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I just finished Carolyn Chen’s fascinating book Work, Pray, Code: When Work Becomes Religion in Silicon Valley.

It’s a compelling read, and I’d 10/10 recommend it.

I’m trying to get her on the podcast—so, Dr. Chen, if you’re reading this, or if you have connections to Dr. Chen, please let her know I want to talk with her!

The book is about how tech giants are becoming a religion in their own way, reshaping spirituality to serve their religion of peak productivity while stripping out elements of supernaturalism and broader community benefit. Reading the book, it’s quite clear Chen is a talented and brilliant sociologist of religion, and she left me with MUCH to think about—I made fifty-five highlights in my highlighter app!

But it’s her final chapter, titled “Killing the Buddha” and running about fifty pages, that really had my brain buzzing. And even within that one chapter, full of compelling insights and examples, there’s one idea I can’t stop thinking about.

Chen spends considerable time examining the curious place of Buddhism within Silicon Valley. Meditation and mindfulness are everywhere, but Buddhism as an actual religion is considerably harder to find.

At one point, Chen highlights a conference in which, as she describes it, there were literally monks in their full religious garb being put on display—but they were never asked to speak. Instead, it was white people on stage reducing the practices to how they could impact the bottom line and provide a return on investment.

Chen calls what has emerged “Whitened Buddhism”—Buddhism that has been stripped of much of its Asian heritage and religious particularity and repackaged into something more palatable to White, educated, secular Americans.

Meditation or mindfulness remains, but much of the religious world from which those practices emerged disappears. Chen adds that most Americans think of Buddhism in this desacralized way because this is the form we’ve been sold.

Why has this happened? Well, Chen puts the dynamic rather succinctly:

“To survive in Silicon Valley, religion must conform to the logic and culture of the tech industry.” (154)

That line got me thinking about progressive Christianity.

And before anyone gets mad at me, let me say immediately: this isn’t uniquely a progressive Christian problem. Conservative Christianity can—and frequently does—conform itself to the logic of its surrounding political and cultural world too. The resulting Christianity simply looks different.

But since I self-identify as someone on the Christian left and often critique forms of progressive Christianity, I want to focus this piece on the secularizing pressure exerted on progressive Christianity.

What happens when Christianity has to conform to the logic and culture of secular progressivism in order to remain culturally intelligible within progressive spaces?

The parts of Christianity that translate easily remain.

Justice, inclusion, equality, community, liberation; care for marginalized people.

All of these are authentically Christian concerns. The problem isn’t their presence.

The question is what happens to the parts of Christianity that don’t translate nearly as easily.

Miracles, sin, salvation, resurrection; the actual activity of the Holy Spirit.

Having just finished Eric Smith’s By What Power, that last point is especially worth emphasizing. As I argued in my review, Smith largely reduces the story of Acts to “humans doing stuff” (my words). The Holy Spirit is remarkably absent—and, to my recollection, not even mentioned in the book. Instead, Acts gets read primarily through the categories of political, social, and economic power.

But Christianity also makes the claim that Jesus Christ isn’t merely a particularly compelling moral teacher, but the resurrected Lord who is somehow actually alive and active in the world.

There can be a kind of cultural selection pressure: keep the parts of Christianity that fit comfortably within a secular moral framework and “demythologize,” reinterpret, or discard the parts that don’t.

And that makes me wonder if we need a provocative term analogous to Chen’s “Whitened Buddhism.”

I want to call it “atheistic Christianity.”

I don’t mean that the Christians I’m describing necessarily identify as atheists or explicitly deny God’s existence. Many obviously don’t.

Rather, I mean a form of Christianity whose understanding of the world seems to require no actual supernatural agency—a Christianity in which we can talk extensively about God while very little depends upon God actually doing anything.

Christianity Within the Immanent Frame

Of course, I’m reminded here of Andrew Root’s book Churches and the Crisis of Decline, in which Root notes that “Religion does not want a living God—who is alive in speaking both a yes and a no—it wants an object to use of its own individual meaning making.”

While the subject is different, the move is similar to what Chen identifies in Silicon Valley: the desire to turn the divine into an object of individual meaning-making.

And again, I’d emphasize this, as Chen does: Buddhism is not without supernatural claims!

But this is the danger of the immanent frame, as Root notes, borrowing from the work of Charles Taylor. Churches, institutions, or organizations that concede to the immanent frame “tend toward a theology without the church.”

Yet, working from the dialectical theology of Karl Barth, Root argues that “attending to a God who is God is impossible outside the church.”

Which, again, speaks to Chen’s broader point.

Chen describes sitting next to a Silicon Valley type who, after hearing a presentation on the “productivity benefits of meditation,” turned to her and said:

“wait…is Buddhism a religion?”

That’s sort of the whole problem.

Root writes that “The immanent frame declares that togetherness, religious literacy, and intellectual interests are in bounds and therefore coherent.”

Chen describes something remarkably similar. “Mindfulness” and “meditation,” for example, are welcome. Less welcome are moral, ethical, or supernatural claims that transcend the assumptions of the surrounding culture.

As Root says in regard to the same secularizing forces acting upon Christianity:

“Less accepted is the idea that the God of Israel who stands outside the universe could enter into it, judging and redeeming it from death for life.”

In the same way that Buddhism is not Buddhism without the Buddha, Christianity cannot be Christianity without a risen Christ.

Quite brilliantly, Chen asserts:

“How, when, where, and why you do something changes the meaning of it.”

And I think that’s exactly the point.

If God Didn’t Exist…

Which leads me to a question I find increasingly useful:

If God didn’t exist, how much about some versions of progressive Christianity—what I’m calling a kind of atheistic Christianity—would actually have to change?

Would its politics change?

Would its understanding of justice change?

Would its advocacy change?

If the answer is not very much, I think we have something worth examining.

And again, we could ask the very same questions of some versions of conservative Christianity.

Chen’s critique of Silicon Valley Buddhism isn’t that meditation is bad. It’s that practitioners of that religion have been transformed by the cultural institution receiving them. To become acceptable within that world, they have had to conform themselves to that world’s assumptions.

And I wonder if some forms of Christianity are experiencing something remarkably similar.

The question isn’t whether Christians should care about justice, inclusion, liberation, or any of these other concerns; of course we should.

The question is in which direction the formation is happening.

Is Christianity forming our understanding of justice, politics, and the world?

Or has the surrounding culture determined which parts of Christianity we’re still allowed to believe?

For Buddhist practitioners within Silicon Valley, Chen argues that their faith increasingly had to be watered down and desacralized to become acceptable within tech companies.

I increasingly fear that progressive Christianity, in its desire to be accepted within broader social justice spaces, is undergoing a similar process—watering down and desacralizing the faith until Christianity fits comfortably within a world that has little need for a living God.

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“Just tell me again how gay marriage is going to tear this country apart.”

What If Liz Lemon’s Parents Were Right?

30 Rock, the American television comedy series created by Saturday Night Live alum Tina Fey, is one of my all-time favorite shows. As such, I was recently rewatching the series when a throwaway line from an early episode stuck in my head.

Season 2’s Christmas episode, “Ludachristmas,” features Liz Lemon’s family: her mother Margaret (Anita Gillette), father Dick (Buck Henry), and brother Mitch (Andy Richter).

Liz’s parents are sweet, small-town folks on the surface, but Jack’s mother, Colleen, insists on exposing the underlying tensions. By the end of the episode, what begins as a nice family dinner at a TGI Friday’s-type restaurant descends into a screaming match, as Liz and her family trade angry barbs, all the while Jack and Colleen sit idly by, smirking at one another.

One intriguing line, yelled by Liz at her parents, is something like: “Just tell me again how gay marriage is going to tear this country apart.”

While likely meant to be dismissive of the overreaction against gay marriage, I can’t help but wonder:

What if Liz Lemon’s parents were right?

Trump Did Not Happen in a Vacuum

I just finished reading Anger, Fear, Domination: Dark Passions and the Power of Political Speech, a little book by William Galston that caught my eye at the local library. Checking in at only 176 pages, and with generous spacing throughout, it was a fairly quick and compelling read.

Galston’s central argument is that “liberal democracy,” or Western-style democracy, is actually quite rare and fragile, and especially susceptible to what he calls the “dark passions” of anger, fear, and domination—particularly when exploited by political leaders à la Trump.

While Galston and others deservedly place much of the blame on leaders like Trump and the voters who supported him, Galston makes some broader assertions that I think are important and are too frequently ignored in favor of simply blaming everything on Trump and his supporters.

To be absolutely clear, the point of this post is neither to valorize nor infantilize Trump supporters. Rather, the point is to say that Trump and the broader MAGA movement did not happen in a vacuum.

And while I believe that many of the reactionary actions and efforts spearheaded by Trump are unethical, immoral, and sometimes blatantly evil, I don’t think it does much good to resort to public shaming and name-calling. Such moves can themselves become acts of anti-liberalism, as Galston argues.

To that end, I would argue that we in the United States find ourselves in such an angry, divided, and polarized predicament in part because the prediction of Liz Lemon’s parents has turned out to be true:

Gay marriage really did help tear this country apart.

The Right Side of History

Now, before I get blasted with angry comments, let me first say that I was and still am an enthusiastic supporter of gay marriage.

More importantly, the point of this blog is not to debate whether gay marriage is morally good or not—though I would argue that it is. Rather, my point is that during the twenty-teens, the overwhelming assumption among Democrats and much of the progressive left became not simply that gay marriage was morally right, but that there should no longer even be a debate about it.

Broadly speaking, during that time the American left increasingly treated people operating from different moral frameworks as backward or bigoted, all the while adopting a sort of cavalier and presumptuous attitude perhaps best illustrated by the repeated moralistic language of being “on the right side of history.”

My argument is that this mattered.

Perhaps going back to the reelection of Barack Obama (whom I voted for and still support), conservatives—and especially religious conservatives within America—increasingly felt diminished, isolated, ignored, and culturally displaced. By the time a morally—and somewhat financially—bankrupt, swashbuckling political leader came riding down a golden escalator in 2015, many of these folks were ripe for the picking.

Consider the timeline:

• 30 Rock’s “Ludachristmas” first aired: December 13, 2007

• Seth Meyers roasts Trump at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner: April 30, 2011

• Obama administration announces it will no longer defend DOMA: February 2011

• Obergefell v. Hodges argued: April 28, 2015

• Trump descends the “golden escalator”: June 16, 2015

• Obergefell v. Hodges decided: June 26, 2015

• Trump elected president: November 8, 2016

The Politics of Humiliation

This is where Galston’s wisdom is especially helpful.

First, Galston argues that liberals have too often underestimated just how important cultural and moral questions actually are:

“Today’s defenders of liberal democracy often suffer from what might be termed myopic materialism: the belief—especially pervasive among elites—that economic issues are the real issues and that cultural issues are diversions, deliberately heightened by unscrupulous leaders to gain support for their anti-liberal agendas.” (18)

In other words, cultural issues aren’t merely distractions from the “real” economic issues. People actually care about them.

And I think this is something the progressive left has sometimes been unable—or unwilling—to accept: many Americans operate from genuinely different moral frameworks. Galston continues:

“Until liberals—mostly clustered in large cities and national capitals—make the effort to understand the enduring influence of religion and traditional morality in the hinterlands, they will continue to be surprised by political events.” (19)

But Galston’s second point is even more important to my argument: humiliation is a particularly dangerous way to respond to those differences.

In my opinion, shaming and belittling people who held traditional views on issues like gay marriage became an increasingly prominent move of the progressive left. And it wasn’t without blowback.

As Galston notes:

“Of all the variants of anger, the most powerful, and often the most dangerous, is anger born of humiliation.” (46)

This is what I want my friends on the progressive left to understand, especially when we respond to the rise of Trump with a sort of feigned innocence: How could they?

There was, I think, a real sense of humiliation experienced by many people who opposed gay marriage—not simply because they lost the political and legal argument, but because their position increasingly came to be treated as beyond the bounds of respectable public discourse. Meanwhile, within progressive politics, the direction of history itself was often treated as inevitable. We were, after all, on the “right side of history.”

Galston’s final example helps connect these threads directly to what happened in 2016:

“After the 2016 election, I asked a leading evangelical Protestant why so many evangelical voters had abandoned their long-held conviction that private morality is a threshold qualification for public office. His response: because evangelicals believed they were on the verge of losing every vestige of the culture they cherished, they were looking for a fighter, not a preacher. When people feel their backs are against the wall, they are unlikely to be particular about the character of those who step forward to defend them.” (112)

They were looking for a fighter, not a preacher.

That doesn’t absolve anyone of responsibility for choosing that fighter.

To be absolutely clear, I do not want this blog to be perceived as an apologetic for Trump voters or as me pretending they are not responsible for their choices. What I am trying to say is that those choices did not form out of a vacuum.

And while I don’t agree with those choices, I think we as a country would be far better off if those of us on the left had responded with more compassion—or at least some measure of understanding and curiosity—when people reacted so strongly to enormous social changes such as gay marriage.

A Lesson for the Church

Or, to say it somewhat differently, I’m not an expert in change theory, but I’ve learned enough over the years studying church growth and revitalization to know that shoving change down people’s throats won’t work—even if the change is desperately needed.

I’m reminded of Dawn and Joe Weaks, pastors of what is now Connection Christian Church, a stereotypical aging and declining Mainline Protestant church. In her book Breakthrough, Dawn describes Joe patiently—and perhaps also painstakingly—sitting with longtime members, going over item-by-item lists and descriptions of elements of their old building as they prepared for a change of venue.

No doubt, some people were likely offended and maybe even angered by the decision to sell their building and move to a newer location. But rather than shaming and humiliating them, Dawn and Joe offered kindness, care, and compassion—with, of course, a steady dose of realism and boundaries.

To be clear, they still sold the building. They still got rid of a lot of stuff. And they still changed the name of the church. I’m sure, through it all, they lost some people. But in the end, they gained a lot more.

And, to bring this back to the church, as this is a church—not political—focused blog, I’d make the same point as I did above.

Churches, like liberal democracies, are fragile ecosystems, and without wisdom, patience, and care, they can be derailed by nefarious actors looking to take advantage of offended and aggrieved groups of people.

And while those people are certainly responsible for their own actions, I guess what I would ultimately argue is that so are we.

Meaning, we can’t diminish and disregard whole swaths of people and then be shocked and surprised when they start following someone who affirms and supports them.

So What Do We Do Now?

The law of holes, or the first law of holes, is an adage that states: “If you find yourself in a hole, stop digging.” It is used as a metaphor, warning that when in an untenable position, it is best to stop making the situation worse.

Galston says it a little more eloquently:

“When backsliding is occurring, the most urgent challenge is to prevent things from getting worse. In such times, naïveté about historical progress and human nature is especially dangerous.” (134)

I think there are two important points there.

First, stop making things worse.

This is where I find Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez’s recent efforts to laugh off “woke 1.0” as “crazy” dismissive and unhelpful.

Please read the room.

If part of what helped produce our current political moment was the humiliation and dismissal of people who felt culturally displaced, then we need to acknowledge that some overreactions occurred and that innocent people were caught in the crossfire. Laughing it off as “crazy” diminishes those people’s feelings and becomes emblematic of the very dynamic we need to name.

That doesn’t mean capitulating to their demands. Compassion toward people experiencing change is not the same thing as capitulation.

People remain responsible for how they respond to cultural change. But leaders are also responsible for how they lead change—and humiliation is an extraordinarily dangerous and ultimately ineffective change-management strategy.

Second, abandon our naïveté about historical progress and human nature.

I’m not too sure of Galston’s religious beliefs, but he makes strong use of Augustine and what I recognize as a classical Christian view of sin and human nature.

And maybe this is one of the real challenges for parts of the progressive left: we can fundamentally misunderstand how human beings actually work.

Galston, for what it’s worth, seems to understand this quite well:

“The psychology of alarmism is seductive. It gives the alarmist a sense of superior insight, and by raising the stakes of one’s judgment, it heightens the excitement. When leaders convey alarm to their followers, they enable ordinary citizens to feel a sense of significance that may otherwise be missing from their lives.” (90)

Human beings don’t inevitably march toward greater enlightenment simply because history is supposedly moving in that direction. We are susceptible to fear, anger, humiliation, tribalism, and the desire to feel significant. And importantly, that is true of people on both the left and the right.

Which brings me back to the church.

You don’t have to believe that the person resisting change is right to believe that they deserve dignity. Joe and Dawn Weaks didn’t keep the old building because people were upset. They helped people grieve. They listened. They treated people with compassion.

And then they changed it anyway.

I think there’s something important there for church leaders—and perhaps for our politics too.

Change may be necessary. Sometimes it may even be morally imperative.

But how we lead people through that change matters.

We cannot control how people respond. They remain responsible for their choices. But we are responsible for how we treat them along the way.

And humiliation is a terrible strategy for change.

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P.S. One More Thought About DOMA

There’s another piece of this history that doesn’t quite fit the argument above but has sat uncomfortably with me since it happened.

In 2011, the Obama administration announced that the Department of Justice would no longer defend Section 3 of the Defense of Marriage Act in court because the administration had concluded that it was unconstitutional. Importantly, the administration continued to enforce the law while it remained in effect, so this wasn’t simply Obama deciding that DOMA no longer existed.

Still, I remember finding the decision a little unsettling even at the time—and I say that as someone who supported Obama and opposed DOMA.

The problem is bigger than whether I agree with the particular policy outcome. Liberal democracy depends not only upon getting the outcomes we want, but upon institutions, processes, and constraints that remain in place when someone we don’t support holds power.

If we become comfortable with executive officials stretching those norms when they produce outcomes we like, we shouldn’t be entirely surprised when future leaders push them considerably further to produce outcomes we despise.

That’s a different argument than the one I’ve made above, and probably deserves its own treatment. But looking back from where we are now, I think my discomfort in 2011 was pointing toward something important: the rules matter most when following them gets in the way of something we want.

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Those who follow this blog know I’m an avid reader. And lately, I’ve gotten into a cycle where every time I go to the library to return a book, I can’t help looking around—and inevitably, something catches my eye.

Recently, it was the book We Breed Lions: Confronting Canada’s Troubled Hockey Culture by Rick Westhead.

The book details, among other things, the scandal involving five members of Canada’s 2018 World Junior hockey team who were accused of sexually assaulting a young woman in a London, Ontario, hotel room. Hockey Canada later reached a confidential financial settlement with the woman, and Westhead’s reporting exposed the existence of a multimillion-dollar fund Hockey Canada had used to settle sexual-abuse claims.

The five players were eventually charged with sexual assault and pleaded not guilty. In 2025, all five were acquitted, with the judge concluding that the prosecutors had not proved its case beyond a reasonable doubt.

Westhead’s book, however, goes far beyond this one case. After his initial reporting on Hockey Canada’s handling of the allegations, his inbox filled with messages from people wanting to share their own experiences with hockey culture—which Westhead recounts throughout the book in painstaking and agonizing detail.1

It was one of those reads where every time I set it down, I felt like I needed to go take a shower—much like I did whenever I watched the Netflix political thriller House of Cards back in the day.

And while the book details other troubling elements of hockey culture in Canada—hazing, financial improprieties, out-of-control parents, and a general overvaluing of the sport within the culture (“Hockey is religion in Canada”)—what I found most troubling was story after story involving the sexual mistreatment, objectification, or simply sexual use of young women by male hockey players.

Near the end of the book, Westhead begins discussing actions and efforts aimed at changing that culture. A repeated theme is educating young men about consent, with one person quoted as saying, “perhaps if we had more consistent public awareness and education, [he] would have never made the decision he made” (293).

I may regret what I’m about to say—or it may prove that I’m way over my skis, so to speak—but after reading story after troubling story of young men acting as if sexual gratification by way of young women was a right, a privilege, something they deserved and should expect, I kept thinking:

Consent is absolutely necessary. But is consent enough?

Or, to put my concern more provocatively: a thin ethic of consent can become the inverse of purity culture.

Let me say a few things first to be clear:

1. I’m nowhere near qualified to be a “sex educator,” nor am I trying to present myself as one. Rather, I’m trying to think morally and also theologically about this topic.

2. Consent is, of course, an absolute minimum requirement. Sexual activity without consent is sexual assault.

3. I’m not trying to be a prude or moralist.

Here’s what I mean.

Having been reared during the heyday of purity culture, I experienced it very much as a “no, no, no, no—YES” framework. Sexual activity was considered a no-no until marriage—after which married couples were apparently supposed to flip a switch and suddenly become sexual savants.

There have been MANY stories of that dynamic proving deeply problematic.

More than that, the burden was often placed primarily on women—at least in the cultural contexts I experienced—to be the voice of “no.” Men were frequently portrayed as naturally wanting more physical and sexual activity, while women were expected to establish and enforce the boundaries.

That was profoundly inadequate.

But I wonder whether a similarly inadequate framework can emerge when consent itself becomes the entirety of our sexual ethic.

To be clear, I think that consent education is more sophisticated than simply “everything is permissible until somebody says no.” I’ve heard it said that affirmative consent emphasizes an ongoing, voluntary, enthusiastic “yes,” which is important.

But even an enthusiastic “yes” cannot answer every moral question about how another human being ought to be treated.

Consent establishes whether sexual activity is permissible. It does not, by itself, establish whether that activity is loving, caring, wise, mutually beneficial, or reflective of good character.

And that distinction kept bothering me as I read Westhead’s book.

One significant element of the 2018 case involved videos recorded afterward in which the woman made statements about consent. What those videos demonstrated—and how they should be interpreted—became contested issues at trial. I don’t want to relitigate that case here.

What interests me is the broader moral question raised throughout Westhead’s book.

A person can understand that consent matters and still fundamentally view another person as an object—a means toward one’s own sexual gratification rather than someone worthy of care, affection, respect, and, dare I say, love.

And this is where I come back to purity culture.

I think both purity culture and a thin, rule-based ethic of consent can fail in remarkably similar ways: both can reduce sexual ethics to whether the correct condition has been satisfied.

Purity culture says:

Not married → No.
Married → Yes.

A thin ethic of consent says:

No consent → No.
Consent → Yes.

But neither framework, by itself, answers the deeper question:

What kind of person should I be toward the person standing in front of me?

This is why authors and speakers like , a Canadian herself, have written about the problematic nature of sex for women within some conservative Christian marriages, where husbands can treat their wives as having a duty to sexually provide for them without much consideration for the woman’s own desire, pleasure, or agency—with the most extreme manifestation being marital rape.

Marriage isn’t enough—and consent—while absolutely essential, isn’t enough either.

I believe sexual relationships require something deeper: care, affection, mutuality, respect, and, dare I say, love.

Near the end of the book, Westhead introduces the idea that character and moral formation are part of the underlying problem with hockey culture.

Canadian journalist Donna Spencer puts it starkly:

“There was an absence of character. Nobody said at any time, ‘I don’t care what she’s saying, this is wrong. We need to be better than this. Stop.’” (358)

Spencer’s words perfectly encapsulate what I’m trying to argue.

There was an absence of character.

Her point pushes beyond asking whether someone had technically crossed a line. It asks whether anyone in the room possessed the moral character to recognize that something was wrong and intervene.

Another former hockey player describes what happened as “an absence of leadership” (358).

Sure, that’s part of it.

But I’d go further.

There was an absence of moral formation.

Westhead finishes the book discussing the Coaching Boys Into Men training program, something I was relieved to read about after wading through hundreds of pages describing sordid and sinful behavior. Here, finally, were people trying to be proactive—not simply establishing rules, but forming character.

Westhead describes mentors spending time with players throughout the season, speaking with them about “accountability, trust, and respect” (361), and later describes an emphasis on both “winning and character” (385).

That gets much closer to what I think has been missing.

I don’t think the purity culture of my generation adequately taught young men to value, respect, and care for young women. Sex was something we all supposedly wanted, and marriage was the legitimate way to get it. Once married, women were sometimes taught that they were obligated to comply.

That’s a terrible sexual ethic.

But replacing one rule-based sexual ethic with another still leaves me wanting something more.

Purity culture can become:

Sex before marriage is wrong. Sex after marriage is good.

A thin consent ethic can become:

Sex without consent is wrong. Sex with consent is good.

Both are attractive because rules are relatively easy to teach.

What is much harder is forming people of character.

What I’m trying to articulate is a more virtue-based sexual ethic grounded in love, care, admiration, mutuality, and—in explicitly Christian terms—the recognition of another person as a beloved child of God and someone for whom Christ died.

A young man formed within THAT framework is not simply asking:

“Am I allowed to do this?”

He is asking:

“Am I treating this person in a way consistent with the love of Christ?”

For Christians, Philippians 2 offers a radically different orientation: not grasping for what I can get, but looking to the interests of another and taking the posture of Christ.

That’s considerably harder to reduce to a list of rules.

And maybe that’s precisely the point.

Purity culture was easy to teach because it provided clear boundaries within conservative Christian culture. Consent can likewise become attractive within secular culture because it provides a clear and absolutely necessary boundary.

But boundaries alone don’t form character.

I welcome feedback and pushback on all of this. I’m thinking this through as a father, pastor, and someone who wants to raise my son—and mentor other young men—to understand that while sexual ethics matter and consent is an absolute must, the goal cannot simply be obtaining permission.

I want to teach young men to treat women with care, affection, dignity, respect, and, dare I say, love—not simply because a rule requires it, but because she is a beloved child of God, a person for whom Christ died, and because God calls us to practice the self-giving way of Christ.

Consent tells us where a necessary boundary lies. Character helps determine who we become on either side of it.

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P.S. As I was reading this book and thinking about an American comparison, college football came to mind. Westhead briefly touches on similar issues within the sport in the United States.

To that end, I was troubled by the recent AI-edited video depicting Texas coach Steve Sarkisian slapping ESPN reporter Holly Rowe—and especially by Texas QB Arch Manning initially laughing when asked about it, for which he later apologized.

I don’t want Manning or Sarkisian tarred and feathered over the incident, but I do think pushback was warranted. In fact, I was glad Manning apparently had people around him willing to tell him, “Hey, this isn’t okay.”

That’s part of the kind of character formation I’m talking about. Young men need people around them who will teach them that the mistreatment of women—even when presented as a joke—should never be a laughing matter.

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Same Story, Different Moves

If you’ve been following my writing for any length of time, you know I spend a fair amount of it critiquing my own tribe: mainline Protestantism and progressive Christianity. Plenty of voices on the left spend their time criticizing evangelicalism, and while there is certainly PLENTY there to critique, I often find those efforts a bit too easy.

More importantly, I think we on the Christian left have plenty of our own blind spots to examine.

In a recent post, I wrote about the tendency within some mainline and progressive churches to want “hard” preaching—to lean into what my Lutheran friends call the Law side of the Law/Gospel framework. I won’t repeat that argument here when you can simply read it for yourself.

What surprised me recently was hearing how that very same instinct shows up within evangelicalism.

A Surprising Conversation

Because of the work I do, I regularly find myself in conversations with Christians from across the theological spectrum. Recently, one such conversation caught my attention.

We were talking about another area evangelical church—one that perhaps flirts with Christian nationalist themes—and why thoughtful, level-headed people would choose to attend.

From the Christian left, I think we often assume those congregations are filled with brainwashed, MAGA-hat-wearing drones who’ve checked their brains at the door.

I’m sure a few exist.

But I suspect the vast majority are something else entirely.

In fact, I wonder if they’re the mirror image of the well-intentioned liberal do-gooders I described in my previous essay.

What startled me was something one regular attender said. By every other measure, this seemed like a thoughtful, level-headed person.

They said they attended because they “needed someone to kick me in the ass.”

As I argued in my previous piece, this is simply another way of saying, “I want hard preaching.”

Different vernacular. Same instinct.

One seeks transformation through acts of justice and activism.

The other seeks transformation through behavior maintenance/modification.

But both assume that the Christian life is fundamentally about becoming better through our own effort.

That got me wondering why Christians from such different traditions could have the very same instinct.

I’m reminded of my own upbringing in conservative Christianity. There was a reason certain pastors repeated the same talking points week after week, and why those sermons were met with so many “Amens.” They clearly told me what I needed to do—or stop doing—to become a “good Christian.”

Different Flavors of the Same Move

Andrew Root has written about our tendency to flatten God into something we can control for our own purposes (The Pastor in a Secular Age, 197), writing that “we long for power and political control so we can secure happiness and be our truest self” (Evangelism in the Age of Despair, 22).

I won’t belabor the point, but I increasingly wonder if evangelicalism and progressive mainline Protestantism often do the very same things.

Both flatten God.

Both make Christianity fundamentally a project of self-improvement.

Both assume the Christian life is, at its core, something we’re responsible for managing.

The moves simply look different.

For the evangelical churchgoer I mentioned above, the project wasn’t becoming more socially conscious or justice-oriented. It was becoming a better person and a better Christian through greater self-control and personal holiness.

Structurally, though, it’s the same thing, just different moves.

We don’t actually think we need grace.

We think we can handle it ourselves.

recently spoke of Christianity's tendency toward "maintaining self-sufficiency." It struck me that this is especially true of white American Christianity.

Perhaps that’s what all of this ultimately comes down to.

Our culture prizes individualism and bootstrapping, and both traditions have baptized those instincts.

• Within progressive mainline Protestantism, the project becomes deep introspection to ensure our actions and choices are sufficiently justice-oriented.

• Within white evangelicalism, it becomes deep introspection to ensure our actions and choices pass the test of personal holiness.

Different virtues.

Different vocabulary.

Same story. Different moves.

Both law. Neither grace.

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For a long time, I think, American Christianity has implicitly taught people how to look the part.

Get a good education, have a stable family, raise well-behaved kids, give some money away, and most importantly—Be respectable. Or, more said differently—Be upwardly mobile.

Obviously, there’s nothing wrong with these things. But increasingly, the people showing up in American churches actually do look the part. They are disproportionately educated, financially stable, and doing reasonably well.

Which raises a question I’ve been thinking about:

What if that isn’t merely a demographic coincidence? What if we’ve inadvertently created churches for people who are good at looking the part?

That question came back to me recently while reading a nearly fifteen-year-old book by Andrew Root.

The “middle-class bias” of youth ministry.

As a self-described Andrew Root scholar, I’ve now read thirteen of his books—most recently one from his earlier work, Taking the Cross to Youth Ministry, part of his four-part A Theological Journey Through Youth Ministry series published in 2012.

I think one of the most provocative things Root says in all of them comes in this book, when he speaks of “the middle-class bias” of youth ministry.

Root talks about youth ministry being seen “through the lens of modernity,” with its “view of growth, advancement, and preparation as steps on the escalator to strength and power” (47). To that end, youth ministry, as Root describes through his narrative about the “Fab Four,” becomes about helping teenagers “look the part”—my words, not his.

And this is where I think his point about the middle-class bias of youth ministry becomes especially perceptive.

One of the reasons I keep reading Root is his ability to both perceive and name the broader dynamics within our culture and their theological impacts. What I find especially intriguing about this book, even though it is nearly fifteen years old, is how relevant it still is, needing only a few ancillary parts updated.

For instance, I might edit Root’s “middle-class bias” to more accurately describe the idea of being “upwardly mobile,” which both tracks with his latest book, Baal and the Gods of More, and also with the data we continue to see from folks like Ryan Burge suggesting that church has essentially become a luxury good.

And this is where I think Root’s book, even though it is nearly fifteen years old, is powerfully relevant for today: the teenagers Root describes, both real and imagined, are now well into adulthood.

And I wonder if what Burge is now documenting about American Christianity is, in part, the maturation of the very problem Root diagnosed fifteen years ago.

Church has become, quite literally in some cases, about looking the part—about being perceived as upwardly mobile.

In some ways, this is a societal and economic problem, as Burge would assert, and in many ways I’d agree. Yet this is where, as Root suggests elsewhere, we need to look to theologians first, not sociologists, for the reasons why—and I think this Root book explains exactly why.

The Opposite of Upward Mobility

Root’s essential argument in this book is that (youth) ministry is about “encountering God at the cross, where God takes on nothingness, and from nothingness brings forth new life, new possibility, and an all-new reality” (56).

Faith, then he says, “is to see and admit our impossibility, our stuckness, and through it to trust that God in the cross of Christ is acting to bring forth a new creation in you and in all that is” (57).

This is where I want to come back to the idea of “looking the part” or being “upwardly mobile.”

Admitting our impossibility, our stuckness, our nothingness is quite obviously the opposite of the upwardly mobile ethos. “Looking the part” within the broader American and church context has increasingly meant trying to promote our possibility, worthiness, and ability—as if church were a Tony Robbins motivational conference.

So, is it any wonder that church in America has increasingly become demographically filled with upper-income and highly educated people?

While in 2012 the middle class could still be perceived as “upwardly mobile”—or at least imagine ourselves to be—now, with the shrinking of the middle class, it’s increasingly the upper class and well-educated who can most convincingly “look the part” and present themselves as upwardly mobile and basically good.

Today, struggling lower- and middle-class people often cannot look the part so easily. They cannot necessarily imagine themselves to be upwardly mobile. Too often, they are actually struggling with addiction, debt, broken relationships, and more—much as we all are.

I don’t mean to insult or diminish those economically vulnerable. The difference, I think, is that economic precarity makes brokenness harder to disguise.

It’s not that upper-income people are somehow less broken. Rather, money and education can provide resources that make it easier to wallpaper over that brokenness—to maintain the appearance of stability, competence, and upward mobility even when everything underneath isn’t nearly so put together.

Those without those resources often cannot even presume to pretend. Their brokenness and nothingness may simply be too obvious and overwhelming to hide.

And what if we have constructed churches in which that makes it harder, rather than easier, for them to belong?

When Youth Ministry Grows Up

What I’m trying to say is that what Root diagnosed in 2012 has increasingly become true. The models of youth ministry have simply been transferred into adult ministry.

Those who, as Root notes, could “look the part” have stuck around so long as church attendance helped them look the part—upwardly mobile, respectable, successful, good.

Whereas those who found church no longer necessary to help them look the part no longer needed church. As Root writes, “They have no problem being good” (95).

All the while, those who are actually dealing with visible brokenness and nothingness increasingly find themselves alienated from church. They cannot even presume to pretend.

And yet, the cross says that the inability to look the part isn’t a barrier to encountering God. It may be precisely where God meets us.

This is why admitting to one’s brokenness and nothingness within church today can be so powerfully transformative.

“I Can’t Look the Part Today”

A few weeks ago, one of the pastors at my church shared a simple confession before giving the announcements. Her eldest son was away at college, and this was her first Sunday in YEARS without him. She was feeling quite emotional.

As I’ve reflected on it, I’ve been struck by how simple and profound it was: a moment of brokenness and nothingness.

She was admitting: I don’t have it all together. I can’t look the part today. I need help.

And this is why I use the word confession.

Root notes that “to be forgiven we must be where God is found, and the cross reveals that God can be found in suffering, weakness, and death” (73).

To be clear, Pastor Betty was not needing forgiveness. But I do believe she was needing God’s loving presence—and she found it.

And not just for her. For everyone who heard her confessing her own brokenness and nothingness, we too, in some small way, could confront our own feelings of brokenness and nothingness.

This brokenness and nothingness is what Root connects to sin and death, and what Christ overcame through his death and resurrection. Our “sins,” then, can be the things we try to do to solve that brokenness and nothingness on our own.

Say, for instance, that Pastor Betty—who has shared her enjoyment of IKEA—had instead responded by going on a spending spree, seeking to drown out the brokenness and nothingness of missing her son away at college.

It’s not that shopping at IKEA is “sinning.” It’s that seeking to solve our brokenness and nothingness entirely on our own is not so much wrong as, frankly, ineffective—and, as Root says, a way of “seeking to live outside God’s action” (96).

Think, then, about what a powerful move Pastor Betty actually made.

Confronted with her own brokenness and nothingness, she confessed it within the community of Christ, trusting that God was and is present in that brokenness and nothingness. And in doing so, she was met with the love and grace of God.

The contrast matters.

Looking the part says: I can handle this. I am capable. I am progressing.

Confession says: I cannot fix this. I need God, and I need you.

What If Church Looked Like This?

Root notes that “only suffering love can redeem another without using force and threat to do so” (98).

Pastor Betty exhibited suffering love.

Imagine how different church and church attendance might be if, rather than being about “looking the part” of being upwardly mobile, we instead confessed and shared with one another our brokenness and nothingness, trusting that God is with us in the midst of such—and reminding one another of that truth.

Think about all the pain, addiction, debt, broken relationships—the brokenness and nothingness carried by so many in our world.

They may not be interested in “looking the part” or being “upwardly mobile.” Some know perfectly well that they cannot pull off such an appearance.

But what if, through our own confessions of brokenness and nothingness, we bore witness to the love, grace, and presence of God?

Wouldn’t that be quite something?

As Root writes:

“We are forgiven because God is found acting for us by suffering with and for us. God encounters us in our own deaths through God’s own death. Therefore, justification is deep, because it is bound to a God that reveals Godself in the cross, next to our impossibility, besides our longing, suffering, and fear” (72).

That Sunday, Pastor Betty was grieving a loss.

And in confessing her loss, we found God. For as Root notes:

“When we are honest enough to admit and struggle with our yearnings and brokenness, the action of God transforms us into the new creation, the new humanity” (117).

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I like to read books—like, a lot. And I read fast.

By my own calculations, this year I’m on pace for a book every 3.5 days.

Obviously, there’s no way I can feature every author I read on the podcast. And now I’m finding that even with some of the other books I read, I just don’t have the bandwidth to publish a stand-alone Substack blog for each one.

So, I’m going to maybe start doing a monthly book roundup.

This will still enable me to write more about books that I find particularly thought-provoking—like ’s In Defense of Evangelicalism—while also highlighting other books I’ve read that are worth mentioning.

So, here’s what I’m reading—and thinking about—right now.

What I’m Reading Right Now

Work, Pray, Code: When Work Becomes Religion in Silicon Valley by Carolyn Chen

This is a VERY interesting book so far, and I’m hoping to get Chen on the podcast.

I’m about a third of the way into the book, and right now what I’m finding fascinating is that Chen’s findings mirror much of what I’ve heard and seen elsewhere from sociologists like Christian Smith and Ryan Burge (both of whom I’ve had on the podcast).

As Smith especially notes, religion has not faded per se; it’s just been replaced by different things. Chen argues that work, especially in Silicon Valley, has become a religion of sorts, offering many of the same things humans get from religion: meaning, purpose, and something bigger than themselves that offers a measure of transcendence.

An early takeaway for me is this: religion is as much a practice as it is a set of beliefs.

What’s interesting is that the reasons people left their religion after moving to Silicon Valley for work seem to be many of the same reasons people leave religion more generally.

Martha Tatarnic did an interview a couple of years ago with Michael Graham, co-author of The Great Dechurching, and he made the point that life disruptions—new jobs, moving to a new place, and so on—take people out of church attendance more often than shifting beliefs.

The regular habit or practice of participating in religious life is, in my opinion—and in my reading of this book so far—deeply formative in helping people retain their faith.

What I’ve Just Read

Raising Gen Alpha by Dave Boden

I don’t know well, but I’ve also had him on the podcast. As a ministry leader in the UK working with young adults, I’m always interested in what he has to say because I think, in many ways, he’s working in the midst of a cultural context toward which we are likely headed ourselves in America.

His book isn’t groundbreaking, but he certainly has some thoughts worth highlighting here:

“The local church can offer something radically different to a generation of screenagers: a place where identity is shaped by belonging and purpose in Christ (133).”

And more:

“the church must resist being swept up in the very same things social media sells—platform, fame, image, and performance (133).”

Boden seems to share the same takeaway I had from reading Jonathan Haidt’s The Anxious Generation.

Taking away screens isn’t enough. Young people need purpose and belonging.

Right now, they’re finding a very thin form of that online, but they desperately want something deeper.

It’s worth checking out.

Sustainable Ministry: How to Lead and When to Nap by Margaret Marcuson

Marcuson’s book is grounded in Family Systems Theory, or Bowen Theory as some call it.

For anyone familiar with FST, nothing here will be groundbreaking, but I always find reminders helpful. Plus, Marcuson wonders, as I have also felt in recent years, “I think of Edwin Friedman’s frequent question, “‘Why are the least mature calling the shots?’” (24).

To this maturity piece, Marcuson offers this sage advice:

”You can’t spend extended time with everyone in your congregation, unless you serve a very small congregation. You have to make choices… I recommend you spend more time with the most mature in your congregation (23).”

This is SUCH a countercultural thought, and one I’m thankful to hear because I’ve often felt similarly but haven’t been able to articulate exactly why.

Countless times I’ve heard clergy talk about the time-suck of one or two people in the church who are always stopping by in need of counseling and support. And because clergy want to help people, they are often ready and willing to do so.

Marcuson’s point isn’t that helping is bad or that pastors shouldn’t offer pastoral care in times of crisis. Rather, in order to grow an organization in health and vitality, a pastor also needs to invest in its most mature and healthy leaders.

And, as Friedman himself would say, I think, constantly bailing out immature or needy people isn’t teaching them resilience or self-sufficiency in the long run; it can simply make them dependent on you.

You can never grow your church or expand your ministry if one or two people are dependent on you for their functioning. At minimum, investing in healthy and mature leaders develops other people who can help care for those in need.

Also, Marcuson’s book references Future Christian co-host and ministry friend !!

Church Together by Traci Smith and Dave Csinos

Finally, Church Together is more of an individual “recipe” book than anything else, full of practical ideas for intergenerational activities in church.

Nothing life-changing, but it’s full of ideas that some pastors and church leaders—especially those in smaller churches—might find helpful.

And Coming Soon on the Podcast…

If you’re not doing so already, please subscribe to the Future Christian podcast for feature-length conversations with authors and church leaders.

I have interviews scheduled with Bonnie Kristian, , and Jessie Cruickshank—all authors of books I’ve just read and recommend too.

And given how many books I apparently insist on reading, I’ll probably be back with another roundup next month.

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This is a book I REALLY wanted to like.

The authors—Dominic Roser, David Zhang, and J.D. Bauman—are clearly intelligent, thoughtful, and deeply committed to making the world a better place. I even had a brief phone conversation with Bauman a while back when he was pitching the book for the podcast and came away with a positive impression.

Which makes it all the more uncomfortable that the further I got into the book, the less I found myself agreeing with it.1

Honestly, I’m not even sure how to approach this review. I don’t usually write straight reviews. I tend to engage books in conversation rather than simply evaluate them. But publishers send me books all the time (and please don’t stop), and I feel the least I can do is write something up—even when I don’t particularly like the book.

And unfortunately, I didn’t.

Let me also say this from the outset: the authors are likely smarter and better educated than me. They have advanced degrees, impressive credentials, and are far more accomplished in their respective fields than I am. They also seem to genuinely care about philanthropy and making the world a better place.

My problem with the book is not its morality.

It’s the anthropology.

The authors seem to assume human beings are far more rational, disciplined, and calculating than they actually are.

The Good Place Problem

Several things came to mind as I read.

Years ago, I knew a young man who was experimenting with one of those bizarre sleep-hacking systems. He slept for thirty minutes every few hours or something equally ridiculous.

I remember telling him: that’s great while you’re twenty-two and single.

But what happens when you’re in a real relationship and your spouse wants to go to bed together? What are you going to say?

“Sorry, it’s not time for my sleep cycle.”

Of course not.

You’re going to crawl into bed beside the person you love.

Life has a way of disrupting elegant theories.

I was also reminded of one of my favorite television shows, The Good Place. In the “IHOP” episode, the characters argue that modern life has become so morally complicated that even buying a tomato or eating a chicken sandwich involves countless ethical considerations that no ordinary person can reasonably navigate.

(I had to link the YouTube of the clip because I enjoyed this episode sooooo much!).2

That’s exactly what I kept thinking while reading this book.

And then there is a phrase from Donald Miller’s StoryBrand framework that has stuck with me for years:

Complexity confuses.

Human beings generally want to thrive or survive, he says.

Most people are not running cost-benefit analyses every time they buy groceries, volunteer, or make a charitable contribution.

They’re trying to get through the day.

Effective Altruism

The authors are writing from the perspective of what is often called “effective altruism.”

They summarize the movement with four core ideas:

1. Altruism. Doing good should be a significant part of ordinary life.

2. Impartiality. Everyone matters equally, regardless of geography or proximity.

3. Consequentialism. We should focus on what actually produces the greatest good.

4. Careful thinking. We should use evidence, reason, and research to determine what works.

None of those ideas are inherently problematic.

In fact, most of them are very admirable.

The challenge is that I think they often feel quite disconnected from how actual people make decisions.

The authors write:

“Evidence shows that, just like when choosing between charitable interventions, we tend to favor causes that we have heard of, which are closer to home, or which tug at our heartstrings, rather than those that have the biggest impact.” (65)

The implication is that this tendency is a problem.

The truth is that this is how most people operate.

We see a need, it moves us, and we respond.

That doesn’t strike me as a bug in the system. It strikes me as part of what makes us human.

The Fundraising Problem

Perhaps this is where my (albeit limited) experience in fundraising shapes my perspective.

The authors write:

“And in our time and age, taking a step back before blessing others—in order to choose the most effective avenues for transforming our resources into blessing—is one of the most explosively loving things we can do.” (55)

Sure, Maybe.

But here’s the reality.

In fundraising, you generally want to activate donors while they’re warm.

When someone feels moved to give, encouraging them to step back, conduct extensive research, compare outcomes, evaluate competing organizations, and calculate return on investment may work for a small subset of donors.

Most people will simply get distracted and move on.

And I didn’t like how the authors tend to downplay the emotional rewards of giving, as though logic and measurable outcomes should be the primary drivers.

People give for different reasons.

Some want maximum impact,

Others want to support something close to home,

Others want to support a cause that reflects their values.

A good fundraiser understands this and speaks to the motivations of the donor. Again, this is all pretty basic fundraising 101.3

Where the Book Lost Me

The authors write:

“Ethical consumption rarely avoids harm.” (172)

I understand the point they’re making, or do I? Statements like this left me more confused than inspired.

Should I stop trying?

Should I try harder?

Should I conduct more research?

Should I feel guilty?

The book often left me feeling as though the answer was simply more calculation.

More evaluation.

More analysis.

More optimization.

Again, I admire the impulse—I just don’t think it’s realistic.

At one point the authors discuss individuals who make dramatic sacrifices in order to maximize their giving. One example involves someone living in their car in order to donate more money.

That’s admirable.

It’s also not scalable.

Nor is it a realistic model for most people.

Which brings me back to the young man with the strange sleep schedule.

Some ideas work beautifully in theory. Real life has a way of complicating them.4

Admirable but Unconvincing

To be fair, the authors themselves acknowledge the difficulty.

They write:

“It’s easy to diagnose current systems as unjust. It’s harder to accompany such vague diagnoses with concrete action steps, particularly if these steps are to avoid grave risks of their own.” (169)

I agree completely.

What I’m less sure about is whether the book always recognizes that same challenge within its own proposals.

And as much as I wince writing a negative review, knowing my own book will be out in a few months and undoubtedly ripe for critique, here we are.5

In the end, I found myself admiring this book more than I liked it.

I really do admire the authors’ commitment to generosity, their desire to alleviate suffering, and their conviction that our resources should be used thoughtfully and effectively.

I think I even agree with much of what they are trying to accomplish.

What I struggle with is whether their vision is realistic for most human beings.

Perhaps that’s where age, experience, ministry, fundraising, and ordinary life have made me more skeptical.

Most people are not maximizing machines.

They are busy, distracted, emotional, relational creatures trying to do some good in a complicated world.

Still, I appreciate the authors’ challenge. Even if I remain unconvinced by effective altruism as a movement, I found myself repeatedly pushed to think more carefully about generosity, impact, and what it means to love our neighbor well.

And that’s probably worth something.

After all, as the authors themselves write:

“Jesus opens our eyes to see a million deaths as a million tragedies, and a million lives as a million individuals each uniquely loved by God. Love thy neighbor means love thy statistic.” (5)

That’s a beautiful sentiment.

And perhaps we need more young, idealistic, world-changing people willing to say it out loud.

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A line within it that has been haunting me…

I’m reading the forthcoming book In Defense of Evangelicalism: A Response to Its Cultured Despisers by , and while I don’t usually write anything about a book until I’m finished, there’s a line within it that has been haunting me since I first read it last night.

That, and it’s the first day back at school for the kids, the house is quiet, and I’m already tired of house chores.

So, here we go…

The book, releasing September 8, draws on research, original reporting, and Kristian’s lifetime in the evangelical movement to address five serious criticisms of evangelicalism and offer a deeply informed and theologically grounded defense. Kristian engages with influential critics of evangelicalism—including Kristin Kobes Du Mez, Beth Allison Barr, and Tim Alberta—as well as theologians, pastors, and other thought leaders, seeking to dismantle bad-faith critiques while acknowledging where reform is necessary and desirable.1

I’m maybe a quarter of the way in, and it’s happened before that books have taken a drastic turn for the worse—I’m looking at you, Critical Dilemma—but for now, I’m intrigued by what I’m reading.

The line in particular that I can’t get out of my head is this:

“…imagining a future with Hillary as president was just too unbearable.”

For some context, these words come from a conversation Kristian had with an evangelical woman, a pastor’s wife if I remember correctly, who was married to a Hispanic man and attended a predominantly Hispanic/Latino church. Kristian recalls this conversation in a chapter titled “Hypocrisy,” addressing the charge that evangelicals are deeply hypocritical based on their voting choices.

Now, a few things I must say immediately: I most assuredly feel very differently than this woman, named Jane.

For me, imagining a future with Trump as president—well, I don’t have to imagine—and frankly, I think it has been awful and unbearable at times. (I first accidentally typed “unlawful” instead of “awful,” which also fits.)

While I hesitate to get into voting choices or do deep dives into politics, let the record show I was and still am a fervent “Never Trumper.” That being said, I was on the fence with Hillary for some time and seriously considered voting for Jill Stein—but I thought she was being too paranoid about Russia at the time. I was wrong; Stein was certainly right!

I say all of this to say that I am, in many ways, quite the opposite of Jane—or perhaps Kristian, for that matter, even if I don’t think she has revealed her presidential voting choices in the book yet.

But still, there’s that line I just can’t get out of my head:

“…imagining a future with Hillary as president was just too unbearable.”2

Curiosity Before Condemnation

The other day, before I started reading Kristian’s book, a Facebook “friend” and “exvangelical influencer” posted the above statement on social media.

My immediate thought was this: This “influencer” has had ten years to try to understand these perspectives so as to change people’s minds and still hasn’t.

Moral grandstanding is great, but it doesn’t do much good in the long run.

More, I’d add that, in my memory, a lot of evangelical leaders actually expressed significant concerns about Trump’s character.

But I digress.

I want to be absolutely clear: I am vehemently opposed to Trump, and I think his legacy will be one of moral and institutional disaster for our nation.

That being said, rather than simply trying to judge and condemn Trump voters, I’m really interested in trying to understand what could make him the LESS repugnant choice over even someone like Kamala Harris most recently.

To that end, I’ve begun purposely seeking out more opportunities to engage with people who feel differently about this topic than I do.

For instance, for the last six months, I’ve been getting my hair cut by a woman who quite clearly votes differently than I do. To be sure, we didn’t immediately share our voting choices, but let me just say it has been obvious based on other things I’ve seen around her studio.

Yet, as much as we barely know each other, she’s already shared with me compelling stories of tragically losing her son in an accident and her husband’s brush with death from an illness.

To say it bluntly, I don’t think she’s the monster the above exvangelical influencer would have us believe.

The summer before the election, I had a similar experience over dinner with a fellow pastor who stated quite clearly that he was going to vote for Trump.

We’d been having a good conversation up to that point, so I took a deep breath and kept listening.

Interestingly, as he explained his thinking, he brought up a couple of things I either agreed with or could at least understand why he saw things the way he did. I gently suggested that I would probably be voting differently than him, but we kept talking.

And we left on good terms. I didn’t change his mind. He didn’t change mine. But I understood him a little better than I had before.

Now, in fairness, many might point out my “privilege,” in that I am a straight white guy who doesn’t have a whole lot to lose—just my sad attempts at fashioning my “hair”—which is true.

But that’s also why the above exvangelical influencer has no excuse for his unwillingness to engage the other side. He, after all, is a straight white guy like me (though with much better hair) and could easily enter into some “unsafe spaces” with some measure of courage and curiosity in hopes of building some bridges.

I want to emphasize this point: I’m not asking members of marginalized communities to immediately enter into relationships with people who don’t respect them.

Although my barber might lose some respect for me if I shared my true opinion on certain matters, but still.

Here’s an opportunity where I can use “privilege” for good.

Maybe it’s my training and experience as a hospital chaplain, or maybe it’s just what I hope is some well-worn wisdom, but when I hear someone say the other choice was “unbearable,” while I am a bit offended, I am also curious.

Why?

What makes a future I might prefer feel literally unbearable to someone else?

And which posture is more likely to create some unity or break down the walls of division within our nation and our churches: condemnation or curiosity?

I can tell you with certainty, it won’t be the posture of the exvangelical influencer.

P.S. One More Thought…

I was tempted to write about this too, but figured I’d get back to the house projects.

Kristian’s book maintains that the evangelical movement is a force for good that every American should want to preserve.

The last decade or so in America has been VERY anti-institutional, some of which I’d argue has been fostered by Trumpism. But the broader question is one I’ve been wrestling with myself:

Are imperfect institutions better than no institutions whatsoever?3

If I had to give an answer right now, I’d say something is better than nothing.

But maybe that’s another blog.

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The Moral Foundations of Politics

The more I think about our political divisions, the less I think they're primarily about facts. Increasingly, I think they're about morality.

I just finished reading Jonathan Haidt’s The Righteous Mind: Why Good People Are Divided By Politics and Religion and while it was a very fascinating read, by the end of the book, it did begin to show its age.

In it, Haidt argues that our moral reasoning is built on several intuitive "moral foundations." He identifies six primary ones:

1. Care / Harm – Concern for the suffering of others; virtues like compassion, kindness, and protection of the vulnerable.

2. Fairness / Cheating – Justice, reciprocity, equality, proportionality, and opposing exploitation or dishonesty.

3. Loyalty / Betrayal – Commitment to one’s group, family, nation, or team; valuing solidarity and faithfulness.

4. Authority / Subversion – Respect for legitimate authority, tradition, hierarchy, and social order.

5. Sanctity / Degradation – Ideas of purity, holiness, and avoiding contamination, whether physical, moral, or spiritual.

6. Liberty / Oppression – Resistance to domination and coercion; valuing freedom, autonomy, and standing up to bullies.

His broader thesis is not that one side is morally superior, but that different communities “taste” morality differently. He likens morality to having several taste receptors: progressives tend to rely most heavily on Care and Fairness, while conservatives draw on all six foundations more evenly. That difference helps explain why people can look at the same issue and arrive at fundamentally different moral intuitions before they ever begin reasoning about it.

After finishing the book, though, it struck me that I don’t think it’s accurate to say progressives have abandoned loyalty, authority, or sanctity. Rather, I think they’ve relocated those foundations to different objects. Sanctity may be directed toward the environment, loyalty toward activist or moral communities, and authority toward marginalized voices or expert consensus rather than traditional institutions. That distinction turns out to matter quite a bit.

So while it’s possible that conservatives and progressives don’t weight each of these foundations equally, I think Haidt is at least partly wrong (and, from what I’ve read, he has since revised some of his thinking on this). Conservatives and progressives both appeal to all six foundations.

If that’s true, then the real takeaway is this: political opponents often aren’t speaking different moral languages—they’re using the same grammar but with different words.

The Same Moral Grammar, Different Words

I think that explains why debates so often feel like people are talking past one another. Each side hears the other saying, “You don’t care about equality,” when the disagreement is actually, “What counts as fair?” Or, “You don’t respect authority,” when the real question is, “Who has legitimate authority?”

To put it bluntly, each side has sacralized different things.

One of Haidt’s most helpful insights is that people often don’t disagree merely over facts—they disagree over moral framing. And once an issue is framed as a moral absolute, compromise becomes much harder because conceding feels like participating in evil.

Take abortion as an example:

• Calling abortion “health care” frames it primarily through the moral foundations of care (meeting a medical need) and liberty (patient autonomy).

• Calling abortion “the killing of an unborn child” frames it through care (protecting vulnerable life) and sanctity (the inviolability of human life).1

Neither phrase is morally neutral. Each foregrounds one moral narrative while backgrounding another. As a result, each can sound to the other side not merely inaccurate, but morally deceptive.

This phenomenon extends well beyond abortion:

• “Gender-affirming care” vs. “gender ideology.”

• “Tax relief” vs. “tax cuts for the wealthy.”

• “Climate justice” vs. “energy independence.”

• “School choice” vs. “defunding public education.”

These aren’t simply competing descriptions—they’re competing moral worlds.2

Why This Matters

Where things get especially tricky—and arguably even dangerous for the future of our nation—is this:

First, we no longer share a common moral language.

In the past, Christianity—or at least what many called “Judeo-Christian values”—functioned as a shared moral language that Americans could organize around. More broadly, the American mythos also offered a common vocabulary centered on ideas like independence, hard work, and personal responsibility.

Today, many rightly critique parts of that story, often in favor of multiculturalism and pluralism. But I think we also have to name the elephant in the room: increasingly, we no longer share a common moral foundation or even a common moral language. We’re using the same words, but we mean very different things by them.3

Second, moralizing immediately raises the stakes.

Some issues do this more than others. “Tax relief” versus “tax cuts for the wealthy” doesn’t carry the same moral weight as framing abortion as either women’s autonomy or the killing of an unborn child.

But more and more issues are becoming moralized. Take the debate over trans kids. Both those who affirm gender transitions and those who oppose them generally believe they are protecting trans children (I’ve written about this in a previous Substack). Once an issue becomes morally foundational, disagreement is no longer experienced simply as someone holding a different opinion. It becomes an attack on one’s deepest moral commitments—and often on one’s identity.

Third, moralizing makes disagreement feel morally unacceptable.

In many ways, moralizing allows us to build a proverbial ivory tower while making ourselves almost impervious to questioning or debate. “How dare you?” becomes the default response.

Growing up in a very conservative environment, abortion simply wasn’t debatable because of how it was framed. If abortion is murder, how can we possibly negotiate over the taking of innocent life?

A similar dynamic exists on environmental issues, though with different moral foundations. Many progressives understand the earth as something sacred. Conservatives are more likely to understand nature primarily as a resource for human flourishing. Think of the Dakota Access Pipeline protests. “Water is Life” wasn’t merely a slogan; it framed water as something sacred.4 That framing often made little sense to conservatives, who were more likely to view both water and oil as resources to be stewarded for humanity’s flourishing (which, in turn, many conservatives regard as sacred beneath God).

Once something has been sacralized, compromise becomes extraordinarily difficult. You’re no longer negotiating policy. You’re negotiating morality itself.

So what do we do instead?

Three things come to mind.

First, delay moral absolutizing.

Whenever possible, we should describe an issue in ways that both sides could at least recognize as fair before moving to moral evaluation.

Unfortunately, our social media ecosystem rewards the opposite. Algorithms reward immediate moral framing because outrage drives clicks—for supporters and detractors alike. And the quicker we’re able to moralize an issue, the quicker we convince ourselves we’ve gained the moral high ground, whether fairly or not. This is why nearly every tragedy is moralized almost immediately.

Second, learn to separate our moral beliefs from ourselves.

Here’s what I mean.

In modern Western culture, the individual has increasingly become the primary moral authority. In earlier eras, the family, tribe, or religious community often functioned as that center instead. Of course, those arrangements had plenty of their own problems—people fought when their family, tribe, or religious community was threatened.

But today, criticism of our moral beliefs is often experienced as criticism of us.

I wonder if we’d be healthier if we were more intentional about locating our moral beliefs outside ourselves. For Christians, for example, our moral framework ought to be grounded in Christ and the Christian tradition, not simply in our individual preferences. More broadly, simply naming where our moral convictions come from may help create a little distance between ourselves and our beliefs. Then, when someone challenges those beliefs, they’re not rejecting me as much as they’re engaging a set of convictions that I hold.

Third, become more secure in what we actually believe.

This may sound counterintuitive, but I sometimes wonder whether our outrage stems less from deep conviction than from shallow formation.

We often assume people are deeply knowledgeable about the beliefs they hold most passionately. I’m not convinced that’s true. Because we don’t always understand why we believe what we believe, criticism feels disruptive—even dangerous.

But if I know my own convictions well, I can receive critique without immediately feeling threatened. I can weigh it against my own reasoning, acknowledge where it exposes weaknesses in my thinking, and explain why I ultimately agree or disagree.

Ironically, the more secure we become in our own beliefs, the less threatened we become by someone else’s.

In closing

None of this means moral truth doesn't exist or that every viewpoint is equally valid. It does mean, however, that if we hope to persuade rather than simply condemn one another, we have to understand the moral world the other person is inhabiting.

We don't heal polarization by shouting our sacred values louder.5

We begin by recognizing that, more often than not, we're arguing over different sacred objects while using many of the same moral instincts. That recognition won't solve our disagreements, but it might make genuine conversation possible again.

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Imagination Isn’t Enough

I just finished reading Imaginable: How to Create a Hopeful Future by Jane McGonigal. There’s a lot about the book I liked. Though not a religious book, McGonigal highlights the importance of imagination—something I think is certainly lacking in many churches and communities.

She smartly asserts that:

“Imagining literally anything you might experience in the far future, as vividly and realistically as you can, increases your motivation and likelihood of doing anything that has a longer-term benefit today” (35).

No doubt, imagination is integral to the life of any individual, community, or church. As McGonigal notes, feelings of stuckness and a lack of possibility can lead to depression and decline, whether for individuals or institutions.

She goes further, suggesting that by imagining a desired future, we can almost prophesy our own outcomes:

“If you want someone to believe that a future event is likely, you just have to ask them to imagine it happening, in as much vivid detail as possible” (138).

In the book, McGonigal spends a lot of time—too much time, in my opinion—walking through future-imagining scenarios. To some extent, I understand her point: imagining a better future can lead to different outcomes.

But a deeper theme kept surfacing for me throughout the book: the assumption that humans, through imagination and ingenuity, have the power to shape the future for good.

Now, to some extent, I agree.

But even though the book was published in 2023, it already feels dated—almost decades old.

McGonigal writes about imagining future scenarios to solve climate change, institute universal basic income, and achieve nuclear disarmament. Yet as I write this in March 2026—while my city is experiencing record-breaking temperatures, tax policy continues to shift in favor of the wealthy, and the United States is entering its fourth week of war in Iran—the book doesn’t feel a few years old. It feels like it belongs to a different era.

Imaginable was published in a particular cultural moment—one that, I suspect, historians will look back on closely. Coming out of a tumultuous Trump presidency, a global pandemic, and a national racial reckoning, the 2021 election felt, to many, like a return to normalcy. As if the disruption had been a blip, and we could now get back on track—and not just get back to normal, but continue shaping the future according to our ideals.

In that sense, McGonigal’s vision reads, at times, like the optimism of a certain kind of progressive imagination.

I don’t mean to be overly critical. I appreciated her broader points about imagination and ingenuity. Some of her exercises were genuinely engaging—I even wrote a recent post imagining how the church might change in ten years.

But in the end, what the book reflects is something deeper: a confidence that through human willpower and technological progress, we can ultimately fix what is broken in the world.

And that’s where I think it falls short.

Recently, for the Podcast, I interviewed author and missiologist Todd Korpi about his book AI Goes to Church: Pastoral Wisdom for Artificial Intelligence. Wisdom is the word that kept coming to mind as I read McGonigal.

For as much as she looks toward the future, wisdom requires a deeper engagement with the past and a sober awareness of present realities. That grounding often feels absent in her book.

And I think that absence helps explain where we find ourselves today—on the brink of global conflict and potential economic instability. It’s not simply that leaders imagined a better future. It’s that they often lacked the wisdom to ask how those visions would impact the people already living in the present.

In many ways, the political moment we’re living through feels like a reaction against those kinds of future-oriented assumptions.

But even more fundamentally—and this is essential—Korpi writes:

“We can’t innovate our way out of the curse. We can only come to Jesus” (29).

Some might push back on Korpi’s theology. To be honest, I don’t always land cleanly on doctrines like original sin myself. But if anything, the last decade has made one thing increasingly clear:

Left to our own devices, we cannot fix things on our own.

As N.T. Wright notes, “part of the Christian story… is that human beings have been so damaged by evil that what the need is not simply better self-knowledge, or better social conditions, but help, and indeed rescue, from outside themselves” (Simply Christian, 22).

This isn’t meant to be a “throw up our hands and give up” kind of post, nor a call to disengage from the world.

It’s meant to be a grounding reminder.

We are not the authors of the future.

We cannot save ourselves.

We do not hold what comes next.

Only God does.

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CRT is the law

Over the past year, among many other books and topics, I’ve spent a fair amount of time reading works on Critical Theory, anti-racism, disability theology, and related subjects. Along the way, I’ve found myself both appreciating and questioning what I was reading.

Then this past week, while attending the Iowa Preachers Project in Charlottesville, Virginia, something clicked.

What if Critical Theory functions much like Luther’s understanding of the Law?

If so, that might explain both why I find it so valuable and why I sometimes find it so exhausting.

It tells us what is wrong.

It names injustice.

It reveals where we fall short.

But can it offer grace?

A Crash Course in Law & Gospel

This past week I was in Charlottesville, VA for the last in-person gathering of the 2025-2026 Iowa Preachers Project.

Being a part of the project has been a powerful experience, if only because I’ve frankly felt for a long time that I didn’t know what I was doing there, but now at the end I think, simply put, God did.

Additionally, I received quite the crash-course on the concept of “Law & Gospel,” a thoroughly Lutheran concept, which I, having little-to-no Lutheran theological background, really struggled to grasp at first.

The Iowa Preachers Project (IPP) is led by Dr. Ken Jones (), a retired professor from Grandview University in Des Moines, IA and Reformation scholar, so while the IPP is itself quite ecumenical in participants, its theology is strongly undergirded by Lutheran theology and especially Law & Gospel.

For those unfamiliar, like me, with the concept, I’ll do my best to explain it here simply. And, for my Lutheran or Law & Gospel readers, please forgive me if I’m not getting it quite right. I do welcome your feedback and insights.

But, drawing from Luther’s Heidelberg Disputation from 1518, the Law & Gospel concept is perhaps best and most simply explained in thesis 26:

“The law says ‘do this,’ and it is never done. Grace says, ‘believe in this,’ and everything is already done.”

Let me also add this. My only real exposure (if you could call it that) was during my Baptist upbringing and college years, where the Law was regularly discounted. Baptists certainly had (and still have—seeing the news about the SBC banning female pastors) their own version of “law,” but within my sphere of Baptists, there certainly was a bit of antinomianism, to use a big word correctly (I think).

To say it bluntly, the Law & Gospel concept does not dismiss the Law. It simply recognizes that the Law cannot save.

Again, from Luther’s Heidelberg Disputation, thesis 1 states:

“the law of God, the most salutary doctrine of life, cannot advance people on their way to righteousness, but rather hinders them.”

In short, the Law cannot save.

And that’s where something clicked for me.

What Law Does

In past Substacks, I’ve explored and interacted with concepts from Critical Theory, beginning with a book titled Critical Dilemma, which while I found intriguing, I felt went too far in frankly a sort of antinomianism.

What I want to suggest here is that Critical Theory (and I’m going to use that as an umbrella term for related concepts such as Critical Race Theory, anti-racism, Queer Theory, and others) functions very much like Law.

And I mean that as both a compliment and a critique.

I say that because Law is not without value.

, again assuming I understand him correctly, argues that the Law is quite good because it points to our need for a Savior. Basically, it shows how it is impossible for us to justify ourselves. I think this is what Luther gets at in thesis 18, that “certain people must utterly despair of [their] own ability before they are prepared to receive the grace of Christ.”

In my time with the IPP, I’ve heard the Law described as a “curb” that keeps us from driving off the road.

In their book Law and Gospel: A Theology for Sinners (and Saints), McDonald, Richardson, and Zahl talk about the Law being a good thing.

They write that the Law points out that something is amiss. And when the Law is preached, “we must listen” (46).

CRT as Law

So for instance, in another recent book I read, Black and Catholic, which examines structural racism within the Roman Catholic Church in America, author Tia Noelle Pratt observes:

“Societal systems, whether religious or secular, are organized to create, maintain, and perpetuate the power structures of their founders and successors of the same ilk.” (103)

And again:

“The sociological structure of the U.S. Catholic Church is white and racist. As discussed throughout the following chapters, the church’s structure was constructed this way in order to protect and perpetuate whiteness as the fundamental core of the church.” (12)

What I’m trying to say is that in many respects Critical Theory functions like Law—it names how we should live with one another and identifies where we fall short.

Pratt, using an anti-racist or Critical Race Theory framework, details quite clearly that the Roman Catholic Church is not living up to its own professed beliefs.

It is falling short.

That CRT is able to do this is ultimately a good thing in my opinion.

Again, I go to the words of Disabling Leadership by Draper, Michel, and Mae:

“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)

Author and professor George Yancey has also acknowledged that anti-racism rightly names systemic and structural injustice.1

To again borrow from McDonald, Richardson, and Zahl:

“the Law commands that we love perfectly.” (62)

The Problem of “Do More”

The problem is not that CRT identifies injustice.

The problem is that identifying injustice is not the same thing as redemption.

What Yancey points out is that anti-racism often functions as a kind of law (my words), in that it ends up saying, a la Luther, “do this and live.”

But law, if I’m understanding Luther’s thesis 2 correctly, cannot do that.

And, even worse perhaps, human works which “always appear attractive and good... are ...likely to be mortal sins.” (thesis 3)

Again, McDonald, Richardson, and Zahl write:

“Whether or not an utterance can be called law depends on how it is heard, not how it is meant.” (18)

And:

“Perhaps it is enough to say that the Law reveals that we need to be forgiven; the Gospel announces we have been forgiven. Full stop.” (65)

So this is really it.

While CRT is good in that it names where we have done wrong and need to be forgiven, it offers no forgiveness other than “keep doing this” in hopes that you might live because, ultimately, as my friend, colleague, and fellow IPP graduate says:

“there is no grace.”

Remember thesis 26:

“The law says ‘do this,’ and it is never done.”

And again, from McDonald, Richardson, and Zahl:

“As with all law-based barometers of self-worth ... there is no ‘enough.’” (66)

A Small Example

Let me add one recent example.

Recently, a reader posted a comment on one of my posts questioning why I would be against gerrymandering to counter gerrymandering elsewhere.

“The stakes are too high” was essentially this person’s argument.

The commenter advised me to read voices of color, especially from the Black Church tradition.

When I replied that I actually had read some voices, I was then directed to read more voices, (most of whom I actually have read) and especially CRT-type voices.

Though I refrained from engaging in the conversation further, it felt very much like Law to me.

There was no “enough.” Only more.

Read more.

Do more.

Learn more.

As Yancey has pointed out, it can begin to feel like “do as I say.”

No grace.

Law Can Diagnose. The Gospel Can Redeem.

Again, I want to be careful here and not throw the baby out with the bathwater, sort of like I felt the authors of Critical Dilemma ultimately did.

Rather, what I’m trying to say is that Critical Theory, valuable as it may be as Law, cannot save us, and I think it is sometimes assumed to be capable of such.

But like the Law, when it becomes apparent that one can never fully live up to its standards, people eventually throw up their hands—not necessarily because they reject justice, but because they experience only condemnation and never grace.

And if we know anything about the Gospel, it is this:

“There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” (Romans 8:1)

Should we sin so that grace may abound? God forbid (Romans 6).

Should we knowingly participate in racist structures because we are forgiven?

Absolutely not.

But at some point, people want good news. People need good news.

And again from McDonald, Richardson, and Zahl:

“The Gospel is... Good News because it addresses our plight with rescue, deliverance, salvation, and redemption.” (47)

So in the end, I think CRT is important and valuable.

To write it off entirely would be a mistake.

Like the Law, it often tells the truth.

It exposes injustice.

It names sin.

It reveals where individuals and institutions fall short.

But as Draper, Michel, and Mae remind us:

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

Critical Theory can diagnose.

The Gospel can redeem.

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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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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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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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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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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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Ten Ways Church Will Be Different in Ten Years

What if most churches didn’t own buildings?
What if pastors were mostly volunteers?
What if people paid to attend church—or attended entirely in virtual reality?

Those ideas sound far-fetched. But ten years ago, so did a lot of what we now take for granted.

I’ve started reading the book Imaginable: How to Create a Hopeful Future by Jane McGonigal, which is largely about thinking creatively and imaginatively about the future as a way to shape desired outcomes.

In the book, she lists several different mental games and activities. One is called “One Hundred Ways Anything Can Be Different in the Future.” Here’s how it works:

“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, with that in mind, I decided to try: Ten ways church will be different in ten years.

For expediency, I’ve skipped the “things that are true today” step and jumped straight to rewriting the (unnamed) current realities. And for brevity, the “clues” are simply drawn from my own observations.

1. People will pay to come to church

There will be an entry fee—or at least a suggested donation. This sounds insane. But is it really? In so many other contexts, people pay for an experience or performance. People seeking to be generous could pay for extra tickets so more people could attend. I can imagine churches being more upfront: this is what it costs per person to make this happen.

2. Most congregations will not own a building

They will rent space somewhere (hence #1). Deferred maintenance, declining giving, and rising utility and insurance costs will make buildings unaffordable for churches that haven’t planned far ahead.

3. Most congregations will be volunteer-led

In a previous post, I talked about the coming pastor shortage. With the cost of theological education and the inability of most churches to pay a full-time salary, many pastors will be volunteer or mostly volunteer—perhaps functioning more like LDS congregations, where leaders serve for a season before stepping down.

4. Denominations will (mostly) cease to exist

At least in their current form. Being a “United Methodist” or “Presbyterian” church will function more like being an independent Baptist church today—signals of theology and polity rather than strong institutional identity. Loosely affiliated networks will remain. See the current trend lines of nearly all Mainline denominations and this becomes my surest bet.

5. Seminaries will (mostly) cease to exist

For many of the same reasons: declining enrollment, shrinking job prospects, and rising operational costs. A few with large endowments will remain, but many will shift toward certificate-based models or platforms like Coursera (have you noticed Duke Divinity there?). Some may look more like four-year Bible colleges again—offering marketable degrees alongside pastoral training.

I’d also add, the recent student loan changes making theological higher-ed one of the remaining areas of education eligible for graduate loans will exacerbate this trend. Ed Stetzer recently shared data that conservative seminaries are growing (related to prediction 10). Nothing can control costs and keep tuition affordable and low more than a growing student body.

6. Mega-churches will (mostly) cease to exist

This sounds unlikely, especially since megachurches now represent a growing share of attendance. But many are already shifting toward multi-site models. Over time, they may function more like mini-denominations—especially as they grapple with the long-term costs of maintaining large, often cheaply constructed facilities.

Plus, say there is a state-sanctioned church (again, prediction 10); there will certainly be SOME who will want to attend, but many more not.

7. A significant number of people will attend church via virtual reality

Entire churches will exist where people put on VR headsets to worship without leaving home. These will become the fastest-growing churches in the next decade.

8. Most churches will rely on video sermons

Life.Church has already demonstrated that this model can work. Add in VR and multi-site realities, and the trend accelerates. As more pastors are bi-vocational or volunteer, preparing high-quality weekly sermons becomes harder. Video allows consistency and scale. Like the current multi-site models, teaching and preaching is farmed out and “campus” pastors focus on pastoral care and leading the sacraments.

9. Highly produced worship music will become rare in most churches

Think Bethel, Hillsong, Elevation. Those models will still exist—especially in large or digital spaces—but for most churches, especially those without buildings, simpler expressions will dominate. Limited resources and volunteer musicians will shape what’s possible. Someone brings a guitar or a keyboard. Hymnals or songbooks come back, again, for simplicity.

10. Churches will become more entangled with government

This was actually my daughter’s idea as I initially struggled to come up with a tenth. I grimaced—but she may be right. Some conservative Christian movements are already pushing in this direction. If progressive Christianity has a future, it’s unlikely to simply disengage. As much as progressive Christianity seems to begrudge Christianity or the church at times, they’re going to recognize that institutional power is hard to let go of.

This is probably the most ominous possibility. It’s not impossible to imagine deeper entanglement—local or national—even constitutional change. A state-sanctioned church is hardly unprecedented in history. If that happens, some churches would be funded, while others would be left to fend for themselves (hence the above predictions).

Bonus: AI preachers?

This may not be as far-fetched as it sounds. Imagine training an LLM on Spurgeon, Luther, Craddock, or Wesley and asking it to generate a sermon—then preach it.

There are obvious theological implications. But one could argue that God is not dependent on human speech alone—Moses and the burning bush, Balaam’s donkey, the heavens declaring God’s glory, even the rocks crying out (Luke 19:40).

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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A tense conversation about a denominational immigration statement became a reminder of something increasingly rare: a church where people with different political views can still worship together. Drawing on Ryan Burge’s The Vanishing Church, this essay reflects on how partisan “togetherness pressure” is reshaping American Christianity—and why churches that make space for honest disagreement may be more important than ever.

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When the Church Still Makes Room

He was shaking as he showed me an article on his phone.

To steady it, he placed both hands around the device so I could read clearly.

It was a denominational news article describing a recent rally opposing immigration enforcement by the current administration.

Pointing to a particular paragraph, he asked, “What do you think this means?”

I offered my best on-the-spot summary, but he seemed unconvinced.

“Let’s have a seat,” I said, “so we can talk more about it.”

The Conversation

That evening, I was participating in regularly scheduled programming at a Mainline church when one of the other participants—having strong feelings about the denominational article—tried to initiate a conversation with a local church leader about it.

That leader, knowing I was there and aware of my role as a chaplain and my experience with difficult conversations, suggested he speak with me instead. I was caught a bit off guard, but happy to oblige.

He began sharing more of his backstory—military background, from the Midwest, wary of talking points that seemed too neatly politically aligned.

We talked through the article and what bothered him.

I used phrases like:

“If I understand…”
“If I’m hearing you right…”
“I can see why you’d feel that way.”

I tried to remain patient and non-reactive, listening for what was really underneath his frustration. As I understood it, he felt that a denominational leader’s statement—quoted in the news article—was overly stark and not biblically grounded. For him, that mattered.

“We should be based on the Bible,” he said—or something close to that.

I then shared my own perspective. I spoke about what I see as a biblically grounded posture toward immigration: that all people are created in the image of God (Genesis 1:27), that God loves all (John 3:16), and that Christ died for all (2 Corinthians 5:15).

“So for me,” I said, “I’m willing to have some flexibility around policy, acknowledging that I don’t always know what’s best—but I think it must respect the dignity of the human being.”

“That’s fine,” he replied.

What truly bothered him was the use of the word “heresy” in the statement—particularly the implication, at least as framed in the news article, that anyone who disagreed with the speaker’s view was “heretical.”

That was a bridge too far.

“I can see why you’d feel that way,” I said. “Heresy has historically been a word used to divide people of faith, and those words cast the issue in a very stark, right-or-wrong frame.”

Even though this was not a Disciples of Christ church, I referenced a principle from my own tradition—Thomas and Alexander Campbell’s call to “Speak where the Bible speaks and remain silent where the Bible is silent.” The Bible does not describe detailed policy positions, but it does prescribe how we treat people.

In the end, I’m not sure we settled anything. I suspect he still disagrees with the article and the statement he found offensive.

And frankly, I think that’s okay.

The church was such that people of varying political convictions could coexist and worship together without partisan alignment becoming a test of fellowship.

The Vanishing Center

That kind of church is becoming rare.

Ryan Burge, in The Vanishing Church, argues that Christianity in America has become an “‘all or none’ proposition—conservative evangelical religion or none at all” (6). Moderates are being driven out, creating “a divide in which a whole bunch of people on each side are convinced that those on the other side are immoral or bigots” (8).

Burge warns this polarization is “a problem for us all” (8).

He traces much of this shift to the decline of what we call Mainline Protestantism—denominations like the United Methodist Church, ELCA, United Church of Christ, and others.

“At one point, about half of all Americans were part of this moderate, mainline tradition. In twenty or thirty years,” he warns, “if current trends continue as predicted, the mainline tradition will largely be extinct across many parts of the United States” (5).

The data is sobering.

In post–World War II America, mainline denominations functioned as a kind of civic religion—“God and country” churches for middle America. Burge is less interested in evaluating that era and more concerned with what has happened since its decline: growing polarization.

He notes that “Striving for a tradition that welcomes all viewpoints and political proclivities may represent a deeply held conviction for many proud members of the mainline, but it has not proven to be a viable pathway for organizational vitality” (46).

Political partisanship, Burge argues, has become “the master identity of our lives,” with “everything…downstream of that” (78). “In essence,” he writes, “the public is sorting itself into camps based not on theological convictions but on partisan affiliation. Their religious identity is downstream of their partisan affiliation” (81).

He describes what family systems theory calls “togetherness pressure”—the growing expectation that individuals must align fully with the loudest voices in their tribe: “what seems to be happening is that the average American is becoming more and more convinced that they should at least feign support for the most strident voices in their tribe” (178).

That pressure exists in churches too.

While Burge critiques evangelical churches more directly, the same dynamic affects the mainline. Many with moderate or conservative theological views have felt less welcome. As Burge notes, “Questioning the prevailing opinions of one’s own group once or twice is acceptable, but like-minded people quickly tire of such inquiries” (179).

Eventually, people either fall silent—or they leave.

Within evangelicalism, where social pressure to attend church remains strong, silence is more common. Within the Mainline, leaving is often easier.

Who Is Left?

Burge does not spend much time analyzing the political distribution within mainline congregations in this book, though he has elsewhere. His data has often shown that many mainline members are politically “purple” or even center-right.

This next part is my own reflection, not Burge’s.

I sometimes wonder whether some of what has happened in the Mainline is simply that more progressive members have left—either because they found the church unnecessary or because progressive secularism has devalued institutional religion altogether. I’ve certainly written previously of the trend within Progressive Christianity to minimize the importance of the faith. But, that’s my speculation, not his.

What is clear—and startling—is how much the political left is increasingly shaped by the most secular and nonreligious voices.

But that’s another discussion.

What Burge consistently emphasizes is that many American Christians are comfortable with women clergy and same-sex marriage and want churches that allow for that.

I agree.

But I also long for churches where Christians who are unsure—about sexuality, about abortion, about immigration—can wrestle honestly without fear of being labeled “racist” or “bigot” simply for asking questions.

To be clear: some who claim Christ do hold views that are racist and bigoted.

But I also believe many are simply afraid to ask questions publicly. And rather than risk the label, they quietly walk away.

Why It Matters

Burge is emphatic that church attendance matters:

“There’s nothing simpler and more consequential than people getting up on a Sunday morning, getting dressed, and making their way to a local house of worship” (205).

“The fate and future of American democracy may be at stake.”

I’m less concerned about American democracy—important as it is—and more concerned about the health of the body of Christ in America.

For the church to be healthy, I believe we must remain in fellowship with those with whom we disagree on matters of faith and practice.

That evening’s conversation did not resolve the immigration debate.

But it did model something rare:

Christians speaking candidly, listening patiently, and remaining in communion.

That, among many reasons, is why the Mainline church still matters.

And why I continue to hope—and pray—for revitalization and renewal among us.

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