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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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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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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

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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Friday evening, around 11:30 p.m.—23:30 in hospital time—I got a page.

I called back, and the nurse said, “She could benefit from a visit, if you have time. Now or later.”

It was the middle of the night. I had just fallen asleep.

But this was a new hospital—shorter drive, better compensation—and and it felt easier than it might have at another hospital. I grabbed my pillow, headed in, and planned to sleep in the on-call room after.

Around midnight, I entered the patient’s room.

An older woman lay in bed, clearly uncomfortable—shifting, fidgeting, groaning, trying to find relief.

To be honest, I wasn’t sure what to do.

I offered a few quiet, empathic words; “I’m sorry,” “You’re really struggling.” She grimaced in response.

It didn’t feel like a moment for conversation—I was hoping to help her drift off to sleep. So I did what I often do when I don’t know what else to do.

I sat in the silence.
I prayed.
I trusted that the Spirit was at work.

And, I tried something new.

Because it was early Holy Saturday, I read only the four Gospel accounts of the in-between time—after Jesus’ death, before the resurrection.

There’s not much there. Just fragments. Silence, mostly.

Joseph of Arimathea “went boldly to Pilate and asked for Jesus’ body” (Mark 15:43).
They “wrapped it in linen” (Matthew 27:59).
They “laid him in a tomb cut in stone” (Luke 23:53).
A stone was rolled in front (Mark 15:46).
”Because it was the Jewish day of Preparation… the tomb was nearby.” (John 19:42)

That’s it.

No triumph, no resolution; just burial, stillness, and waiting.

Earlier that week, I had read a reflection from chaplain and author —someone who has become, at least from a distance, a sort of mentor to me in this work.

Her writing has a way of naming what I often experience but don’t yet have language for.

In that post, she wrote:

“That Jesus returned from death changed and carrying his wounds as a divine wounded healer teaches us that discipleship requires the courage to see and witness the wounds of others as well as our own. It is through this honest witnessing of suffering rather than ignoring it that individuals find the strength to walk out of their own hidden rooms to move past their own Holy Saturday.”

That’s what I was trying to do that night—to see and witness her wounds.

But I’d nuance it just a bit.

I’m not sure it’s our honest witnessing that gives us the strength to walk out.

I think it’s the One who walked out.

Andrew Root, in Evangelism in the Age of Despair, puts it this way:

“The heart of evangelism is consolation.”

To follow Jesus is to follow him to the cross—to enter the sorrow of another and remain there.

“It seems like you’re carrying quite a load,” Root writes, is the first step.

Not fixing.
Not solving.
Not producing an outcome.

Just entering the sorrow.

That’s what I was doing in that hospital room.

It was not particularly impressive. It was not strategic. My impact was not even especially clear in the moment.1

I was just sitting, praying and being present—trusting in the Spirit’s presence.

One of the gifts of chaplaincy is this:

Sometimes I can recognize when Jesus shows up—usually after the fact. Even in a secular age that often breeds doubt. And slowly, I’m learning this: my work isn’t to produce anything.

Evangelism isn’t something we manufacture.

Which brings me back to Holy Saturday.

I suspect most of our lives are lived in Holy Saturday—
in the space between death and resurrection.

Between what has been lost
and what has not yet been restored.

We live in the quiet of Luke 23:56—resting, waiting, wondering what’s next.2

The mistake we often make is this:

We think the miracle depends on us.

That if we say the right thing, do the right thing, act at the right moment—we can bring resurrection.

But resurrection is not our work, it’s God’s work.

Our work is presence. Or, as Root says in another book, to bear witness a different realm and reality—the kingdom of God.

So much of following Jesus is simply this:

To sit in the silence.
To witness the wounds.
To remain in the in-between.

And to trust that even when we cannot see it—
God is still at work.

Just like that first Holy Saturday

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After years of uncertainty about hospital chaplaincy, I’ve come to see it clearly: I am not just offering presence—I am proclaiming good news. Again and again, I meet people hungry for forgiveness. In hospital rooms, at the edge of life and death, I am reminded that I am still a minister of the gospel.

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More Than a Chaplain

For someone who presumes himself to be smart, I can be pretty stupid sometimes.

My journey into hospital chaplaincy began in 2014. I was the solo pastor of a small, aging church that had high expectations of pastoral care from their minister. Recognizing my own inexperience, I suggested I complete a unit of Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE) at a local hospital.

They liked the idea.

So I worked six days a week, splitting my time between church and hospital—about 24 hours a week at each site. It was intense. The Monday after my unit ended, I was back at that same hospital having my appendix removed.

As they say in CPE: “The body keeps the score.”

My next venture into chaplaincy was in 2021. About three years into a new church start—and having slogged through the brutality of Covid, BLM, and the rest of 2020—I did the math and realized I needed to supplement my pastoral income.

Never quite getting the timing right, my second stint in CPE began in the summer, just before the brutal “second wave” of Covid. The church plant ended—perhaps mercifully—that spring. Even working only 28 hours a week in the hospital, the crush of Covid patients was brutal and exhausting.

Embarrassingly, through all that training, I still wasn’t sure it was for me.

I felt deeply called to the church (I still do). I carried this foolish notion that I wasn’t making much of a difference. I didn’t fully connect what I was doing in hospital rooms with my ministerial calling as a pastor.

After CPE, I returned to parish ministry. Then I worked a couple years in the social service sector. Neither role quite landed. So when the opportunity came to shift again—taking a mix of part-time roles, one of which included on-call chaplaincy—I took it.

Around that same time, I read Walk with Me, a sort-of memoir by about her experience in hospital chaplaincy. Something clicked.

Until then, I had subconsciously thought of chaplains as short-term religious therapists—there to offer a little prayer, a little comfort, a little presence in a crisis.

But reading her book, I realized something obvious and yet profound:

Chaplains, just like parish pastors, are ministers of word and sacrament.

Subtle but Enduring

While she shares gripping stories, mine tend to be quieter. Subtle. Enduring.

I am rarely “preaching a sermon.” And yet I often recognize that I am unmistakably sharing the gospel.

Just yesterday, I told a young man:

“God loves you. God forgives you. Receive God’s forgiveness for yourself.”

Sometimes I wonder if patients’ honesty is simply the result of being “hopped up on pain meds,” as a nurse once commented—or whether it’s something deeper. I’d like to believe it’s the latter. Hospitals, I think, force people to confront mortality in a way few other places do.

And in that confrontation, something opens.

I’m reminded of words attributed to Pope Francis—not a viral quote, but a verified one from the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops:

“I feel in my heart the ‘blessing’ that is hidden within frailty, because it is precisely in these moments that we learn even more to trust in the Lord; at the same time, I thank God for giving me the opportunity to share in body and spirit the condition of so many sick and suffering people.”

Hospitals are liminal spaces—fixed between life and death. Human beings enter through birth and depart through death, often within the same walls and at the same time.

Perhaps that’s why, in this secular world where we’ve neutered nearly every aspect of the divine from daily life, I find myself drawn to crisis. I enter rooms aware that I am stepping onto holy ground.

A Title That Fits

I’ve grown to appreciate the title chaplain.

It feels less threatening than “pastor.” It allows me to honor my calling and use my degrees, while still wearing my faith openly. When I talk with nurses and staff, I make religious comments. I’m the chaplain—I can get away with it.

Before entering a difficult room, I’ll say to a nurse, “Pray for me.” Sometimes to lighten the mood. Sometimes to simply normalize talking about faith in a clinical environment.

But the deeper realization is this:

More than a chaplain, I am an evangelist.

I am sharing good news again and again.

“May I pray for you?”
“God loves you.”
“God forgives you.”
“God’s peace be with you.”

It may be anecdotal, but as a chaplain I keep encountering the same reality: people are hungry for forgiveness. Many have tried to persuade themselves they don’t need it. The effort itself seems to deepen the burden they carry.

I am a minister of the gospel—in word, and sometimes in sacrament.

I still hope that someday an opportunity may arise to serve again in a church in a professional capacity.

But for now, I am grateful.

Grateful that in hospital rooms, at the edge of life and death, I get to share the good news of God’s love.

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John 14:6 may not primarily be a statement about who gets into heaven, but about where life actually is. In the Gospel of John, Jesus’ claim to be “the way, the truth, and the life” is ontological before it is soteriological. All salvation is Christological in origin — if anyone comes to the Father, it is by Christ. But that does not automatically define the final scope of who may participate in that salvation. This reading preserves the strength of the text while allowing for a hopeful soteriology.

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What if you can’t accept that 90% of the world is going to hell?

The other night, I was in a church small group and the discussion moved to John 14:6.

Now, it’s important to note that in this church, I don’t serve in a pastoral role. While members of the group know I serve as a hospital chaplain and I think some may know that I am ordained or have served in pastoral roles before, I really try hard to just be a member of the group. Especially when complicated or potentially divisive topics come up, I try to be another voice, not an authoritative one.

I even have awkward conversations at times with pastoral staff about titles. I’ll refer to them as “Pastor Bill,” but I don’t want them referring to me as “Pastor Loren.” For me, at least, the title of pastor represents spiritual authority. In that church, I don’t hold that authority. I am submitting to theirs.

So back to John 14:6.

One week, a pastor preached about John 14:6, heaven, and inclusion. Later that week, the topic came up in small group. When the question was posed about what we had been taught about that verse — or who would be in heaven — my mind went immediately back to my formative years as an Independent Baptist, especially my time at Baptist Bible College in Springfield, Missouri (now Mission University).

Two memories stand out.

The first was a freshman missions class taught by Professor Lingo. He challenged us with a blunt question: would “unreached people groups” who have never heard about Jesus still go to hell?

His answer was unambiguously yes.

The reasoning went something like this: if you tell them about Jesus and they reject him, you’ve now sealed their fate. Better ignorance than rejection I guess?

The second memory was when I realized the math of fundamentalist Christianity was something I could not accept.

We were taught that about 33% of the world identified as “Christian,” though many of those were Eastern Orthodox, Roman Catholic, Pentecostal, or what I would later become — Mainline Protestant. Missionaries from our Baptist circles regularly went to heavily Catholic or Orthodox countries assuming there were no “gospel preaching churches” there. Chapel speakers often preached evangelistic sermons assuming not everyone in the room was even saved.

Eventually, the equation formed in my mind.

If our narrow theological lane was correct, then something like 90% of the world was headed for hell.

I couldn’t accept those numbers.

That realization eventually led me into the mainline world, into seminary, and toward a more progressive version of Christianity. And yet, even as I’ve discovered the limitations of progressive theology, I still wrestle with how to interpret texts like John 14:6 without either reverting to my old framework or dismissing the text entirely.

To be honest, I’ve found that many progressive interpretations of the verse feel too thin. One I heard recently suggested Jesus was simply saying we should “be like him and love others.”1 But to me that doesn’t really take the text seriously.

Jesus does say, in Greek, ego eimi — “I am.” And John does record him saying he is “the way, the truth, and the life.”

So the other night, lying awake and ruminating, I grabbed my phone and opened ChatGPT. I often use it as a thinking partner when I’m trying to pressure-test an idea.

And I wondered:

What if John 14:6 is not primarily a soteriological claim — about who gets saved — but an ontological one?

An Ontological Reading of John 14:6

In the Gospel of John, Jesus is not introduced as a religious option among many. He is the Logos — the one through whom all things were made (1:3), in whom is life (1:4), the true light that enlightens everyone (1:9).

That matters.

John 14:6 is one of the great “I am” statements in John’s Gospel — and those are not casual metaphors. Many scholars recognize them as echoing God’s self-revelation to Moses in Exodus 3. When Jesus says “I am,” Jesus is making a theological claim about divine identity.

So when Jesus says:

“I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.”

He is not first giving directions to heaven.

He is identifying himself as:

• the embodied access to the Father

• the unveiling of divine reality

• the very life of God made present

Even the Greek of “except through me” (εἰ μὴ δι’ ἐμοῦ) can be rendered quite literally as “if not by me.” Grammatically, it emphasizes mediation.

It does not say, “Only this group will be saved.”

It says, “There is no coming to the Father if not through me.”

That is a claim about source.

If anyone comes to God — anywhere, at any time — it is by Christ.

All salvation is Christological in origin.

That is explicit.

What it does not explicitly define is the final scope of who may participate in that salvation.

And I think that distinction matters.

A Hopeful Soteriology

This is where something often called “hopeful universalism” becomes relevant. Chat GPT tells me this is associated most famously with Hans Urs von Balthasar. Hopeful universalism does not assert that all will certainly be saved. It says we may hope for the salvation of all because Christ’s saving work is universal in mediation and intent.

There is no salvation apart from Christ.

But Christ may not be absent where he is unrecognized.

That preserves the force of John 14:6.

It intensifies Christ’s centrality.

It simply refuses to turn the verse into a census.

Christ is the ontological center through whom any salvation that occurs — occurs.

Judgment passages in John can still stand. Light exposes. Law reveals. But Christ is the remedy and the fulfillment.

This reading keeps the text strong without returning to the theological math problem that once troubled me.

It locates life.

It does not calculate percentages.

A Final Word

I’m still thinking about all of this.

I don’t offer it as a settled conclusion or a new doctrinal hill to die on. Part of what pushed me here was simply lying awake, wrestling with the text, and then grabbing my phone to use ChatGPT as a thinking partner to pressure-test ideas. For me, that wasn’t outsourcing theology — it was interrogating my assumptions.

I’m not certain.

I don’t know the final shape of salvation. I don’t pretend to see the full scope of Christ’s work. But this ontological reading of John 14:6 — this idea that the verse locates the source of life rather than drawing a tight perimeter around heaven — feels closer.

But, what I do think is:

It keeps Christ central.

It keeps the text serious.

And it leaves room for hope.

I welcome pushback, refinement, and conversation. I’m still learning.

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In the temptation narrative, Jesus refuses to prove himself through spectacle or self-assertion. Like Elvis never needing to call himself the “King of Rock & Roll,” Jesus doesn’t loudly declare his divinity—he embodies it. The Gospels don’t offer anxious self-promotion but invitation and revelation. If someone has to constantly announce they’re the GOAT, they probably aren’t—and Jesus didn’t need to.

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It’s the first Sunday in Lent, and in many churches the lectionary gives us the temptation of Christ from one of the Synoptic Gospels.

This year I heard a strong sermon on Luke’s account. My pastor noted how Jesus resisted the temptations of control, domination, and spectacle. The devil’s offers weren’t random. They were invitations to seize power, prove himself, and shortcut suffering.

Jesus refused.

After church, my family headed to lunch at Chuy’s—a Tex-Mex restaurant nearby so we could stay close and pick up my daughter returning from a youth retreat. I’d never been there before, but walking in, I immediately noticed the Elvis décor. An artistic piece near the entrance. Menu items like The King’s Memorial Combo. I ordered the Famous Steak Burrito, though I’ll admit I was tempted by the King.

And then a random thought hit me:

Did Elvis call himself the King of Rock & Roll—or was that title given to him?

A few days earlier I had read one of those Substack essays from someone who I only know how to refer to as an “exvangelical anti-apologist.” The argument was predictable: Jesus never explicitly claimed to be God. The Gospel words can’t all be traced back to him. Cue the usual references to the Jesus Seminar.1

That line of thinking was rattling around in my head during the sermon when something clicked.

In Luke’s temptation account, the devil keeps pressing Jesus: “If you are the Son of God…”

Prove it.
Demonstrate it.
Perform it.

But Jesus doesn’t take the bait.

My pastor observed that Jesus felt no need to justify himself. He was secure in his belovedness within God. There was no anxiety in him. No need to perform divinity on demand.

Back at the restaurant, waiting for my food, I looked it up. Sure enough, the title “King of Rock & Roll” was reportedly given to Elvis in 1956 by a reporter, Bea Ramirez. And in 1969 Presley himself deflected the title, referring to Fats Domino as the “real king.”

Elvis didn’t need to call himself king.

And that reminded me of Jesus’ words in Mark 10:

“Why do you call me good? No one is good—except God alone.”

Throughout the Gospels, Jesus regularly deflects premature or triumphal titles. When Peter confesses him as the Christ, Jesus immediately begins speaking of suffering—and when Peter resists that path, Jesus rebukes him: “Get behind me, Satan” (Mark 8:33). When crowds try to make him king by force, he withdraws (John 6:15). When demons identify him publicly, he silences them (Mark 1:34). When asked for a sign, he refuses to perform on demand (Matthew 12:38–39).

He redirects. He questions. He reframes.

Not because he isn’t who the church confesses him to be.

But because the recognition must emerge in the reader (or hearer).2

The devil wanted spectacle.
His critics want explicit self-assertion.
Modern readers want airtight transcripts.

But the Gospels don’t operate that way.

They invite.

They provoke.

They reveal—if you have eyes to see.

And that’s why I find those tired “Jesus never claimed…” arguments so elementary. They assume that truth only counts if it’s loudly self-declared.

But if I’ve learned anything in life, it’s this: anyone who has to constantly announce they’re the GOAT probably isn’t.

The King of Rock & Roll didn’t need to say it.

And the King of the universe didn’t either.

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I invited one friend back to church using gentle “I” statements, and they showed up. I invited another person at my son’s soccer practice way too strongly, and they disappeared. These two moments reminded me that evangelism works best through presence, patience, and trust—not pressure.

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Part 3 of my series on Evangelism, MI, and Questioning People’s Answers

If Parts 1 and 2 of this series (see below) explored frameworks—Keller’s idea of “questioning people’s answers” and MI’s posture of curiosity and presence—this installment is simply about the awkwardness of trying to live it out in real life.

And a reminder for context: I’m not pastoring a church right now. I attend as a regular congregant. Which means when I invite somebody to church, it’s not a pastoral duty—it’s just me trying to be a normal Christian who believes church matters.

The Invitation I Thought I Messed Up (But Apparently Didn’t)

A friend of mine hadn’t been to church in a while. Life had piled up, and church quietly slipped into the background. Something kept nudging me to reach out, but I didn’t want it to sound like:

• “You should really come back…”

• “You need this…”

• “Your life will improve if you…”

So I used “I” statements instead:

• “I’ve missed seeing you there.”

• “I’m obviously biased towards church.”

• “I really think church matters.”

All “I statements.” All relationship-based. No pressure.

The friend even commented on some of the things they didn’t like about church.

“I hear you,” I said.

Honestly? I thought I bungled the conversation. I even said something like, “I hope I’m not coming on too strong—I don’t want this to feel weird.” Smooth.

But then guess who I saw the next Sunday?

My friend.

Not because I had the perfect words.
Not because I argued them into it.
Not because I solved their spiritual ambivalence.

I’d like to think they showed up because a gentle, relational, honest invitation nudged something that was already inside them.

That’s MI.
And it’s evangelism—not as selling, but as presence.

And Then… the Invitation I Absolutely Botched

Now for the opposite story.

I was at my son’s soccer practice, reading Jonathan Haidt’s book. A woman noticed it and we chatted. I told her I was reading it for my daughter’s school group and said, “You can have it when I finish it next week!”

Totally normal interaction.

Except the next week, I forgot the book.

And instead of just apologizing, her husband approached me and asked about it—and suddenly I transformed into an overeager Christian:

• I asked for his number.

• I texted him a Substack post I’d written about the book.

• And THEN I added:
  “Just a heads up—it gets kind of religious at the end. But hey, we’re in a church gym, so that’s probably okay.”

Reader—understand this—it was not okay.

I haven’t seen them since.

I blew the moment by:

• coming on too strong

• moving faster than the relationship allowed

• assuming openness that wasn’t there

• forgetting the book entirely

• and trying to give away yet another book that is now sitting abandoned in my car

This is evangelism when enthusiasm outruns trust.
It’s also a good reminder that “too much too fast” rarely bears fruit.

What These Two Moments Teach Me

1. Presence > persuasion.

2. “I” statements land better than “you” statements.

3. Relational trust builds slow—don’t sprint ahead of it.

Andrew Root is right: evangelism shaped by consolation is not about controlling an outcome. It’s about being with someone in ways that leave room for the Spirit to move.

Sometimes that movement looks like a friend showing up on Sunday.
Sometimes it looks like learning to leave a soccer-practice couple alone.
Sometimes it looks like letting a book sit in your car until the right moment actually comes.

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Case Study 1: The Polyamory Conversation

A few months ago in a church small group, someone shared that a friend in a troubled marriage was considering polyamory as a solution. The friend telling the story was confused and distressed.

Predictably, someone else in the group immediately pushed back — not against the polyamory itself, but against the very idea that we should even consider whether polyamory might be wrong. To them, discerning moral choices at all felt inappropriate or judgmental.

This is the cultural conflict moment Smith and Root describe — no one should ever morally judge another’s actions. But it’s also a moment perfectly suited for MI.

Because beneath the surface of “I’m considering polyamory” could be something like:

“My marriage is a wreck and I don’t know what else to do.”

Here’s how that might play out in a pastoral MI posture:

Friend: “I’m thinking about opening the marriage might help, but honestly… it might make it even more chaotic.”

You: “It sounds like you were hoping this would fix something, but instead you’re feeling even more overwhelmed.”

Friend: “Exactly. I am trying to make the relationship work. I don’t know what else to do.”

You: “What part of this feels hardest right now?”

Friend: “Honestly? Feeling like I’m losing myself. And feeling like nothing’s getting better.”

You: “That’s very brave of you to name that.”

Friend: “So what am I supposed to do? Everyone keeps telling me not to judge myself, to ‘explore what feels right.’ But I feel worse than before.”

At this point, most people are tempted to give advice — sometimes very strong advice. But MI encourages you instead to reflect the obvious inner conflict, Keller-style “questioning their answers”:

You: “So part of you wanted healing… and part of you is realizing this isn’t actually leading toward healing.”

Friend: “…Yeah. That’s it.”

Now the door is open to gentle pastoral guidance — not force, not moralizing, but accompaniment:

You: “Sometimes when we reach this point in life — when our own solutions aren’t working — it can help to consider surrendering the situation to something bigger than ourselves.”

At that point — and only then — comes the gentle pastoral invitation:

• “Have you considered telling God how lost you are and asking God what to do?

• “What do you think the Bible might offer here?”

• “What might Jesus be inviting you toward?”

Not pressure.
Not judgment.
Not moralizing.

Just presence — which is exactly what Root argues is where Jesus meets people.

Even if they respond: “I don’t think a 2,000-year-old book can help.”

You still respond: “I can see why you’d feel that way. No matter what, I’m here with you.”

That’s evangelism as consolation — not control.

Case Study 2: Youth Sports as a Functional Religion

Smith and Root observe that youth sports have become a kind of moral good — essentially a rival religion. As a dad at soccer practice reading theology books, I often overhear parents talk endlessly about busyness, schedules, and what sounds to me like burnout.

And because we don’t want to come across judgy, Smith says pastors are often reduced to saying, “We’ve missed you — hope all is well.”

But pastoring demands something more — and frankly something harder — because as Root notes in his books, we’re pressured to produce results fast. But, what if we resisted that pressure and instead opted for a patient MI approach?

Instead of “Hope all is well,” an MI-shaped approach begins with:
“I’d like to hear how things are.”

If a pastor could get the parent to slow down for a real conversation, nine times out of ten I bet they’d eventually say:

“Wow… I’m just so busy.”

And that’s the moment where an MI-shaped approach gives the pastor something to work with—not a lecture, not judgment, but gentle reflection:

Pastor: “So… you’re saying things are really busy—and I can hear the weariness in your voice as you say that.”

Parent: “Wow, you’re right. I didn’t even realize how tired I sounded.”

Pastor: “It sounds like you’ve been running on empty for a while.”

Parent: “Yeah. I mean, we’re in three sports right now. Practices every night. Tournaments on weekends. I barely know what day it is.”

Pastor: “What part of all this feels most heavy to you right now?”

Parent: “The feeling that we’re doing all this for the kids, but no one’s actually… happy. They’re stressed. I’m stressed. We’re all exhausted.”

Pastor: “It takes courage to admit that. A lot of parents feel the same way but rarely say it.”

Parent: “Yeah… it’s hard to say out loud.”

Pastor: “So part of you wants to give your kids opportunities—and part of you is wondering whether this pace is actually good for any of you.”

Parent: “That’s exactly it.”

Pastor (summary + gentle invitation): “So you love your kids, you want what’s best for them, but something about this rhythm feels off. It sounds like you’re trying to figure out what a healthier life might look like for your family.”

Parent: “…Yeah. I think I am.”

And here comes the pastoral “I wonder…” — gentle, not pushy, MI with a Gospel imagination:

Pastor: “I wonder if some time in worship or prayer — especially as we move into Advent — might give you the clarity and grounding you’ve been craving. Advent’s rhythms and rituals really do create space to reconsider what matters.”

This is where Keller’s “question their answers,” MI’s evocation, and Root’s consolational presence all converge — not pressure, but invitation.

So Why Does This Matter for Evangelism?

Because many Christians — especially in Mainline traditions — feel embarrassed, uncertain, or awkward about sharing Jesus.

But here’s the truth:

If we truly believe the Gospel matters and that Jesus really transforms lives, then we can approach evangelism with patience, relational presence, and deep listening. (And I realize that within Mainline circles, not everyone actually holds this conviction — which, honestly, is part of the problem. If we’re not sure the Gospel is transformative, then evangelism becomes incoherent by definition.)

We don’t have to argue anyone into faith.
We don’t have to win.
We don’t have to pressure.

We simply help people hear themselves, question their answers, and gently offer Jesus as the one who meets them in the tension they’re naming.

It’s Keller’s insight.
It’s MI’s posture.
It’s Root’s consolational evangelism.

And maybe — just maybe — it’s a way forward in a culture exhausted by pressure, individualism, and endless self-invention.

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Twenty-five years ago, I walked up to a stranger and asked if they knew the Ten Commandments. I had been trained to believe this was evangelism. Today, that approach wouldn’t just fall flat—it would be incomprehensible. Something profound has changed, and we’re all feeling it: the old scripts no longer make sense in our secular age.

I was recently reading the late Tim Keller’s book How to Reach the West. In the book, Keller makes a simple but rather profound observation. He writes:

“Helping non-Christians recognize they have a problem that requires salvation will mean questioning people’s answers… by ‘people’s answers,’ we mean the working answers to the big questions of life that everyone must have” (17).

Notice what Keller is saying here: we need to answer people’s answers with questions.

This is especially relevant given that evangelism has been a bugaboo in Mainline Protestantism for decades — maybe even the central existential crisis of the whole project — that Mainline Protestantism isn’t sure there is anything uniquely transformative about the Gospel.

Reading Christian Smith’s Why Religion Went Obsolete, he highlights Jay Demerath’s claim that liberal Protestantism’s values — individualism, pluralism, emancipation, tolerance, free inquiry, and the authority of experience — essentially made liberal Protestantism irrelevant (102).

Andrew Root spends six volumes in his Ministry in a Secular Age series making a similar point theologically. Smith summarizes it well:

“When religion becomes a ‘concept’… rather than one’s identity, life, and salvation, it generates less commitment and investment” (116).

And bluntly:

“One of the theological sources of the moralization of religion is a certain stream of nineteenth-century Protestant theological liberalism” (108).

We all know the cultural zeitgeist has shifted. Smith lists example after example, and we all feel it intuitively.

The obvious implication:

Twenty-five years ago, you could ask someone if they’d broken the Ten Commandments.

Today, that approach would NEVER work.

So what might work instead?

Keller’s phrase — “questioning their answers” — immediately made me think of Motivational Interviewing.

Motivational Interviewing (MI): A Culturally Appropriate Tool

Here’s how Wikipedia defines MI:

“A directive, client-centered counseling style for eliciting behavior change by helping clients explore and resolve ambivalence… MI is defined not by technique but by its spirit as a facilitative style for interpersonal relationship.”

In short:

MI is collaborative, relational, and designed to help people uncover their own motivations for change.

Not convincing.
Not lecturing.
Not debating.
Not pressuring.

Just helping someone hear what’s happening inside them.

MI uses four core skills — OARS:

O – Open-Ended Questions
“What would you like to see different?”

A – Affirmations
“You’ve clearly put a lot of thought into this.”

R – Reflective Listening
“It sounds like you’re feeling torn between ___ and ___.”

S – Summaries
“So it sounds like you care about X, you’re tired of Y, and you’re wondering if Z might help. Did I get that right?”

The spirit of MI rests on two convictions:

• Autonomy — people change because they choose to

• Evocation — people already have seeds of change inside them

Of course, these principles don’t align perfectly with Christian theology. Ultimately, we don’t believe people change purely by self-determination, or that goodness simply lies dormant inside us waiting to be awakened.

But MI gives us helpful language for what Christians have always called the work of the Holy Spirit — that quiet prompting, that movement in the human heart, that nudge toward truth and honesty. MI’s language isn’t theological, but it can help us name what God is already doing in people. Which is why MI reminded me not only of Keller, but of Andrew Root.

Keller, MI, and Root Are All Saying the Same Thing

Here’s the connection:

Keller: Question their answers.
MI: Help them explore their ambivalence.
Root: Evangelism is consolation — sitting with people in their sorrow, not controlling them.

Root writes in Evangelism in the Age of Despair:

“Evangelism… is not bound in what we do but in who we can be for our neighbor and how we can be with them. Period. To console is never to control another but instead to share in their sorrow” (22).

That might as well be a paraphrase of MI.

And theologically, we’d say that the “decision to change” — the turning — is the work of the Holy Spirit. MI doesn’t replace the Spirit; it simply creates a human posture where the Spirit can be heard.

Next: What This Actually Looks Like in Real Life

This is all lovely in theory.
But how does MI-shaped evangelism look in practice?

In Part 2, I’ll walk through two real-life examples — one involving a friend considering polyamory, and the other involving youth sports as a rival religion — and show how Keller, MI, and Root converge in a pastoral conversation.

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Too often, people think of the church—or organized religion—as a box turned upside down: a structure with its lid sealed shut, keeping everything inside contained and everyone outside excluded. But the church was never meant to be a closed box. It’s meant to be a container with an open top—something that can hold and shape what’s inside while remaining open to what’s above, to God’s Spirit, and accessible to those outside it.

James Fowler’s Stages of Faith outlines how people’s spiritual understanding evolves over a lifetime, from Primal Faith in early childhood to Conjunctive Faith in adulthood. Each stage reflects a deepening awareness of faith shaped by cognitive growth, emotional maturity, and life experience.

I somehow ended up with two copies of Fowler’s book, and when I first read it several years ago, it was both enlightening and instructive. But in the time since—especially as others have written their own “stages” frameworks, like Brian McLaren—I’ve noticed an assumption creeping into progressive Christianity: that healthy spirituality inevitably means leaving the institution of religion altogether.

I’ve written before about how, in my view, progressive Christianity often moves people out of church. I won’t repeat those arguments here (I’ve linked a few related posts below, including one that’s been read over 17,000 times). The point is this: we’ve misunderstood what Christianity—or “organized religion”—was meant to be about.

In Hunting Magic Eels, Richard Beck writes that “the ultimate test of enchantment” is “how we discern the spirits—sacrificial love, giving yourself for others” (225). Beck isn’t explicitly talking about organized Christianity, but it’s clear that this “enchantment” of self-giving love is what he has in mind. He warns that when enchantment becomes something we choose for ourselves, it turns “narcissistic” (214). When “we’re baptizing everything we already think and believe,” Beck says, “we’re worshiping ourselves rather than God” (220).

Andrew Root makes a similar point in Evangelism in the Age of Despair, calling it “demonic” to remain closed off, sitting alone within our pain and sorrow. In The Church in an Age of Secular Mysticism, he contrasts that isolation with “the mysticism of confession and surrender,” which “places the self in a position of reception. Only in a life of reception can the immanent frame be opened and the self made attentive to the arriving of revelation” (216).

Sticking within my metaphor, Root is saying two important things: first, the top of the box needs to stay open; and second, confession and surrender—while not limited to institutional religion—find their shape and rhythm in the life of the church. Christianity, in this sense, provides the framework, or “box,” that helps us keep the lid open.

It’s when we assume we can close up the lid upon ourselves that we get in trouble. As Root puts it elsewhere, “Faith rests solely and only in a life of reception, in an openness to receive. Faith is only and finally a gift; faith can only be received” (214).

Maybe this is the challenge of what Root calls the “immanent frame.” We’ve flipped the box over, assuming that faith is what happens only beneath the lid—what we can see, measure, or control. But perhaps what we need now is to flip the box back right side up: to rediscover Christianity as a vessel, not a vault. A framework that offers shape without sealing us off. Boundaries that protect us while keeping us open to the Divine.

The church was never meant to be a lid—it was always meant to be a space for grace.

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into Letting Go