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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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Progressive scholarship, political strategy, and even preaching can turn Christianity into something usable—an inspiring story, a moral framework, a cultural tool. But the gospel cannot be reduced to its usefulness. Faith is not about managing the story of Jesus for our purposes; it is about being taken by it. If we only admire or deploy the story, it may be beautiful—but it will never be Lord.

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Taken by the Story

I’m sitting in the reading chair in my office one morning, briefly grabbing my Bible while getting my son ready for school. I’m trying to build in a new habit of “scripture before screens,” something I heard from Dwight Zscheile. And, utilizing a tip from Jack Shitama, I’ve decided even sixty seconds of Bible reading is better than nothing.

With Lent approaching and me trying to discern what to do for those forty days, I flip to the Gospel of Matthew. Maybe I’ll read through Matthew and Mark—one chapter a day.

Then I hit the genealogy in Matthew 1.

And suddenly something from Elaine Pagels’ recent book Miracles and Wonders: The Historical Mystery of Jesus flashes through my mind.

Pagels argues that Jesus was likely an illegitimate child, born to a single mother, and that the stories about Joseph and the virgin birth were later theological constructions meant to make his origins less embarrassing and more impressive. It’s not a new idea—John Dominic Crossan and others have floated similar claims—but Pagels presents her work as an effort to “recover… what actually happened.”

What struck me most wasn’t the claim itself. It was her posture.

Pagels repeatedly contrasts her work with first-century sources, describing them as not “neutral” and not “straightforward historical writing.”1 She confidently asserts that the early gospels, read in context, “do not support the theological assumptions enshrined… in the Nicene Creed.”

And yet, by the end of the book, she concludes:

“I love this about the gospel stories… what keeps the stories of Jesus alive amid the twists and turns of history… [is that] they give us what we often need most: an outburst of hope.”

In that framing, Jesus becomes a beautiful story.

An inspiring story.

A hopeful story.

But still a story we manage.

A colleague who attended one of Pagels’ lectures said something similar to me: “Even if the virgin birth isn’t true, it makes the story even better.”

Without the supernatural baggage, Jesus becomes the ultimate rags-to-riches narrative. A peasant remembered and celebrated 2,000 years later. How inspiring.

But this, to me, is the problem with liberal or progressive readings that are deeply steeped in modernity. They assume control.2

We curate the story.
We refine the story.
We make the story usable.

The story does not confront us. We interpret it safely from above.

And we can simply let it go or set it aside when it no longer suits our purposes.

Being Taken Rather Than Taking

A few months ago, I was in Memphis for the . A poet named David Wright gave a presentation on art and poetry. I’ll admit: much of it went over my head. I chuckled as much to him afterwards.

But his closing line lodged itself in my brain:

“I want to be taken by a story rather than take it for myself.”

That sentence has been haunting me since.

A few days ago, I reposted a Substack by arguing that Democrats need to do a better job of utilizing religion. I mostly agreed with the premise. Ryan Burge’s research, especially in The Vanishing Church, documents how Christianity in America is becoming increasingly Republican-identified.

But what unsettled me was the instrumental tone.

Religion was being discussed as a tool.
A resource.
A strategy.

This is most obvious on the political Right, where Christianity can function as what family systems theory would call “togetherness pressure”—a glue that holds the tribe together.

But increasingly, it feels like parts of the political Left are discovering that religion might be useful too. Useful for mobilizing voters. Useful for moral framing.3

The instinct is bipartisan.

The problem is theological.

The Gospel Cannot Be Reduced to Its Usefulness

In an article we read for the Iowa Preachers Project, Mark Mattes wrote:

“The gospel as a promise cannot be reduced to its usefulness.”

He warns that many preachers present the gospel as if it were a program for personal or social improvement.

Eugene Peterson said something similar in Run with the Horses:

“Wanting to maintain control over our lives, to keep the initiative in our hands, we chop the word of God into little pieces so that we can control it and maybe even put it to practical use.”

Andrew Root, throughout his Ministry in a Secular Age series, makes the same critique—warning against turning God into a mascot or idol4 we deploy for our causes. In A Pilgrimage of Letting Go, which he co-wrote with Kara Root, they write:

“Leadership in the way of God must be a journey into uncontrollability.”

Not just leadership.

Faith itself.

Religion, at its most basic, can be a human attempt to control the uncontrollable. Christianity cannot survive that reduction. It does not function well as a lifestyle accessory or a partisan instrument. Its claims are too total. Too disruptive. Too destabilizing.

A Personal Reckoning

If I’m honest, I don’t always want to be taken by the story.

I want a faith that confirms what I already think.
A God who blesses my instincts.
A narrative I can deploy when it helps.

But the older I get—and the more I see what happens when we instrumentalize religion—the more convinced I become that Christianity only works when it works on me.

When it confronts me.
When it destabilizes me.
When it carries me somewhere I did not plan to go.5

I don’t want to take the story and make it useful.

I want to be taken by it.

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Why So Much Activism Burns Out

I’ve written before about how much of today’s social activism burns hot and then burns out—not because people don’t care, but because care alone isn’t enough. Without deep moral and spiritual formation, outrage becomes unsustainable. The work asks more of us than our inner lives can hold.

Several weeks back, someone messaged me on this platform: “I have a book that echoes much of what you’re saying in your posts. I’d like to send it to you.”

“Sure,” I said—having no idea who he was.

I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, to be honest. As a podcaster, I often have authors pitching me their books. Often, when promoted in this way, the books are fairly forgettable. ’s certainly was not. And after reading about his career and the scope of his work, I felt a bit foolish, remembering my initial skepticism once I’d finished the book.

To be clear, Grandberg-Michaelson’s book isn’t life-changing in a flashy way. It’s something better than that: really, really solid. I’d absolutely recommend it—especially for Christians working in the social justice space, and frankly, it would work well as a church study book too.

The book explores four “movements,” as he calls them:

From self-sufficiency to belonging
From certainty to connection
From grandiosity to authenticity
From control to trust

In the final section, Grandberg-Michaelson closes with eight pieces of gathered wisdom that I found quite exceptional. I won’t share them here—for his sake, I’d like you to buy the book after all.

The final highlight I made really encapsulates the depth and richness of the book as a whole. Grandberg-Michaelson writes:

“It’s important to ask yourself, ‘Where is my anchorhold?’ This is another way of exploring whether you have a holding space that will serve and sustain you in the necessary soulwork of justice. That’s the primary question for you to face. So much that follows in your life will depend on your answer.”

That is hauntingly good.

He sets up this statement by sharing the history of an anchorhold—a small room attached to a church in the Middle Ages. Figures like Julian of Norwich, known for her “All shall be well” wisdom, lived in one.

What’s especially intriguing is that Julian wasn’t retreating into a kind of luxury spiritual escape during easygoing times—far from it. She lived amid plague, war, and famine. And yet, through all of this, she could say, “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well,” because her anchor held in God.

As Grandberg-Michaelson notes, she trusted that “all of life is permeated and upheld by the presence and breath of God.” This isn’t to suggest that we simply ignore evil or injustice. He goes on to say, “None of this minimizes the gravity of the threat to human flourishing and planetary sustainability… Your witness should always embrace and announce these threats.”

Still, I was especially struck by his discussion of control and the acceptance of death. Here, Grandberg-Michaelson highlights the importance of trust in God, “facilitated by an expanding view of God’s mysterious, pervasive, sustaining presence in all of creation, holding together all things, including the center and future of your life. That gift of trust is the only way to embrace this grace” (my emphasis).

I could share more, but to close, I’ll return to something he offers near the beginning of the book: “It’s imperative…to create the inward infrastructure to process, together, both the pain of life’s struggles and the grace of healing that can flow from them.”

I’m under no illusions that the future of America will magically burn brighter, regardless of the outcomes of elections in 2026 or beyond. For us to become a people—and a nation—more fully shaped by the love and justice of God, we’ll need to trust in God and ground ourselves in God’s grace, so that we’re ready to respond when God calls us to act. Grandberg-Michaelson writes with the wisdom of someone who has seen a thing or two.

I’m taking his advice.

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Book Review: The Wise Leader by Uli Chi

Uli Chi’s The Wise Leader is a thoughtful exploration of wisdom—what it is, how it shapes leadership, and why it matters for human flourishing. Chi reminds us early on that “wisdom is a gracious and hospitable host… more concerned about the other than about itself” (p. 4). That framing sets the tone for a book that consistently views wisdom as relational, generous, and ultimately joyful.

There are moments of real beauty, such as the reminder that “ensuring flourishing relationships, including mending broken ones, is core to wise living” (p. 14), or that true wisdom requires “childlike trust and vulnerability, youthful curiosity and playfulness, and mature discernment and courage” (p. 164). These passages, along with reflections on healthy power as inherently generous (p. 70), give the book a clear moral and theological center.

At the same time, while the book is important and full of insights, I found it not always compelling in style. The ideas are sound and sometimes striking, but the writing didn’t always capture my attention. I appreciated it most as a resource to return to for quotes and framing insights rather than a work that stirred me deeply.

Still, The Wise Leader succeeds in offering a vision of wisdom as love, hospitality, and joy—a vision worth carrying into both leadership and life.

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I read a lot of books—approximately seventy-five last year, and at the time of this writing, I’m well into book nine. One of my commitments is that whenever I begin a book, I aim to read it through, with only the rarest of exceptions. Hungry for Hope: Letters to the Church from Young Adults was one of those exceptions.

Months ago, I was sent the book, edited by Jeremy Paul Myers and Kristina Frugé, from Eerdmans Publishing. I had it in my stack for a while and threw it into my backpack while preparing for travel—I never want to run out of books on a trip.

This was a book I did not finish. It also did not make the return flight home. I picked up other books on the trip and ultimately decided this one was not worth the space or weight.

Let me be clear: the entire book is not terrible, which is to be expected in a multi-author volume. Eric Law, whom I’ve had on my podcast and whose work I respect, offered important insights. So did Soong-Chan Rah, whose The Next Evangelicalism still sits on my bookshelf even after a recent purge. There are moments of wisdom here.

The opening chapter, for instance, states:

“Churches now need ways of being that open them up to more vast possibilities… For this, the church is going to need a little more curiosity and a lot more courage” (14).

I wholeheartedly agree.

My problem is that much of what follows bears little resemblance to Christianity as a theological tradition. Again and again, theology gives way to progressive ideology, with Scripture and historic Christian doctrine either sidelined or functionally absent.

To clarify upfront: the examples I cite below are not isolated anomalies. They are representative of a broader posture throughout the book—one in which secular frameworks are treated as authoritative, and Christian theology is, at best, ornamental.

On the same trip, after setting this book aside, I began Sanctuary of Healing by Julia Matallana Freedman, a book on trauma-informed ministry. What struck me immediately was the contrast. Freedman makes use of tools often associated with critical theory—but those tools are clearly subservient to Scripture and Christian theology, not the other way around. That distinction matters. It is precisely what I found missing here.

A particularly egregious example appears on page 57:

“We must dwell instead in hopelessness and learn to cope without hope. This sounds terrible, but it is a necessary and life-giving journey.”

I only have my highlights—perhaps better called lowlights—but even so, this line stopped me cold. First, it is deeply confusing for a book titled Hungry for Hope to urge readers to abandon hope. Second, and more importantly, such a claim is not merely pastorally dangerous; it is unbiblical and unchristian.

Unfortunately, it does not improve from there.

“To be human is to be made in the image of God… this bred anthropocentrism, a privileging of all things human over the nonhuman” (68).

Yes—God does privilege humans over the nonhuman. That is precisely what imago Dei means. The authors seem to suggest this is a bad thing.

“We may smile when an old church building becomes a bar or a roller skating rink…” (79).

Who is smiling? I smile when people gather together in worship, formation, and perhaps even to meet with their neighbors to improve their communities—not because an old church is now a bar.

Another passage suggests that expecting God to save us reflects a theological error, critiquing belief in resurrection as a kind of deus ex machina. Again, the implication seems to be that Christian hope itself is the problem.

Perhaps most startling was this statement on biblical interpretation:

“The Center for Media Literacy provides great guiding questions, whether you are critically reading a social media post or a biblical passage…” (184).

This is not discernment; it is displacement—treating Scripture as just another text, governed by secular critical tools rather than received as revelation. I still cannot fathom, of all the available tools to suggest for biblical study and interpretation, the go-to recommendation was from the The Center for Media Literacy?!?!

The most troubling chapter, however, is the one on sex, which argues:

“We need to create a church that values consent, pleasure, and mutual well-being” (190).

And on the same page:

“Everyone needs to be able to access condoms, lubricant, sex toys, and contraceptives, with or without the involvement of parents and trusted advocates” (190, emphasis added).

My concern here is not prudishness or nostalgia for purity culture, which caused real harm and deserves its critique. The deeper issue is the collapse of moral formation—the abandonment of intergenerational wisdom, authority, and guidance altogether. Adults disappear. Parents are sidelined. Formation is replaced by affirmation.

This, to me, perfectly encapsulates the central problem with Progressive Christianity: God becomes a mascot—an idol, really—invoked when useful, but not living or active, and certainly not offering a moral framework for how to live.1

God—if God exists at all—exists mainly to reassure us that what feels good must therefore be good.

There are exceptions. Rah’s chapter on lament is thoughtful and needed. Law’s contribution is strong. But they are precisely that: exceptions.

What troubles me most is the theological vacuum at the heart of the project. This is not merely a disagreement over emphasis or tone. It is a fundamental question of what Christianity is for. When theology is displaced by ideology, hope thins, worship hollows, and the church loses its moral grammar altogether.

That loss feels especially dangerous in a moment like this—when cruelty is openly justified, when power eclipses conscience, and when the church seems unsure whether it still has anything distinct to say.

A deeply disappointing book.

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Two travel-shaped books—one theological, one memoir—arrive at the same insight: the harder we grasp for control, the more isolated we become. Transformation begins with letting go.

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I tend to get a lot of books in the mail—and I mean a lot. Not all of them end up being a good fit for the podcast, but I do try, at the very least, to offer some kind of written reflection or review.

Two recent books that landed on my desk took a surprisingly similar approach.

One, A Pilgrimage into Letting Go by Andrew and Kara Root, will soon turn into a podcast interview with Kara Root. The other, The Traveler’s Path by Douglas J. Brouwer, also uses travel as its central frame—though with a very different tone and aim.

In the Roots’ case, Andrew and Kara use a family pilgrimage as a way to make a broader parental and theological point: control is fleeting, illusory, and ultimately corrosive.

They write,

“The more we want to control the world—make it all visible, reachable, manageable and useful—the more the world withdraws. We end up connecting to the world as points of aggression because the world fickly hides itself from us. We work in opposition to our own aim. Our desperate grabbing for control leads us to manifest the very things we fear: isolating, unmoved, and disconnected feelings of discontent” (105).

Brouwer’s book is far less theological and functions more as a memoir of a life shaped by travel. Still, I found the final chapters especially compelling. Near the end, Brouwer describes attempting to “go back home” to the Netherlands—the country his grandmother immigrated from years earlier. Despite familiarity with the language and culture, he slowly realizes he is unmistakably American. No matter how well-traveled he is, he cannot fully belong.

That realization comes into sharp relief during an American Thanksgiving—“just another Thursday” in the Netherlands—when he tries to make his way to a gathering of Americans celebrating the holiday. His own family, of course, is back in the States.

The loneliness of that moment lingers.

Reading that chapter, I couldn’t help but hear an echo of the Roots’ argument. Brouwer, in his own way, seemed to be seeking control—to make himself Dutch, to locate belonging through geography and effort. Instead, like the Roots suggest, the attempt at control only produced isolation and disconnection from those he loved most.

One other overlap between the books stood out to me. Brouwer notes that “for an adventure to be worthy, it should change me and it should change others” (14). The Roots say something similar, though more explicitly theological, asking, “What if the journey of a pilgrim is a constant journey of forgiveness?” (226).

Both books also circle around the theme of desire. The Roots engage Augustine directly, asking, “The Christian life is first and foremost what you desire. What is your longing pointed toward? … What’s all it for?” (188). Brouwer, too, recounts a season late in his career when he wasn’t exactly unhappy—but neither was he fulfilled. A counselor presses him to look deeper: what was his ministry actually for?

In that sense, travel becomes formative. For Brouwer, it seems to cultivate humility and curiosity—virtues that sit comfortably alongside the Roots’ emphasis on uncontrollability and letting go.

The Roots also draw on Hartmut Rosa’s concept of resonance, and I couldn’t help but think Brouwer would intuitively understand it. His descriptions of awe—on mountaintops, at the edge of the Grand Canyon, in moments of beauty that resist explanation—read like lived experiences of resonance.

I suspect Brouwer would agree with the Roots’ assessment that

“Modernity offers a form of life that is tempted to see creatureliness as a problem that we can innovate ourselves out of if we just do the right [stuff]” (144).

While I found the Roots’ book more engaging and generative than Brouwer’s, both ultimately gesture toward the same truth: every journey—whether framed as pilgrimage or travel—can become an occasion for transformation, if we are willing to relinquish control and let ourselves be changed.

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A small hotel mishap reminded me how much loving our neighbor has less to do with better theology—and more to do with better rhythms. A thoughtful new book shows why context, not intention, often determines our capacity for kindness.

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A few weeks back, I traveled out of state for a conference and speaking engagement. As it happened, the hotel I stayed at the first night was the same hotel I’d be lodging in for the rest of the conference. The only difference was that the reservations were listed under two different names. After that first night, I fully packed my suitcase before realizing the mix-up.

The next morning, instead of checking out, I went downstairs and asked the front desk if they could simply adjust the upcoming reservation so I could stay in the same room.

No problem, they said.

Well—it turns out it was a problem.

When I returned later that afternoon, my room was in the middle of being cleaned, and both my suitcase and the groceries I’d bought from a nearby store were gone. I was disappointed about the food—my gummy bears were missing, along with some actually healthy fruits and vegetables—but more than anything, I was worried about my clothes.

Thankfully, it turned out to be a simple misunderstanding. The staff had assumed the room needed a full turnover rather than a standard daily cleaning. They had my suitcase, and to make things right, they gave me some money to replace the groceries—including, yes, gummy bears.

What surprised me most wasn’t the resolution—it was how apologetic they were, and how calm I was.

Maybe they assumed I was a big-shot business executive because I was wearing a blazer.

Or maybe they’re used to getting yelled at by frustrated guests.

Either way, I was surprised by my own patience and understanding.

Too often, in situations like this, I can feel intense frustration. Even when I’m not rude—I try very hard not to be—I can feel that internal seething. What struck me afterward was that, having just read Love Your Neighbor: How Psychology Can Enliven Faith and Transform Community by Katherine M. Douglass and Brittany M. Tausen, I had unintentionally put some of their insights into practice.

About the Book

From the book description:

The biblical call to “love your neighbor” echoes through centuries, yet remains one of Christianity’s most profound—and challenging—practices. In this innovative synthesis of practical theology and psychological science, professors Katherine M. Douglass and Brittany M. Tausen bring ancient wisdom from Scripture and cutting-edge research into a conversation that can revolutionize how you build meaningful connections.

Pulling from their respective areas of expertise, Douglass and Tausen illuminate the psychological pathways and spiritual practices that activate neighbor love. Through engaging stories and evidence-based insights, they reveal why human connection often falters—and provide actionable strategies to overcome these barriers.

In short, the book pairs psychological insight with biblical and theological grounding, aiming to help Christians actually practice what they claim to believe—like loving their neighbors.

Publisher Link

Why Context Matters More Than Intent

One example they highlight is the famous Good Samaritan study from 1973. Forty seminary students were set up to encounter a person in need. Beforehand, they were told they were either early, on time, or running late.

That variable alone made a massive difference in whether they stopped to help.

This line especially stood out to me:

“Just like we learned from the Good Samaritan psychology study, feeling frantic or like you don’t have enough time is likely to greatly reduce your support for others… To be a good neighbor, then, might not require a change of heart or theology, but rather a change of schedule” (27).

That sentence gets to the heart of the matter.

I grew up in Christian contexts that emphasized doing the right thing but gave far less attention to the structures that actually make doing the right thing possible. I’ve watched people genuinely want to become more Christlike without ever being equipped to understand what that looks like in real life.

For me, this book isn’t revelatory or groundbreaking—but it is an important reminder: living out our faith has less to do with strong theology alone and more to do with strong contexts. This isn’t to say theology doesn’t matter—of course it does.

But, if I want to be patient, kind, and generous, I need to build margin into my life—to not always feel rushed, pressed, or behind.

As an Enneagram 5, time is a core value for me. That means I have to be especially mindful not to overschedule myself (which makes me frantic) or feel like time is being wasted (which is why I bring a book almost everywhere).

This book is filled with insights like this—paired with theological grounding for why they matter—so that we can better practice what we preach and genuinely love our neighbors.

I’d recommend it.

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It’s one of the most compelling subplots of the crucifixion narrative: Peter’s denial of Jesus.

Only hours earlier, Jesus, Peter, and the other disciples had gathered for the Last Supper. In that intimate moment, Jesus warned:

“Simon, Simon, listen! Satan has demanded to sift all of you like wheat, but I have prayed for you that your own faith may not fail; and you, when once you have turned back, strengthen your brothers.”
— Luke 22:31–32 (NRSV)

Peter responded with bravado:

“Lord, I am ready to go with you to prison and to death!”
— Luke 22:33 (NRSV)

But Jesus answered,

“I tell you, Peter, the cock will not crow this day, until you have denied three times that you know me.”
— Luke 22:34 (NRSV)

And we know what happened next. Three denials.

“Woman, I do not know him.” (v. 57)
“Man, I am not.” (v. 58)
“Man, I do not know what you are talking about.” (v. 60)

Then comes the haunting moment:

“The Lord turned and looked straight at Peter. Then Peter remembered the word the Lord had spoken to him: ‘Before the rooster crows today, you will disown me three times.’ And he went outside and wept bitterly.”
— Luke 22:61–62

Peter, who had just professed undying loyalty, collapses in fear. He’s out of his element— a Galilean fisherman in the heart of Jerusalem, his accent and mannerisms marking him as an outsider. Surrounded by city dwellers who can immediately tell he doesn’t belong, his insecurity deepens. And so he does what many of us do when cornered: he lies, he denies, he hides.

Trauma and Regression

I recently came across this line from Bill and Kristi Gaultiere in Deeply Loved:

“Trauma and emotional wounds tend to self-perpetuate if they're not comforted and healed… As an adult, violations and emotional upsets may take you back [to an] immature identity, and regress to the insecure attachment... For instance, after denying… Jesus and experiencing the trauma of seeing [the crucifixion]… Peter went back to fishing and reverted to his old self, collapsing in shame and believing that he could never be a rock for Jesus.”
— Deeply Loved, p. 172

I’d never thought of Peter’s return to fishing as a trauma response, but it makes sense:

“Simon Peter, Thomas (also known as Didymus), Nathanael from Cana in Galilee, the sons of Zebedee, and two other disciples were together. ‘I’m going out to fish,’ Simon Peter told them, and they said, ‘We’ll go with you.’ So they went out and got into the boat, but that night they caught nothing.”
— John 21:2–3

Trauma drags us back into old identities. What felt safe before becomes our fallback — the familiar patterns, the places where we feel competent, even if they no longer serve us well. For Peter, that meant returning to nets and boats, slipping back into the life he once knew rather than facing the uncertainty of what to do next, even if Jesus had said multiple times he would be killed then rise again (see Matthew 16:21; Mark 8:31; Luke 9:22).

Sin, Trauma, and Accountability

This got me thinking: what exactly is sin? Peter’s denials were certainly sinful—but his collapse afterward, his shame, his return to fishing—I’m not sure I’d call those sin. Bill and Kristi Gaultiere describe these behaviors as trauma responses, and I’m working with that understanding as a starting point for reflection.

But if everything is just trauma, then we’re never really responsible for anything. We’re simply victims, never accountable. And yet Scripture insists on both: yes, we bear the consequences of others’ sin, but we also choose how we respond.

Moses put it plainly to Israel:

I call heaven and earth to witness against you today that I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Choose life so that you and your descendants may live. — Deuteronomy 30:19

Joshua echoed the same challenge:

Choose this day whom you will serve. — Joshua 24:15

James, centuries later, urged believers to

submit yourselves to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. Draw near to God, and he will draw near to you. — James 4:7–8

Each underscores that, even in the midst of brokenness, God places before us the responsibility and grace to respond.

Jesus puts it starkly:

“Enter through the narrow gate; for the gate is wide and the road is easy that leads to destruction, and there are many who take it. For the gate is narrow and the road is hard that leads to life, and there are few who find it.”
— Matthew 7:13–14 (NRSV)

The “narrow way” of healing and grace is hard, but essential. Neuroscience even affirms this — our brains form ruts and pathways that make destructive patterns easier to repeat. Yet neuroplasticity reminds us that change is possible. Theologically, that sounds a lot like Arminianism: humans can respond to God’s grace. This also highlights the distinction from Calvinism’s more rigid view of total depravity, where every action is tainted beyond repair and salvation is entirely predetermined. I see neuroplasticity as a modern analogy—though our brains may be trained into destructive ruts, change is possible, and grace gives us the freedom to walk a new path.

Grace Always Involves a Choice

For Peter, it looked like this:

“Again Jesus said, ‘Simon son of John, do you love me?’ He answered, ‘Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.’ Jesus said, ‘Take care of my sheep.’ The third time he said to him, ‘Simon son of John, do you love me?’ Peter was hurt because Jesus asked him the third time, ‘Do you love me?’ He said, ‘Lord, you know all things; you know that I love you.’ Jesus said, ‘Feed my sheep.’”
— John 21:16–17

Peter could have stayed in shame. But he chose grace. To refuse would have been another kind of sin.

Paul warns of what happens when we continually reject grace:

“Therefore God gave them over in the sinful desires of their hearts… They exchanged the truth about God for a lie, and worshiped and served created things rather than the Creator—who is forever praised. Amen.”
— Romans 1:24–25

And Pharaoh’s hardening of heart is another witness:

“But the Lord hardened Pharaoh’s heart, and he would not listen to Moses and Aaron, just as the Lord had said to Moses.”
— Exodus 9:12

Perhaps Scripture is describing what we now call brain science: repeated choices create hardened patterns. Refusing grace long enough makes it harder to say yes at all.

The Christian Response

So what’s left for us? Paul says it best:

“My friends, if anyone is detected in a transgression, you who have received the Spirit should restore such a one in a spirit of gentleness. Bear one another’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.”
— Galatians 6:1–2 (NRSV)

What people need in these moments is not condemnation but empathy. Healing begins when we can name our failures without being crushed by judgment.

But empathy doesn’t erase responsibility. Grace always involves a choice. And the good news is this: Jesus never abandons us in our collapse. He restores us to identity and vocation — the one who denies can still become the one called to feed the flock.

That’s forgiveness. Not erasing the sin, but transforming the trauma into a new future.

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Much of progressive Christianity has quietly replaced resurrection faith with optimism about human progress. Weeks like this expose how fragile that hope is. Drawing on Walter Brueggemann, I argue that resurrection is not about the church doing better—but about God acting decisively to create new futures, even in the midst of despair. Trusting the resurrection again isn’t naïve. It’s an act of resistance.

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A few months ago, while texting with a clergy friend about the constant pull between despair and hope, I admitted—somewhat sheepishly—

“Honestly, this may sound a little weird, but I’ve really begun to lean into actually believing in the resurrection of Jesus.”

That, I told them, was how I was resisting despair.

Now, to many Christians, that probably sounds either obvious or mildly absurd. Why would I not already trust in the resurrection of Jesus—the central confession of the Christian faith?

The answer, I think, has to do with formation.

I’ve spent much of my adult life shaped by liberal, Mainline, and progressive Christianity writ large—traditions I still care deeply about and remain part of. But within those spaces, hope is often framed less around God’s decisive action and more around our own moral progress, our capacity for reform, or our own ability to “bend the arc” toward justice. Faith, subtly but persistently, becomes dependent on optimism and human effort—on believing that people, systems, and institutions will eventually do the right thing.

The problem is that weeks like this crush that kind of hope.

We just passed another anniversary of January 6th, accompanied by the White House offering a completely distorted retelling of what was, by any honest account, an attempted coup—an effort to overturn a free and fair election, led by or at least affiliated with the then and now president of the United States.

Then there was public talk of using military force to invade Greenland, with little regard for how such an action would implode NATO and unravel nearly eighty years of postwar global order.

And then came the news that ICE killed a woman in Minneapolis. The administration quickly labeled it “domestic terrorism,” claiming the victim had “weaponized her vehicle”—assertions that, on their face, seem preposterous. Rather than restraint, the response appeared to be a doubling down, a demand for submission in the face of public outcry.

It’s heavy.

Even before the Minneapolis story broke, I found myself calling my GOP congressman and saying, “I can’t believe I’m having to say this, but I’d like to leave a message asking that we not to invade Greenland.” And, I began to spiral, at least for a few moments.

I recently re-read Walter Brueggemann’s The Prophetic Imagination, and one of his claims has continued to rattle around in my brain.

Brueggemann insists that the resurrection of Jesus must not be understood as a spiritual or moral development within the church. Resurrection, he argues, is not about people finally behaving better, or communities summoning new resolve.

Resurrection is God’s action.

“The resurrection can only be received and affirmed and celebrated as the new action of God, whose province it is to create new futures for people and to let them be amazed in the midst of despair” (112).

And again:

“The resurrection of Jesus is not to be understood in good liberal fashion as a spiritual development in the church” (113).

That distinction matters.

Because if the resurrection of Jesus was simply meant to be a morality tale about human progress, institutional resilience, or moral momentum, then weeks like this would leave us with very little hope at all.

But if the resurrection of Jesus really happened—and if it is something God does, not something we’re meant to replicate through human action—then it opens up a different horizon entirely.

It means God can create new futures even when history appears closed.
Even when systems are violent.
Even when despair feels not just understandable, but rational.

Brueggemann goes so far as to say that resurrection faith allows us to be “amazed in the midst of despair.”

Not because despair isn’t real.
Not because injustice isn’t dangerous.
But because despair does not get the final word.

And best of all, it changes our role. Rather than straining under our own human efforts and limitations, we then can simply bear witness to the reality that the same power that brought Jesus back from the dead will one day transform our broken planet.

I was reminded of something similar in a book I recently finished by . She writes, “Every time we pray the Lord’s Prayer—‘Your kingdom come, your will be done’—we’re praying for the end of America and every other national entity on earth. God’s kingdom is the only one that will last” (127).

That line startled me—not because it felt extreme, but because it felt honest. Resurrection faith necessarily relativizes every nation, every empire, every political project. If God is the one who raises the dead and brings new futures into being, then no regime, no ideology, and no historical moment gets to claim ultimacy.

As the character Eleanor Shellstrop from The Good Place might say— “ICE, ya basic.”

Resurrection refuses to let any present order—however powerful—define what is finally possible. I ran into this idea again while finishing Every Valley by Charles King, a book about George Frideric Handel and the people who shaped Messiah. King—who I’m not sure is a person of faith—closes the book with these lines:

“Be not afraid. Dwell among your fears and enemies long enough for them to lose their sting. Take captivity captive. Precisely at the point when all seems lost, rejoice greatly. Arise—and then shine” (257).

And later:

“The things we live through are part of figuring out what we live for” (257).

King suggests that it’s the beauty of Messiah itself—its music, its artistry—that leaves such a lasting impact. Maybe. But I think he misses something deeper.

What continues to grip people is not simply the beauty of the work, but the story it tells—the story of resurrection.

Because resurrection faith isn’t optimism.
It isn’t denial.
And it isn’t the church congratulating itself.

Resurrection faith is a stubborn trust that God is still acting in the world—creating life where we see only endings.

And in weeks like this, that kind of faith isn’t naïve.

It’s resistance.

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I read about 75 books this year, and rather than a generic “Top 10,” these are the books that most shaped how I thought this year—about calling, culture, the church, leadership, and faithfulness in unsettled times. Some affirmed instincts I already had. Others complicated them. A few unsettled me in necessary ways. All recommend for different reasons.

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Listed in alphabetical order.

Don’t Let Nobody Turn You Around: How the Black Church’s Public Witness Leads Us out of the Culture War — Justin Giboney

The book that hit me the hardest this year—for its critique of both the left and the right, and for how it humbled me by attending to the testimony and moral imagination of the Black Church.

About the book:
Giboney draws on the Black Church’s social action tradition to offer a vision of Christian public witness rooted in faith, justice, and moral clarity rather than reactionary politics. Using the spiritual “Don’t Let Nobody Turn You Around” as a guiding image, he shows how the Black Church has historically held together orthodoxy and orthopraxy—conviction and action—and invites Christians today into a faithful engagement with the public square that rises above the culture wars without surrendering moral commitments.

Forming Communities of Hope in the Great Unraveling — Alan Roxburgh & Matthew Searle

A book I’ve recommended so often the authors probably owe me royalties! One of the authors also told me I was one of the few reviewers who “got” the book, so you’re welcome!

About the book:
Written for leaders navigating disorientation and decline, this book argues that the church’s task in a season of unraveling is not to fix itself through strategy, but to return to faithful practices rooted in Scripture and tradition. Roxburgh and Searle invite leaders into patient attentiveness, communal discernment, and hope shaped by God’s ongoing work rather than institutional anxiety.

Funding Forward: A Pathway to More Sustainable Models for Ministry — Grace Duddy Pomroy

The best book I read this year on church funding and sustainability—an increasingly important topic. (Until next year… HINT…!!!)

About the book:
Pomroy argues that many churches struggle financially not simply because of declining giving, but because of a lack of mission clarity and connection to their communities. Rather than offering a single funding formula, she presents a discernment-based approach to sustainability, exploring tools such as social enterprise, property repurposing, grants, and multi-vocational ministry. The book insists that economic models must emerge from a congregation’s particular mission and context.

Healthy Calling: From Toxic Burnout to Sustainable Work — Arianna Molloy

A book I found incredibly helpful when thinking about my own calling and career.

About the book:
Research shows that people with a strong sense of calling are often deeply motivated and resilient—but also uniquely vulnerable to burnout. Molloy explores how passion without boundaries can lead to exhaustion and argues for a sustainable vision of vocation rooted in humility, rest, and self-awareness, helping readers pursue meaningful work without sacrificing their health or faith.

How to Reach the West — Timothy Keller

Perhaps my most controversial “like” this year. I don’t agree with all of Keller’s theological perspectives, but his cultural critique seems increasingly prudent.

About the book:
Keller argues that Christianity’s decline in the West should prompt a fundamental rethinking of evangelism rather than panic or retrenchment. Drawing on the early church, he invites Christians to examine themselves, their cultural context, and Scripture in order to engage secular society in ways that make the gospel both credible and compelling—without simple accommodation.

Knock at the Sky —

A book I didn’t agree with at every turn, but one of the most imaginative and beautifully written theological works I read this year. Grant is such a talented writer!

About the book:
Grant offers a lyrical engagement with Genesis for readers navigating faith after inerrancy or deconstruction. Drawing on nature, Jewish midrash, and art criticism, she invites readers to encounter Scripture as sacred art rather than a weapon in the culture wars, offering a spacious and creative model for seeking God through Scripture as faith continues to evolve.

The Church in Dark Times —

A sobering and necessary book that reminded me of our temptation to align with ideology and power, even within the church.

About the book:
Drawing on Hannah Arendt’s concept of the “banality of evil,” Cosper examines how harm in churches often emerges not from obvious malice, but from thoughtlessness, misplaced loyalty, and good intentions gone unchecked. Focusing on abuse and institutional failure, he names the subtle dynamics that allow corruption to persist and calls churches toward practices of truth-telling, repentance, and renewal.

The Church Must Grow or Perish — Mark Mulder &

The best book written by sociologists I read this year—it helped me understand how one ministry model reshaped the American church (for better and for worse).

About the book:
Mulder and Martí trace the life, theology, and ministry strategy of Robert H. Schuller—showing how his “church must grow” conviction helped generate a business- and media-shaped model of church: entrepreneurial leadership, marketing instincts, and the borrowing of best practices from big business and entertainment. The book explores Schuller’s massive influence on American Christianity and why his model was both celebrated and criticized, especially as the Crystal Cathedral story unfolded.

Unlocking Mission and Eschatology in Youth Ministry — Andrew Root

My favorite Andrew Root book of the four I read this year. Thanks Andy Beck for sending me this!!!!

About the book:
Root argues that youth ministry should help young people see themselves as participants in God’s ongoing action in the world. By connecting mission with eschatology, he reframes faithful service in the present as a sign of the future God is bringing about in Christ, resisting both pragmatic program-building and despair.

Walking with God Through the Valley: Recovering the Practice of Lament — May Young

A DEEPLY important book for this moment, especially given how underutilized biblical lament has become in many churches. Lament is resistance! Lament is to trust in God.

About the book:
Young argues that lament is not a marginal or optional practice, but a central biblical form that has shaped God’s people across Scripture. Drawing from texts such as the Psalms, Habakkuk, and Lamentations, she shows how lament allows individuals and communities to name pain honestly before God without rushing toward resolution, opening space for renewed hope grounded in the biblical witness.

Personal Bonus Picks

Braving Difficult Decisions: What to Do When You Don’t Know What to Do — Angela Williams Gorrell

A book that spoke to me SO POWERFULLY while I was braving some difficult decisions of my own.

About the book:
Gorrell offers a thoughtful blend of spiritual insight and practical wisdom for navigating uncertainty and transition, inviting readers into a repeatable process of discernment marked by trust, curiosity, and attentiveness to God and others.

The Fearless Christian University —

The first author I’ve been able to interview in my home studio. Plus, he lives nearby so we get coffee together on occasion!

About the book:
Hawthorne critiques how fear has come to define much of Christian higher education and offers a bold alternative: institutions confident enough to center student questions, pursue meaningful research, and engage culture without defensiveness.

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Bonus Bonus: Podcast episodes with the authors:

And hopefully some more yet to come!