors in real time.

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There’s a growing consensus in the mainline church: we don’t have enough pastors.

I’m not convinced that’s the whole problem.

I live in the Denver metro, close to family. Both my wife and my parents are within about 45 minutes. That proximity isn’t incidental—it’s part of how our life is structured. Support, relationships, shared time—it all matters.

I’m an ordained pastor in the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) with an MDiv, over a decade of ministry experience, CPE training, and hospital chaplaincy experience. I’ve served across UMC, UCC, and DOC contexts, and I know how to step into a congregation and begin leading.

In other words, I’m not a new or untested candidate. I’m the kind of pastor many churches say they’re looking for.

And yet—I’m effectively unavailable.

Not because I’m unwilling. Because I’m rooted.

More, my wife is the primary breadwinner in our family. So, relocating wouldn’t just be a vocational decision—it would be a financial one. And in a place like Denver, with home prices what they are, leaving isn’t just leaving—it’s potentially closing the door on ever coming back.

So when I look at church job boards, I’m not just asking, “Who needs a pastor?” I’m asking, “Who needs a pastor within a realistic distance of where I already live?”

That significantly narrows the field.

And I don’t think I’m unique in that.

I suspect there are many pastors like me—trained, experienced, and willing—but geographically anchored in ways our current systems don’t account for.

The Bench Isn’t the Whole Story

A few weeks ago, I wrote about what I called the pastoral bench problem in the mainline church—the growing gap between the number of churches that need pastors and the number of pastors actually coming through the pipeline.

The data is hard to ignore. Ordinations are declining, clergy are aging, and many of the “new” pastors entering ministry are doing so later in life, often without the runway for long-term leadership. At the same time, the systems that once developed younger leaders—associate roles, apprenticeship models, informal farm systems—have largely disappeared.

In short, the bench is getting thinner.

But that’s only part of the story.

The System Problem

We often hear about a “pastor shortage,” yet the systems designed to connect pastors and churches can be slow, opaque, and difficult to navigate.

Recently, I reached out to an area church after seeing what appeared to be a job listing. It turns out—they aren’t actually hiring yet. They’re still forming a Pastor Nominating Committee and must complete a lengthy denominational process before the role can even be officially posted. Even though the job was listed on the denominational website with instructions to contact the church for more information.

In other words, what looked like an open position was really just an early signal that a search might begin months down the line.

That experience highlights a broader tension.

After my first article, I heard from others who described similarly tedious processes. Friends shared stories of candidates navigating years-long ordination pipelines—sometimes 5–10 years.

FIVE TO TEN YEARS

How can denominations be serious about a pastor shortage with timelines like that? How many churches will simply cease to exist in that window?

I understand that there is wisdom in these processes. They encourage discernment, shared leadership, and better long-term fit. A bad pastoral leader can do a lot of damage.

But processes also create a bottleneck—one where willing pastors and searching churches struggle to connect in any meaningful timeframe.

Are healthy, mature leaders really going to wait FIVE TO TEN YEARS to be able to lead a church!? More likely, most who are staying are the types you DO NOT wanting to lead a church.

The result is a gap between the narrative of scarcity and the lived experience of trying to engage the system.

A Connection Problem

Which means the “pastor shortage” isn’t just about supply.

It’s about connection.

We have churches that need pastors.
We have pastors and candidates who are willing to serve.
But the system designed to bring them together is slow, rigid, and often misaligned with the realities of modern life.

Search processes take months—sometimes years.1 Ordination pipelines stretch even longer. Geographic flexibility is often assumed. And in the meantime, both sides wait.

Or move on.

That’s the inefficiency.

It’s not just that we don’t have enough pastors.

It’s that we don’t have enough on-ramps for the pastors we already have.

A Different Model

This is where I think the Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE) model offers a compelling alternative.

CPE operates on a simple rhythm: action → reflection → action. Chaplain interns begin doing the work almost immediately—visiting patients, offering care—while being supervised and guided in real time.2

It’s not reckless.

It’s structured risk.

And it creates something our current church systems lack:

speed with accountability.

Imagine if churches functioned more like this.

Instead of waiting months to form committees and years to complete processes, a church could bring in a candidate quickly—on a defined, supervised, short-term basis. Call it an apprenticeship. Call it a residency. Call it a trial pastorate.

Of course, there would be clear expectations, regular reflection, and an obvious off-ramp if it’s not a good fit.

But there would also be something else:

A pastor. Right away.

Formation wouldn’t just happen before ministry—it would happen in ministry.

Imagine This

Imagine a different pathway.

A pastoral intern is paired with a seasoned pastor—learning not just theology, but the lived realities of ministry, unpaid, for a few months. If that season goes well, they step into a paid, one-year residency at a church that needs leadership. Not alone, but supported. Weekly check-ins—with a denominational leader or cohort—offer accountability, feedback, and pastoral wisdom in real time.

This matters because the first five years of ministry are decisive. Many pastors don’t make it past that window. In a moment of shortage, we cannot afford to lose leaders who have already done the hard work of formation.

At the end of that year, the pathway doesn’t close—it stabilizes. They may remain in that church or transition to another role, continuing through ordination while already functioning in ministry.

And here’s the key insight: we don’t need to invent something entirely new to make this work.

The infrastructure already exists. Most denominations recognize licensed or provisional pastors. The IRS already recognizes these roles for clergy tax purposes. Denominations like the UMC already have annual evaluation systems in place.

We have the tools.

What we lack is the imagination—and the will—to connect them.

Why This Matters

And for someone like me, that changes everything.

Instead of being functionally sidelined by geography and process, I could step into a real role, in a real church, with real responsibility—while still honoring the constraints of my life.

Multiply that across dozens—hundreds—of pastors in similar situations, and suddenly the “bench problem” starts to look very different.

Not solved.

But far more workable.

Final Thought

We don’t just need more pastors.

We need better ways to deploy the ones we already have.

If you’re a denominational leader, pastor, or lay leader—start asking: Where are we unnecessarily slowing this down? And if you’re seeing this same gap in your context, I want to hear from you.

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What if church attendance is not correlation, but actually causation?

In a previous post (see below), I wrote about the confusing and confounding tendency of many, especially progressive Christians, to disregard the data showing regular church attendance as leading to better mental health. The data, as I’ve seen from Ryan Burge, seems pretty clear that it does—even if some have tried to discount it.

One of my readers, made an interesting comment:

“What can’t we ever just say that “church-goers actually are participating in something real”?”

I think there’s something to that.

And, if I may be frank, I think there are a lot of “we believe in science” progressives who simply don’t think this is real—even some progressive Christians, if I may be really frank. The assumption seems to be that there must be some other explanation.

But what if there isn’t?

Joy, Grace, and What We Receive

This Sunday in church, the pastor spoke on joy from Gospel of John 15. She made a few comments that stuck with me, reminding us that joy comes from God and is not something we need to manufacture or perform.

Looking at my Greek New Testament after the fact, I noted again that the word for joy is chara, and from doing a little digging that the Greek words—chairo (rejoice), chara (joy), and charis (grace)—all come from the same root.

In other words, joy and rejoicing are directly connected to grace—God’s grace.

Abiding as the Mechanism

Sunday evening, I was walking into church to pick up my daughter from youth group, and something hit me—what if it’s the abiding in Jesus, often practiced by being in church with the gathered community, that produces joy?

As in, we receive God’s grace, we receive God’s joy, when we are abiding in Christ.

Not just that church helps—but how: through repeated practices of abiding—worship, prayer, Scripture, community—that place people in a posture to receive grace.1

In John 15:5, Jesus says, “I am the vine, you are the branches. Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit.” Then further down in 15:9, “As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love.” Then in verse 11, “I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete.”

What’s fascinating is that in those few verses, the Greek word menó—translated as “abide” or “remain”—appears over and over again.

It seems then, pretty clear to me what Jesus is saying: abide or remain in me.

So Why the Resistance?

So I ask again: Why are so many progressives—especially progressive Christians—so eager to downplay or explain away the apparent benefits of church?

I can’t explain the former. But for the latter, I do increasingly wonder if, as suggested above, there’s no there, there, so to speak.

Or, to say it differently, data is discerning what we already know to be true based on the words of scripture.

Maybe the data isn’t surprising at all.
Maybe it’s simply measuring what happens when people remain in Christ.

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Ten More Ways Church Will Be Different in Ten Years (Part 2)

In a previous post, I explored ten ways the church might look different a decade from now—some subtle, some disruptive, all grounded in trends already underway.

But the exercise stuck with me.

What if we kept going?

What if, instead of stopping at ten, we kept pushing our imagination—not to predict the future with certainty, but to notice where things are already shifting?

I’ve been reading Imaginable: How to Create a Hopeful Future by Jane McGonigal, which invites this kind of thinking. She suggests a simple but powerful exercise:

“First, you pick a topic… Then you list one hundred things that are true about it today… Next, you rewrite each fact so that ten years from now the opposite is true, no matter how ridiculous the new ideas sound. Finally, you look for clues, or evidence of change already happening today, that these ideas are plausible and realistic” (88).

So I’m continuing the experiment.

Again, I’m skipping the full “list what’s true today” step and jumping straight to reimagining what might be different—and looking for early signs that these shifts are already happening.

Here are ten more.

10 More Ideas for the Future of the Church

1. Denominations as Certifying Bodies
Denominations move away from managing buildings, staffing, and institutional overhead, and function more like professional certifying boards—similar to the Association for Clinical Pastoral Education. There are already early signs of this (e.g., Wild Fig Network, Curian Network). Ideally, this allows for provisional status with pathways toward higher levels of recognition. Many denominations already have this in theory—they just tend to push everyone toward full ordination.

2. Denominational Identity Without Denominational Control
Relatedly, denominational structures may loosen significantly. A pastor might be ordained or commissioned by a denomination (e.g., Disciples of Christ), but serve in a church that is effectively non-denominational or simply rooted in a broader theological tradition—Reformed, Anglican, Baptist, Wesleyan, Restorationist—without strict institutional ties.

3. Denominations as Consulting Networks
Denominations or regional bodies (judicatories) increasingly function as consulting networks—offering services like staffing, coaching, conflict mediation, and strategic planning on a fee-for-service basis. In many ways, this formalizes what they already do.

4. Churches as Mission-Driven Community Hubs
Churches that retain buildings will increasingly function like community hubs—housing businesses, nonprofits, and community groups. But the key distinction remains: to be a church, not just a community center. Every use of space is tied to mission and formation, not just revenue. In the Denver metro, some churches are already buying the shopping centers they once rented in and intentionally curating mission-aligned tenants.

5. More Creative Legal Structures
Churches will utilize a wider range of legal and financial structures beyond the traditional 501(c)(3). Some already create separate nonprofits to manage property. Others may form LLCs (with profits flowing back into the nonprofit). The Mosaic Church in Arkansas is one example of creative structuring. Expect more experimentation here.

6. Itinerant and Circuit-Riding Leadership
The return of itinerant preaching. In many ways, the post-war model of a single, full-time pastor at a single church was the exception, not the rule. Earlier models—like Methodist circuit riders—may re-emerge. In fact, some global contexts already operate this way, suggesting this may be less innovation and more retrieval.

7. Worship Isn’t Every Sunday
The expectation of weekly Sunday worship may loosen. Churches may gather less frequently but more intentionally, or diversify when and how they gather.

8. Pop-Up and Mobile Church Models
Building on existing mobile church models, we may see more “pop-up” expressions—churches that function like food trucks. A van or trailer arrives, sets up, gathers, and moves on. Lightweight, flexible, and adaptable to context.

9. Staff as Volunteer Mobilizers
Paid staff increasingly function as equippers and coordinators rather than primary doers. Churches already struggle with overextended staff; the future will require better systems for mobilizing volunteers effectively and setting them up for immediate impact.

10. A Return to Tradition (Not Generic Worship)
Churches will lean more deeply into their theological and liturgical traditions. If you’re Anglican, be Anglican. If you’re Methodist, be Methodist. The era of vague, blended non-denominational identity may give way to clearer, rooted expressions. Likewise, some mainline churches may move beyond overly generalized or flattened expressions of worship and reclaim distinctiveness.

I don’t know that all of these will happen.

Some of them probably won’t. But enough of them feel plausible—and in some cases already visible—that they’re worth paying attention to.

This is the kind of thing I think about a lot: where the church is headed, what’s already changing beneath the surface, and how we might respond before those changes fully arrive. If that’s interesting to you, feel free to follow along—I’ll be exploring more of these ideas in future posts.

Let me know what you think.

What feels plausible? What feels ridiculous? What do you think is certainly coming?

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Slowing down isn’t about ignoring responsibility or injustice—it’s about living from a place of prayerful presence rather than constant urgency. When we step out of hurry, we don’t care less—we’re actually able to love, listen, and endure more faithfully over time.

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I’m not in a hurry

I’m not a particularly fast walker.

Maybe it’s because my legs aren’t that long in proportion to my height (I’ve got more torso than stride).
Maybe it’s because, growing up, I remember my mom always telling my dad to slow down because he was too far ahead of us.
Or maybe I just don’t like walking that fast.

But my training as a hospital chaplain added something deeper. I was taught not to walk quickly, but to walk purposefully—and prayerfully. Never in a hurry.

Learning to Slow Down

I recently finished The Ruthless Elimination of Hurry by John Mark Comer. While I wish he spent more time acknowledging the systemic realities that contribute to hurry—what some of my progressive friends might call systemic injustice1—I still found a lot worth holding onto.

Comer writes, “Hurry and love are incompatible” (23). That line stuck with me. It echoes what I’ve seen elsewhere too—love requires presence, and presence requires time.

He also notes that “hurry is a threat not only to our emotional health but to our spiritual lives as well” (52).

I just want to say: it absolutely is.

About a year ago, I made a significant shift. I moved away from full-time work into a patchwork of part-time roles, which has allowed me to be home more.

I didn’t fully expect what that would do.

It’s been refreshing—not just practically, but physically, emotionally, and spiritually. And I think a big part of that is simple: I am far less often in a hurry.

What’s Beneath the Hurry

One of the more convicting parts of the book was this:

“All too often our hurry is a sign of something else. Something deeper. Usually that we’re running away from something—father wounds, childhood trauma, last names, deep insecurity or deficits of self-worth, fear of failure, pathological inability to accept the limitations of our humanity, or simply boredom with the mundanity of middle life” (55).

I’ve found that to be true.

If I’m always busy—always moving—I don’t have to stop and ask harder questions.
I don’t have to reflect on whether my life is actually aligned with what I say I value.

Hurry can be a kind of avoidance.

Contentment and Enough

Another unexpected outcome of slowing down has been financial.

Making less money—and therefore spending less—has actually produced a kind of contentment.

Comer puts it this way: “At some point you have to draw a line in the sand and say, ‘I’m good… I have enough’” (169).

And honestly, when you do that, it’s not nearly as painful as you might expect.

There’s also what I’d call a “busyness tax.”

I recently watched a YouTube clip breaking down how, for some families, a second income might only net around $6,000 after accounting for childcare, transportation, eating out, and other costs.

Which raises a fair question: is all that added stress and hurry worth it?

Justice Without Hurry

One of the most important clarifications Comer makes is this:

We should not “close [our] eyes to injustice in the world… What I’m saying is, let prayer set your emotional equilibrium and Scripture set your view of the world” (229).

That matters.

Especially because in recent years—particularly around 2020 and 2021—there was a strong sense that stepping back, even briefly, from engaging injustice was itself a kind of privilege. That the faithful response was constant action, constant awareness, constant urgency.

I understand that instinct.

But I’ve also noticed something else: increased pessimism, despondency, and even bitterness among some who live in that constant state.

It makes me wonder if, at some point, we push past faithfulness into something unsustainable.

Or, as Comer might say, into hurry.

Not in a Hurry

I’m reminded of the lyrics from Not in a Hurry by United Pursuit:

I’m not in a hurry
When it comes to Your spirit
When it comes to Your presence
When it comes to Your voice
I’m learning to listen
Just to rest in Your nearness
I’m starting to notice
You are speaking

Often, when I’m driving to the hospital to respond to a crisis page, I’ll turn on some Christian music—or just sit in silence. I try to pray, or at least recall some version of the St. Francis prayer: “Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.”

Like Comer suggests, when we are not in a hurry—when we are actually listening to God, to Scripture, and to the voices around us—it’s hard not to be moved to respond to the brokenness in front of us.

But there’s a difference between reacting out of urgency and acting from a place of rootedness.

When we act from that place of restful nearness—depending on God’s strength rather than our own—we are sustained for the long haul. We begin to recognize that it’s not on us to fix everything, that we don’t have to rush, and that we can wait on God—and then move as God leads.

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