I am most thankful for the one-on-one mentoring I received. In these spaces, we were able to talk through nuance and implications, wrestling through the HOW to live into this newly discovered faith of mine. Of course, we all grow and change. Our beliefs change. Most often, the way we hold our beliefs change even more than the beliefs themselves. Our understandings deepen and evolve over time. So even the bits that I see differently today, I still feel deeply grateful for the souls that cared enough to give me what they had to eat.

Where I have grief and sadness is regarding all that I wasn’t taught. Most churches I have been a part of over the years, teach a very specific, predefined way of believing. I think this is with the best intentions, of course. The pastors and leaders believe a certain way, so in their definition of discipleship, they want to teach what they believe to be true. We can all understand this. But at this point in my life, I genuinely question this method of discipleship. It feels like herding cattle into a particular lane, handing people an already clarified doctrine and practice, without teaching them how to think for themselves. Accompanying this theology is often a clear belief that others who think differently are wrong, and we are right. This instilled a collection of unspoken and unhealthy narratives, such as us vs. them mindsets, elitist ideologies, and a quiet fear about ever challenging the boundaries. This, my dear friends, is the unintentional water I drank. And it took quite a bit of time to undo its damage. I would add that this immature narrow mindedness is the root system of much of the Christian division we are suffering from today.

I was never taught that there were other very valid, scripturally grounded theologies that existed. Therefore, I was not taught to have respect for other beliefs, and to graciously, humbly learn from them. I was only taught to repel them, to judge and to fear them, as if I could accidentally catch the cooties from those who thought differently. And this is a tragedy. I was certainly never encouraged to try to understand those differing theologies. Instead, I was assured that we had it right and that other Christians who believed differently were wrong, and in some cases not even saved.

It didn’t take long for me to recognize this problem intellectually. But untangling the right-versus-wrong elitist posture took considerably longer to unravel in my subconscious. Learning to work through my own beliefs without automatically dismissing others as wrong, or even worse… deceived, was a muscle that needed time and intentional effort to develop.

What would have happened if, from the beginning, we had been taught the full landscape of Christian theology? I know that most people will think this is just for seminary, not for churches. Charismatic churches specifically would likely not consider this as a wise idea. But I would like to suggest that this is one of our core failures.

Why, per se, would we not teach that there are different views on heaven, hell, and salvation that are scripturally grounded and equally valid? We could still explain why this one particular belief is what our church holds and why, while holding the other beliefs with respect. Why are we not given the trust to hold the power we need to study the various perspectives on money, sexuality, and spiritual gifts; to understand the many debates around penal substitutionary atonement versus Christus Victor, of women in leadership, the role of Mary, tongues, physical healing, poetry and literalism, myth versus history, biblical inerrancy vs infallibility or Neo-Orthodoxy, classic evangelicalism vs liberation theology, and more? Why do we not trust young believers with the ability to hold theological diversity with equal curiosity and respect?

This is a leadership conversation. I would propose that when leadership takes a controlling stance, similar to helicopter parenting, in fear that the sheep are to be protected from other beliefs, is a form of leadership that hinders growth, disempowering people in dangerous ways and causing many serious problems down the road.

How can we disciple others in a way that invites questions and exploration, rather than dismissing beliefs different from our own?

How might we help young believers understand the range of biblical interpretation with curiosity and humility, rather than instilling fear of diversity?

How can we teach people to think for themselves and develop their own thoughtful conclusions, while still respecting the truths we share?

We are not saved by our perfect theology. We are saved by Christ alone. Plus, I think it’s fair to say that NO ONE HAS perfect theology.

My beliefs today look very different from what they were ten years ago... and ten years before that, they were different still. We grow. We change. We evolve. And the posture we cultivate early in our faith toward theological difference should be one of humility, respect, and a genuine delight in the journey of exploration.

Whether this narrow approach to formation is driven by a desire for control or fear, or both, I honestly do not know. What I do believe is that it wounds the body of Christ, creating serious character problems in pride, judgment, and division. And does not guide people toward a genuine maturity in faith.

If you find yourself shaped by this kind of theological protectionism, the path forward isn’t to abandon your convictions; it’s to hold them more openly. Consider reading widely across traditions: pick up a theologian you’ve been told to distrust. Sit with a viewpoint before deciding it’s wrong. Practice the discipline of openly considering a position you have previously disagreed with.

Trying your best to understand other viewpoints on their own terms, before critiquing them, is a practice that will genuinely make you a better human, and in my perspective, it will help you become more like Christ..

Jesus demonstrates this kind of leadership through his relentless devotion to asking questions (rather than always giving answers). He often taught through parables. He had an artistic, demonstrative way of guiding the heart through exploration versus a three point sermon. He masterfully demonstrated Isaiah 1:18 - “Come now, and let us reason together, saith the LORD.”

I propose that the approach of “here is what we believe, now believe it” could be replaced with guided exploration: teaching people the tools of biblical interpretation, the history of Christian thought, and the humility to say, “I could be wrong about this.”

Certainty about one’s theological tribe is not the same as spiritual maturity. In fact, the capacity to hold questions well... to remain curious, generous, and unafraid... may be one of the truest marks of a faith that has actually grown up.

I didn’t really expect an answer. I was just pondering my emotional state through my cramping hand. But instantly, there it was. His quietly tickling movement through my body as I wrote the word, “certainty.” Dang. It’s true. I’ve lost my certainty. That whole darn ball of string that seemed nice and neat and tidy, just began to unravel several years ago. I remember pulling on some of those individual strings over the years; arrogant assurance was a big one. Then there was over-confident self righteousness. That one was painful. Blind-folded certainty with a good dose of us vs. them was there too. One after the other I pulled and questioned, and inevitably tossed aside these unhelpful religious ideas. Somewhere along the way the whole dang ball was just gone. Now it’s just a gaping, open space inside of me that sometimes aches for what was. But on most days I’ve grown quite fond of sitting awkwardly in silence with the beauty of Mystery Himself. So I’m leaving that cavernous space within me empty for as long as I possibly can. I refuse to fill it with new theologies that offer new certainties. That seems a bit counterintuitive. I’d much rather give Mystery as much elbow room as He needs.

The multitude of unanswered questions taking up residency within me have become my friends. Every time a new question knocks at the door I’ve just been inviting them in for some tea. We are all quite content without answers, so please don’t worry about us. The compassion around this table is quite stunning.

In our modern western mindset, we would instinctively hear the phrase, “The word of the Lord came to [someone] saying…” and think of it the same way we do any other conversation between two people. One person speaks, then the words travel to the ears of the other person. But in Hebrew, that is not what is being described. The word translated as “came” (hayah) is not a verb of motion. The verb used in this sentence is actually the verb “to be, to become, to happen, to exist.” It’s the same root that underlies the divine name YHWH itself (”I AM WHO I AM”).

This phrase is not describing communication that is traveling from God’s mouth to the prophets ear. It doesn’t paint the picture of dispatch-and-delivery. This appears to be an intentional move, because the Hebrew language has plenty of verbs that could be used to communicate motion, and none of them were chosen.

What the prophets seem to be trying to describe is that the word of the Lord somehow became. The English language fails tragically here. The closest I can come would be this: “And the word of the Lord became a Living Presence to me, saying….”

And that, my friends, is worth contemplating. What did the prophets experience that caused them to use this specific language again and again?

How does this awaken your curiosity about the way God communicates?

(Part two to this article is coming soon!)

I’ve pondered this moment quite a bit over the last few weeks, because it demonstrates just how easy it would be to presume that first voice was God. Especially because flattery always feels good. We all need to have a sense of significance in the world, so the voice of flattery can hit deep.

How many people have had experiences they presumed were from God, but weren’t? I’m certain it’s happened to me. I honestly think it’s fairly easy to mistake other voices for God’s. But we can’t let this cause anxiety — His mercy is so much greater than our ability to discern Him perfectly at all times.

I normally wouldn’t share a story like this, but these days I feel it’s becoming increasingly important to talk about. There are a multitude of voices out there — in the world, in the spirit, within my own soul — and growing in discernment is our constant invitation.

If this conversation interests you, feel free to visit www.reframingtheprophetic.com and check out the open Reframing Discernment cohort now available. It’s one of the most valuable courses we’ve built. (Reframing is a sister ministry to MESH.)

On those rare occasions I have engaged in the late night death-bed conversations with friends who ask the hard questions, the words that escape my lips are always the same. My mind inevitably drifts to this artistic strand within my DNA that has been neglected, ignored and denied it’s day in the sun.

I could have been a writer. (Or a ballet dancer, but that’s a different post).

The writer in me still has legs, so that’s where I’m walking.

As I’ve reflected over my artistic journey, I’ve had to grieve and reconcile many things… all of them connected to the path that I have actually lived. Through the grief, I have been awakened to new understanding of how it’s all woven together.

I have worked with countless prophetic people over the years. Truly gifted, wild and untamed prophetic folks. The ones that wouldn’t have any desire to stand on a stage, working a crowd. I’m talking about the ones who walk around weeping while seeing the unseen. As I’ve listened to dozens of artists speak of their creative process over the last few years I’ve been undone by one single truth; We’re talking about the same thing. My experience with the prophetic is the SAME as their experience with the creative gift boiling within. My process with the prophetic mirrors their process with creativity. I’ve been sitting in this revelation letting it have it’s way with me for the last couple of years, with very little conclusions drawn. I’m simply soaking in these waters, knowing it’s reframing the essence of who I am.

In my book Reframing the Prophetic, there’s a whole chapter on the prophetic and the arts. Every prophet in scripture is an artist. This was my favorite chapter to write, and it has remained my favorite conversation for the last ten years. I am compelled down this road by a holy river that I cannot escape, holding within my vision a constant searching for the called prophets of the next generation. I do believe they are artists.

Creativity is the only language that will breakthrough this divisive season several nations are captured by. In my nation it feels like the real, thick miry-clay-up-to-our-knees kind of stuck in the amygdala hijack. Common, western speak is crumbling in uselessness around us. The polarizing speech of hatred has taken possession of our social underbelly and the only way out is the language of the arts. The kind of language that somehow rips through a storm, while calming the waters at the same time, just like the true prophets of scripture.

So here is my beginning. Here is my initial, unfiltered beginning…

The prophetic has been my art, and my art has been the prophetic grace that has flowed through me. I know this may sound strange. Depending on your relationship with the word “art,” and your relationship with the word “prophetic” it could actually sound sacrilegious. Some will hear this as elevating art to a sacred status, or even putting art in a tiny religious box that limits its freedom of expression. Others will hear it as domesticating prophecy… making it too aesthetic, too human. Both of these responses quickly dismiss a much deeper, much needed exploration. One that refuses to settle for a shallow, defended position, but aims instead to dive deeply into this mysterious, even mystical conversation. I believe the church, and the world for that matter, are actually destitute without the reunification of art and the prophetic in a very real and tangible way. For they were never meant to be severed.

Most charismatic prophetic frameworks treat prophecy as content delivery… a definitive message that comes through a singular person in a definitive moment. This isn’t altogether incorrect, but it does collapse the prophetic we see played out in scripture into just the shoreline, ignoring the ocean beyond. It’s vital that we have the expansive conversations around the experience of the creative, embodied expression of the prophetic, that is rooted in artistic DNA.

My prayer for all of us, is that we would learn to search for the voice of God outside of the four walls of traditional church. That we would have eyes and see and ears to hear the voice of God through the artists….

“In the beginning, there was chaos. This is a tremendously encouraging‬ thought. What if chaos often marks beginnings? We read in Genesis 1:2 that‬ the earth was formless and void, there was darkness over the surface of the‬ deep, and the Spirit of the Lord was hovering over it all. God saw the raw‬ materials of darkness and deep formlessness and was inspired to paint, mold,‬ craft, and create. Was it stormy? Were those waters stirred and raging, or were‬ they dancing in anticipation? What‬‭ is‬‭ the darkness‬‭ over the deep, and for that‬ matter, what is the deep to which these words refer? This stunning poetic‬ language leaves much to our imagination, which is really the point of poetry.‬ Something existed before God brought order, and it was rather‬ chaotic—much like my interior and exterior landscape feels some days. If you‬ can relate, we can both breathe a sigh of relief knowing that the Holy Spirit is‬ hovering. He seems to be attracted to chaos, which makes me think He’s‬ seeing something worthy, and even beautiful, woven through it all.” - (excerpt from “About the Voice of God” https://a.co/d/0hbAc42P)

Resting them on whatever is near by, no matter what it is, as long as it offers strength, support or comfort, is a kindness the world offers.

When I remember to open my eyes and look for the kindnesses, my heart stays warm and welcoming for whatever comes.

When I awaken to the kindnesses surrounding me, I can more joyfully be with what is.

Today a long haired German youngster sat next to me on a very long, cramped flight. As he bowed his head and blessed the chemical infused meal given us, I paused too, and remembered the kindnesses once again. He was a kindness to me in that moment, as his whole being pointed toward the sacred.

Kindnesses are everywhere, if we have eyes to see. Gentle smiles, a place to rest tired feet, a soft chair that hugs my bum just at the moment I’m too tired to think one more thought.

So rest your heads today, my friends, on the kindnesses that surround us.

And when you do, as I know you will, your soul will come in from the cold, and become as gooey as a marshmallow in hot chocolate.

That’s what kindnesses do.

I feel like gravity has doubled overnight, and somehow I’m worn so thin I could be knocked down by a sneeze. Yet, here I am... coffee in hand, coaxing my over-stimulated body to rest in my cozy reading nook.

I’ve never been to a New Wine Conference. I’ve heard about them for years though. They are some of the longest-running Christian festivals and conferences throughout the UK and Europe, birthed from John Wimber’s DNA in the early days of the Charismatic renewal. Their culture felt very familiar to me, like hanging with my favorite cousins. Their love for the Holy Spirit, their honor for the big-C Church, and their commitment to humility helped my soul rest in their presence.

The presence of God was tangible in a very unique way. This is the part I always find hard to describe. When you feel like something has just changed an ordinary room full of ordinary people doing ordinary things into something very holy — you pay attention. You open your heart, mind, and soul to simply receive His embrace, and ask questions later.

Every nation is in a different season. God is doing different things in various parts of the world. In Sweden, where the earth has been so dry and cracked for decades, the rains have come and the ground is drinking itself whole again. Youth are pouring into churches uninvited. Stories of miraculous healings are everywhere. Revival is in the air. In every gathering we had, it was as though the presence of God was already there before we began, and he was just patiently waiting for us to turn our faces toward Him so He could wash over us with His love.

“Those who have been in darkness are seeing a great light.”

This is the phrase that kept rumbling in my soul for the people of Sweden. Hope is in the air in this nation, and it jolted something awake within me... that I desperately needed to awaken. I’m so very grateful.

I’m happy to be home. But I am adjusting to the climate of my own nation. I feel like I’m sitting in a small boat in a lock, as the water level adjusts. I will joyfully receive the season the US is currently in with God. I will honor every season with the same open heart, regardless of what He brings. But I’m so very thankful to have tasted the rain.

Even when our creation simply names what we see parading before us in the present moment, we believe it needs to be named — to put a stake in the ground, memorializing it for those who will walk the earth in years to come.

As we create, something deep within us believes that someone, somewhere, sometime will hold what we’ve made and feel deeply seen and known.

This is why art does not exist without hope. Even a desperate hope, a grieving hope, a shattered hope... still there is a longing to give voice to what is bellowing within us, for a people we do not know, living in a time not yet arrived. This requires hope that the world will go on, and that someone will have ears to hear.

In so doing, we make a promise to ourselves: to keep believing that tomorrow exists. That this world will continue. That this thing brewing within me matters... that it has something to speak into whatever this world will become.

This is the covenant of hope within the artistic process. And it extends beyond art... to leadership, to church planting, to building a business, to any expression of gift and calling.

As we give expression to what is within us, we hold hands with the future.

This is faith.

And it’s why I believe all creativity is spiritual, in one way or another.

When God says, “I will be with you,” that promise has never been exclusive. His withness has never belonged only to Jews or Gentiles, Catholics or Pentecostals, Israelites or Arabs, the political right or left, the West or the East. He is not more with my church than with another.

As I write this, I’m certainly not standing on my holy hill, as if I had this love of the other nailed down. In fact, I’m writing this from a place of need. I’ve been sensing the invitation to contemplate the withness of God, specifically for those I disagree with. As my eyes roll, and my heart judges those who are in the “other” camps, I’ve been attempting to picture God with them. Not necessarily in agreement with them, nor with me. I’m under no illusion that God is on my side. He cannot be recruited into our agendas or reduced to our talking points. He refuses to be contained within our partisan lines or ideological camps. And He’s certainly not a mascot for our movements or a tool for our narratives.

So when I say “with” I mean in the deepest, most important sense of the word. God’s presence (”with us”) signifies nearness, companionship, and grace extended amid the messiness of humanity, while agreement or approval implies endorsement of our actions or beliefs. Presence is relational and unconditional in its offer; it’s God drawing close as seen when Jesus ate with tax collectors and sinners, not to affirm their exploitation but to invite repentance: “I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance” (Luke 5:32).

So, back to my eye-rolling judgment. With God’s approval or agreement off the table, it helps me to remember that His withness is for everyone.

He was with Hagar, an Egyptian slave who declared, “You are the God who sees me.”
He was with a fugitive murderer at a burning bush.
He was with Rahab—a Canaanite and a prostitute, an enemy of Israel—who became part of Jesus’ lineage.
He was with Gideon and Thomas in their doubt.
He was with Ruth, a Moabite from a people Israel despised.
He was with Cornelius, a Gentile soldier, and his entire household.
He was with the Samaritan woman at the well, from a people the Jews avoided.
And Paul told pagan Athenians that God was not far from any one of them.

The “us” in God with us is far wider than we have dared to believe. If I can be aware of His withness with me in my mess, then I must learn to be aware of His withness amongst whoever I’m tempted to “other.”

So perhaps the question is not, “Who is included in the us?”
But whether we are willing to see just how expansive God’s presence has always been.

The Psalms are almost entirely emotional expression... lament, rage, despair, joy. Jesus wept. He was “troubled in spirit.” He expressed grief, anger, and anguish. The prophets regularly shared their emotional experiences without discounting them as lies.

What is true, though, is that we often build a story around our emotions, and this is where things can get wonky. We feel, then we narrate. We feel, then we give those emotions meaning, and often the meaning we apply is untrue, or at least not the most important truth. For example, a person with high anxiety genuinely feels terror. That feeling is real and honest. But the perceived threat may not match reality. The emotion isn’t lying; it’s reporting faithfully from a nervous system that may be miscalibrated, and it’s important to listen in order to heal.

Why this differentiation is vitally important is that the oversimplification of “your emotions lie to you” actually teaches us to distrust our emotions. This teaching will, at its core, keep you emotionally immature, and at its worst, it can be dangerous.

Learning to truly listen to our emotions, digging down deeply beneath them to unearth the true message they bring, is how we grow. And when we lose access to that inner signal, we become easier to deceive… cut off from the very instincts that would tell us something is wrong. Teaching people to distrust their emotions can strip their power and make them vulnerable to manipulation, gaslighting, and abuse.

Understanding yourself is one of the most important journeys of your life. Learning to listen to your emotions, and listen deeply, isn’t a departure from spiritual maturity; it’s a path toward it.

Emotions are part of the imago Dei... being made in God’s image includes our emotional nature. Distrusting emotions can inadvertently become distrusting how we were marvelously and beautifully made.

I can’t stop staring at this picture. It’s the stunning image captured by Artemis II. The peace that is visible from a distance has me undone.

From this vantage point, it’s almost as if there is no war, no politics, no hatred, disease, or destruction. Somehow, looking at this picture, it’s easy to see that we are ONE. Humanity is all connected. Actually, scientifically speaking, all living things are connected. On a biological level, we share the same molecular machinery. Every living thing on Earth, from bacteria to blue whales, uses the same genetic code. Life doesn’t own matter… it borrows it and passes it on. In this sense, all life is one continuous metabolic process, reshuffling the same atoms. On many levels, we are ONE. But since that’s the end of my scientific knowledge, my mind drifts towards the Church. Of course, our scientific, physical connectedness is categorically different from the spiritual unity we are specifically and uniquely given in Christ — but the visual was helpful for me.

I have been gazing at the picture above side by side with this one:

This woman. I want to know who she is. Is this her home that has been destroyed? What is she looking for in the rubble? What has she lost? What was she doing when the bombs dropped?

The contrast from the macro to the micro point of view has been like a teeter-totter in my mind and heart for weeks.

In this passage from Ephesians 4:1–6 (emphasis added), I’m struck afresh by the word “preserve.”

“Therefore I, the prisoner of the Lord, implore you to walk in a manner worthy of the calling with which you have been called, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, showing tolerance for one another in love, being diligent to preserve the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.”

We are being asked to preserve what already exists. To maintain the oneness that has been given to us in Christ. We are IN HIM, together… somehow beautifully ONE in Him.

Yes, I understand that we have a part to play, but there is a unity that already exists IN CHRIST, and I desperately need to connect to this reality, or I lose the plot. I am somehow already unified with millions of people all over the world, ones I will never meet. This is the living organism that is the spiritual Church. When I close my eyes, I sense this stunning, mystical, spiritual Body of Christ… the living organism that is already one in Christ Jesus. I can feel her in my bones. In her essence, she exists to glorify God and enjoy Him forever, and to reflect the image of Christ to a hurting world.

I know we are mostly messing this up. I have been lost in grief for weeks now, over how we have been doing quite the opposite of revealing the love of Christ. But remembering the view from space and holding onto its truth gives me the hope I need to sit in the rubble of our often destructive and tragic reality.

This is what it means to hold a prophetic hope. This is what it means to live into a oneness that one day will be fully revealed to us all, and not just mystically sensed.

To sit in the rubble with hope, we must remember the view from space.

The news carries the weight of wars… cities reduced to rubble, children displaced, bodies counted in the thousands. And closer to home, many of us carry a quieter grief: the Church, the one we love and uphold, has repeatedly been confronted with scandal, division, and toxicity.

We come to the cross, then, not as strangers to suffering, but as people deeply wrestling with darkness.

And perhaps that is exactly where Good Friday meets us.

This is the strange mercy we find on this Good Friday.

It does not offer us an escape from darkness. It offers us a God who has been in the darkness and knows the way through it.

So on this Good Friday, may we sit before the cross as our seat of counsel. Isaiah promised a Wonderful Counselor, and here, in the One Who Bled, that promise is most fully kept. Before the cross there are no debates, no divisions, no shallow answers. Only Him.

The One who was rich, yet became poor. The One who clothed Himself with our humanity and dignified it forever. His humility is staggering. He brought dignity to women in a culture that refused to honor them as fully human. He held the leper in his arms. He restores those who deny Him and reveals Himself to those who doubt Him. He honors the lowly and humbles the proud. And He loves without limit or boundary.

As we observe Him, may we become like Him.

The cross does not stand apart from the mess of this world. It stands inside it… as God’s answer from within.

As we hold in remembrance the One Who Bled, as we gaze upon Jesus on the cross of suffering, may we learn not to be afraid of the darkness, but to meet Him within it.

We are not yet at Sunday.

But we are not alone in the dark.

I mean, really — can it?

The question almost feels offensive in the face of war, doesn’t it?

What about famine, or the shadow of death? What about our own catastrophic mess?

Does beauty still matter when things are broken?

When the road beneath you turns to mud? 

What about then?

What can beauty possibly do in a world so polarized, fear and division fills the air we breathe?

I am sometimes assured that poetry can part the veil of heaven,

That a painting can prophesy more clearly than all of our spiritual gymnastics. 

That nature has more to teach than any sermon or sanctuary.

I’m mostly convinced that the sound of one harmonizing with sirens, 

Or the ballet dancer twirling in the rubble, 

Or children's laughter among the displaced and forgotten, 

Or love in the midst of hatred….  

Can truly save the world. 

But sometimes, I forget.. 

What I am certain of, is that the gasp that escapes us at the ocean’s edge, or the flare of hope ignited by a symphony’s first note,

Is nothing less than God Himself waving wildly, reminding us He is near.

Yes, I am nearly, fully assured that beauty can save the world.

Ask me tomorrow, and I will be utterly convinced.

Five-year-olds are drawn to stories with clear heroes and villains. They need the stories that have clear delineation between the good guys and the bad guys. Their brains cannot handle nuance, and we all understand this. So we write children’s books with overly simplistic narratives, neatly dividing everything into two piles: good and bad, right and wrong.

By around age fifteen, however, we begin to see the world’s contradictions. Teenagers notice the hypocrisies and tensions but don’t yet know how to hold them. In response, they often swing toward relativism, rejecting the idea of truth altogether and deciding that everyone’s a hypocrite, everyone’s a liar, and there is nothing good. They lean impulsively toward a narrative that smells of a youthful nihilism.

With maturity, though, comes a deeper understanding. We start to recognize the world’s complexity and imperfections, yet we are able to hold our core convictions, even if we wobble at first. With maturity, we learn the ability to sit within the tensions, see many truths at once, feel many realities simultaneously, and trust in the stable root system that holds us in place.

Here’s the thing. In the midst of stress, people often revert to that five-year-old perspective. It’s quite common. For those who are in a teenager stage of growth (literally or symbolically), they will quickly revert to the needs and impulses of the 5-year-old storylines. Even those who are farther down the road in their growth to maturity, but have shallow roots, will also find themselves sliding back into overly simplistic, binary narratives in order to feel in control.

Some leaders recognize this and actually use this to their benefit. I’ve seen church leaders use this tactic, as well as political leaders. They know that a simple “good versus bad” story in the midst of heightened stress will appeal to a massive audience. Even those who normally see the world with nuance can find themselves sliding back to that binary mindset in high stress. That’s why we’re seeing, even among many Christian leaders (and, of course, our political leaders), a return to overly simplistic, black-and-white narratives. Whether it’s their immature leadership or an intentional manipulation tactic, we cannot truthfully tell, but we do need to see this form of leadership for what it is. It’s dangerous, unhelpful, immature, and rather toxic.

Leadership is storytelling. Healthy leadership will paint the kind of story that helps people frame their experience within a larger, holistic narrative. They will trust the people to rise up into more mature ways of seeing and thinking when given the opportunity. Mature, humble leadership will cast vision with the kind of stories that remind us of our humanity… the kind of humanity that reflects the image of God. This kind of leadership will call us into open and breathable spaces; it will not try to control how people think. It will not try to shove everyone into a binary, 5-year-old perspective. It will not have a manipulative spirit containing a personal agenda.

We have all been living in a high-stress environment since the global pandemic. I’m sure many of you could point to the years leading up to 2020 as high stress as well. My prayer this morning is that we could find compassion for the 5-year old narratives that surround us, while doing our personal work to drive our roots deep into the Love of God.

As our nation has plummeted into yet another war that has frightening potential, may we find extra time in our days to meditate upon the Holy Love that flows through our veins. May we grow in our commitment to the kind of silence and solitude that helps us center our souls upon the One who birthed humanity in love, through love, and for love. And may we have eyes to see beauty in the midst of tragedy, courage to stand up for injustice in the way of Christ, and a root system that knows where to find nourishment.

My prayers are with all of you on this sobering day.

Not that which is aflame by the fires of passion…

No, I’m talking about the kind of fire that does not dance but devours.

The one that topples pillars and turns rugged frames to ash.

So what, may I ask, has burned to the ground inside of you?

What dream collapsed into embers?

What certainty crumbled under pressure?

What theology, ideology, or well-laid plan

now lies in a pile of dust at your feet?

Lent begins with ash. We mark ourselves with debris to give homage to our frailty.

Rightfully so.

We are indeed marked forever by the remains of what has burned to the ground inside of our souls.

These cinders are a part of me now.

These ashes have formed me. For they represent a version of me that was molded from dust, and by dust.

For truly, we came from ash,

and to ash we will return.

I don’t know about you,

But my today has been conceived from many destructive fires.

So, here, in this moment, I look back over my life and honor my charred remains.

(Selah)

I’ve also learned that the fire’s inheritance is not the end.

For I have discovered more than once that the ash mysteriously becomes fertile with time.

Much like a woman’s womb that has suffered much loss, yet finds itself carrying new life.

A bit like the dark, damp grave of Christ, you could say.

The place of death becomes a seeded cradle, where grace quietly begins again.

This, indeed, is my today.

humming the essence of love so profoundly

that there are no words that match its beauty.

The kind of life that pours through living things like a tidal wave,

Yet still, we miss it.

This unfathomable Force that some say is unseeable,

But I know,

He is not unknowable.

For He flows through me like the wind.

He is Life itself, dancing among the trees, beckoning the souls of humans.

I need to meet with Life again, and again and again....

for I still have words.

Unnecessary words,

shallow and futile words.

I feel the need to spill all the sounds within me

aimlessly,

recklessly,

until I’m empty

Until I’m spent.

To find this glorious Life again

within the ocean inside my belly

It is there that all words cease.

Globally, nationally, and individually, the grief is overwhelming.

Collective grief changes culture. Individual grief permanently alters us.

This mysterious human experience has a life of its own. So it’s important to talk about it, and talk about it often.

Let’s remember together that grief is a manifestation of love. It’s the vital process of looking back and honoring what is no longer, upholding the beauty of what was.

Grief needs wide open spaces for that unmet longing within you to wander, searching in the void, until it wears itself out.

This is one reason why grief is lonely. It’s desperately deep, and fully embodied. At some level, you have to walk through it alone… as it’s too cavernous for words. Even if others are grieving the same loss at the same time as you, your experience is singular and can only be shared in fleeting ways.

Grief demands to be felt, not understood.

There is no avoiding it, no putting it off for a more convenient time, and no overcoming it.

It is not something to be conquered but a human experience that must be accepted.

It’s like a wave that must pass through you.

Don’t try to push grief away.

Don’t try to control it or dissect it under a microscope.

Burying it makes it turn toxic.

Controlling it makes it turn ugly.

Trying to understand it is a waste of time.

It needs to work its way through you.

Grief is exhausting.

Few people talk about the tiredness of grief, but it’s real.

Somehow it takes nearly all of your energy, and that’s o.k.

So rest. Sleep. Stare off into space for hours.

Then take a nap.

Be kind to yourself, and give your emotions the room they need to breathe.

Grieve with God.

He’s your constant companion.....

Even if you’re angry with Him, if you blame Him, or you’re not sure what you feel about Him at all, know that He’s near. You don’t need to talk to Him; just try not to push Him away.

His Presence is more important than you know.

Your brain is not leading you on this particular journey......

Your heart,

Your body,

Your soul,

your emotions…

They’re in charge of this one.

So ride the wave,

And trust the process.

You won’t get lost,

You won’t be destroyed,

And you won’t be buried forever under its weight.

Remind yourself,

It’s a normal human experience.

One that your whole being - body, soul and spirit - is created to withstand.

There is treasure to be found in grief.

You may not see it now, but you will someday.

And there is love to be discovered in the pain.

Pain is intimate.

There is a kind of intimacy you will only discover with God in the middle of pain.

So remember…. pain is not your enemy.

Grieve well, my friends.

It somehow proves that you’re alive,

That you feel,

And that your heart is still engaged in this life.

Your humanity is beautiful.

I mean,

truly

in awe

every day.

The often boring issues of life have been given much too much attention as of late, and this must not remain within me.

I choose, on this day, right here and now, in this present moment, for your eyes to witness…

To crack my chest open and give Wonder, sometimes buried deep in my shadows and ignored for weeks, the space she needs to breathe, to catch the breeze she needs to fly and flutter through every fiber of my being….

Awakening me to Beauty again, and again.

Wonder, welcome home.

I have missed you, my old friend.