^{Photo by Alan Light via Wikimedia Commons licensed under CC BY 2.0.}

Growing up, we listened to country music on the car radio. At least that’s how I remember it.

Anytime we rode with Mom, the radio was usually on one of the country radio stations on either AM or FM. No cassette player. No CD player. Definitely no streaming.I even remember getting our first car with both FM and AM, which felt like a pretty big deal.

And, as an editorial comment, this was real country music.

As a kid, I didn’t care much for most of what I heard. I’m a big fan now, but when you are 8 years old, well, that’s a different story. There was, however, one exception:

Dolly.

Dolly Parton is one of those rare people in the world where you only have to use a first name, and everyone knows exactly who you’re talking about.

Dolly broke barriers, but she also paved the way for others to follow. She overcame a childhood marked by poverty, yet never seemed to forget where she came from or her responsibility to help others find opportunities she didn’t have.

She resides in both the Country Music Hall of Fame and the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. She is a singer, songwriter, entertainer, businesswoman, philanthropist, and cultural icon.

But maybe what makes Dolly so remarkable isn’t simply everything she accomplished.

It’s the way she accomplished it.

In a world that often rewards cynicism, cruelty, and tearing other people down, Dolly has reminded us how good a human being can be. She has shown us that success doesn’t require forgetting where you came from, and that influence can be used not simply to make yourself bigger, but to make life better for someone else.

Maybe that’s Dolly’s greatest legacy. Not just the songs, the awards, or her larger than life personality.

There is something sacred about a life that uses its gifts to draw attention to people other than themselves. Dolly meant a lot to so many people and Dolly blessed so many people not because she was trying to draw attention to herself, rather she wanted the world to see the goodness and possibility in others. Her opportunity and resources became something more because she used them to open doors for other people and communities.

Her life radiated hope and possibility. I believe she leaves an invitation for the rest of us; to think about the gifts we have been given to serve others. To use our gifts, whatever they may be, to improve the lives of others and to make the world a better place. Thank you Dolly for doing that for all people.

The best lives don’t make a lot of noise, they instead help the world hear a note of hope.

Ted Lasso is back

Yes, Ted is back. Since we are two episodes in, I don’t want to give away spoilers, but I just wanted to say it is so good to have Ted back. The first episode was a wonderful ode to Kansas City (a couple of times I got to say, “I’ve been there”). Episode two brought a quest for bell hooks writing, which would really benefit everyone. I am grateful to Candler School of Theology at Emory University, where I was introduced to hooks’ work in multiple classes. Thank you Candler. I’ve enjoyed the first two episodes and can’t wait for the rest of the season.

Christians are supposed to hate?

That’s what the Indiana Lt. Gov and self-anointed preacher told a church crowd this week. Hmm…in all my years of theological education and work, I’ve never been introduced to this concept. I’ve never preached that sermon because I can’t seem to find it anywhere in the Gospels. Hold on, let me check my Bible again…nope, don’t see it.

I do think that Christians are supposed to have hearts broken over the things that break God’s heart- things like war, poverty, hunger, injustice, racism, failure to love neighbors, marginalization of others, greed. You get the picture.

Rain, Rain, Go Away

It rained a lot this week in Indiana. Many communities are experiencing pretty drastic flooding. Between travel and good luck, I’ve not seen a lot of rain or grey skies this summer. This week has almost made up for it. Prayers go out to those affected by the flooding. As communities pull together, another reminder that we are better when we work together.

Compelling narratives, bad theology, and a deluge of rain—just three items to contemplate as we drift toward the weekend.

Every August, I feel the same tug of two emotions watching a new school year begin: anticipation and trepidation. That tension is here this year as we send one daughter off to her sophomore year of high school and next prepare to send one to her freshman year of college. The tension also belongs to students walking into a new classroom, to teachers prepping their rooms for the hundredth (or first) time, to the bus drivers memorizing new routes, cafeteria workers preparing food, administrators making sure all of the proveribal ducks are in a row. and to families hoping this will be a good year.

I wanted to write something that holds “all the things” together. How do you capture both anticipation and trepidation? As I sat with the thought, I kept circling back to four things to highlight. I’m sure there are plenty more (and I’d love to hear those in the comments), but I kept coming around to these four.

1. Students carry more than backpacks

We talk a lot about school supplies and class schedules,but students are hauling something heavier into the building: hope for new friendships, dread of tough assignments, worry about whether they’ll be accepted for who they are. All the things- (and this is for adults as well, because many of us adults carry these same things in our daily lives. In this day and age, they worry about school being a safe space, in all the ways one might imagine. Some kids are genuinely excited to learn. Others are grateful the cafeteria lunch is available because at least they know they will get to eat on a particular day.

Adults tend to throw kids and teens into one homogeneous basket. Mostly because we forgot what it was like to be them and we didn’t navigate a world nearly as complex as today. Before we ask a kid how their homework is going, it might matter more to ask how they’re doing. An open mind and a willing spirit, the kind we hope students bring to a lesson, usually only shows up in a person who feels safe enough to have one. That type of spirit is cultivated from day one.

2. Teachers are living out a calling, not just clocking in

Teaching has never been just a job for the people who do it well, and the last several years have asked more of teachers than almost any stretch in my memory. They need more than a “thank you” card in September. (Not that a thank you card is ever a bad idea).They need encouragement built into the rhythm of the year, on the hard Tuesdays as much as the celebratory Fridays. They also need to be paid what they are worth and supported in a manner fitting their importance in kids’ lives. We are quick to complain about teachers, but slow to praise.

If you know a teacher, this is the season to tell them plainly that their work and calling matters and that you see the cost of it.

3. The people who make school possible deserve to be named

Bus drivers. Cafeteria workers. Custodians. Office staff. Counselors. These folks rarely get the spotlight, (except when something goes wrong), but a school doesn’t run without them and a kid’s whole day can turn on one kind interaction with the person who greets them at the door or hands them their lunch tray. Naming these roles out loud, and thanking the people in them directly, costs us nothing and means more than we probably realize. They play key roles and should be recognized for these roles.

4. Safety and wise leadership aren’t optional extras

Underneath all of it is a basic hope: that school is a safe place ; physically, and in the sense of being safe to be fully yourself. That kind of safety doesn’t happen by accident. It takes administrators, school employees, and school board members willing to make hard calls with wisdom and courage, and it takes the rest of us willing to support them in doing it. School should be a safe space for all. It should be a place where all students learn and grow.

May the anticipation be fulfilled and the trepidation be at a minimum as our students begin another year of school. May every one know they are a beloved child of God and continue to become the person God has created them to be.

I feel like we’re living inside a movie quote. The 80s film Wall Street wants you to shift your sympathies away from Michael Douglas’s Gordon Gekko and toward Martin Sheen’s Carl Fox — away from the predator and toward the man who still believes in something.

The truth is, greed is not good. Nearly every ancient tradition, including the Bible, frames it as somewhere between a vice and a sin.

And yet here we are: an Administration profiting off nearly everything at historic rates, while the gap between the haves and have-nots keeps widening. The accumulation of wealth by the few is one of this administration’s defining interests. We’ve made a virtue out of greed — holding up the greediest among us as people to admire and imitate. And it’s worse than that, because so much of this greed wears the costume of Christian Nationalism. We watch a President hold a Bible upside down, unable to name a single favorite verse, and somehow he gets richer and Christian Nationalists get what they want.

I’ve noticed it in daily life. Have you? People closing ranks, afraid of losing what’s theirs. We’re living as if the pie is fixed — as if we have to grab ours before someone else takes it.

Jesus understood what greed does to human beings. Jesus understood what greed does to communities.

He warned that “life does not consist in an abundance of possessions.”
He warned that no one “can serve two masters” — that “you cannot serve both God and money.”

The writer of 1 Timothy reminded his community that “the love of money is the root of all evil.” (Notice — it’s not money itself, but the love of money. Misplaced affection.)

So what do we do with a love of money that has dressed itself up in scripture and called itself faithful?

We name it. Not just in the halls of power, but in ourselves — in the ranks we close, in the pie we assume is shrinking, in the moments we mistake accumulation for security. In Wall Street, Carl Fox’s warning to his son wasn’t really about stock trades. It was about who you let yourself become when you decide greed is the price of survival.

This week, take one honest inventory: where has “getting mine” quietly replaced “loving my neighbor”? Then do one concrete thing about it — give something away, have the hard conversation about money in your own community, or simply say out loud, to someone, that you don’t believe greed is good, even when it’s dressed as patriotism or piety. The antidote to a scarcity mindset was never more accumulation. It was always generosity.

The love of money is still the root. The choice of who we love instead is still ours.

I’m on Tybee but knew they had opened outdoor pickleball courts, and on a previous morning’s walk I heard the dink from a distance. So the next morning, I decided to go play.

As I walked up, I could tell this was a group that got together on a regular basis to play and socialize together. What you need to know about me is that I’m not a big “sit at a sit-down restaurant by myself” type of person. Showing up to established groups by myself would not be on my list of regular activities. Let’s call it a growing edge.

I knew this could go one of two ways as I stood waiting for both games in progress to conclude.

As the first game ended, a man came over and introduced himself and asked if I wanted to play in the next game. He was ready for a break. Before long, all eight people came over and introduced themselves, and just like that, we had two hours of pickleball and conversation.

I have been thinking about their hospitality ever since. Those eight strangers extended me the benefit of the doubt before they knew anything about me. That’s the whole ballgame, theologically speaking.

These days, too many; especially too many among those who claim to follow Jesus; have a difficult time offering that kind of hospitality. When asked, Jesus defines neighbor generously. It made people uncomfortable. It makes people uncomfortable today.

My privilege means I’m rarely mistaken for a threat. I get read as a neighbor almost everywhere I go. I can’t begin to imagine what those with little to no privilege must feel when strangers get to decide, on sight, whether they belong. I can’t imagine the moment when one’s full humanity is in the hands of strangers.

It especially stings when those who follow the one who calls us to love neighbor fail to do so time and time again. In way too many corners of Christianity, the gospel is framed less as an invitation to love our neighbors than as a call to defend ourselves from them.

Hospitality isn’t a mood. It’s a practice — something you choose to extend before you know if it’s deserved, before you know if it’s safe, before you know anything at all. Eight strangers on a pickleball court did that for me without a second thought. This week, look for one person standing at the edge of something; a game, a meeting, a table, a border, an invisible line; and go be the one who walks over first.

One of the recurring themes in both the film and the poem is the fear of “the people of the sea.” Everywhere Odysseus and his crew make landfall, they encounter people preparing to defend themselves against these mysterious invaders. Back in Ithaca, Penelope is pressured to find a king who can protect the island from the same looming threat.

One interpretation is that the “people of the sea” are, ironically, Odysseus and his own crew. But I think the story points to something even more universal.

Fear of the other.

Human beings have always feared the unknown; the people we don’t know, don’t understand, or have never met. It’s a fear as old as civilization itself.

That theme feels especially relevant today. As we retreat into our own social, political, and religious bubbles, there is no shortage of politicians, preachers, influencers, and self-appointed prophets who profit from convincing us to fear people we’ve never met.

“They’re taking over.”

“They’re coming for us.”

“They are the real threat.”

Fear is persuasive. It always has been.

You can hear echoes of that message throughout the modern political landscape, especially within the MAGA movement, where warnings about immigrants, outsiders, and cultural enemies have become a defining narrative. Similar appeals can also be found in some corners of Christianity, where the gospel is framed less as an invitation to love our neighbors than as a call to defend ourselves from them.

But that’s not the story I see in Scripture, and it’s not the story I see in The Odyssey.

Both stories remind us that the “other” is almost always another human being with a name, a family, hopes, fears, and a story of their own. The people we fear are often just strangers we haven’t taken the time to know.

Maybe that’s why a story written nearly three thousand years ago still resonates today. The technology has changed. The politics have changed. The geography has changed.

But human nature hasn’t.

We still have a choice: to build our lives around fear of the unknown or around the courage to meet one another as fellow travelers. Every generation has to decide which story it wants to live.

Three thousand years later, we've traded wooden ships for cable news and social media, but the temptation is the same. We can let fear of "the other" write our story, or we can choose the harder path of curiosity, compassion, and hospitality.

If the gospel calls us to anything, it's not to fear the stranger but to love our neighbor. That has always been harder than building walls—but it's also the only path that breaks the cycle of fear.

During the recent World Cup, a lot of people watched more soccer than they ever have. Many who know me know that I played a fair amount of soccer (football) growing up. I have friends who only recently got into the game during the World Cup, and one of the most baffling aspects for them was that the clock never stops.

In soccer, the clock keeps running.

If you watch football, basketball, or most other American sports with a game clock, coaches and players have plenty of ways to stop it. Who hasn’t watched the final two minutes of a basketball game take twenty minutes of real time?

In soccer, the clock keeps running. And because it does, every minute matters. The opening minutes matter. The closing minutes matter. Every moment carries the possibility of changing the game. Life is much the same.I wonder if that makes us uncomfortable because it reminds us of something we already know about life: we can’t stop the clock.

I’m looking in the mirror here as much as anyone. How often have we told ourselves:

• I’ll get to that later.

• The timing will be better in the future.

• I can’t step out and do what I really feel called to do.

• This isn’t the right time to advocate for the issue that’s on my heart.

You probably have your own list.

Many of us live as though life is the final two minutes of a basketball game, convinced we’ll eventually find another timeout, another review, another chance to pause everything. But life is much more like soccer.

The clock keeps running.

Jesus understood this. Near the end of his earthly ministry, he tells his disciples to “keep awake” because they do not know when the master of the house will return (Mark 13:33-37). His point wasn’t to create anxiety but attentiveness. You never know when God will place an opportunity before you to become more fully the person you were created to be.

There’s another lesson soccer teaches us about time. Every minute matters. A goal scored in the third minute counts just as much as one scored in the ninety-third. Every stage of the match has significance.

The same is true of life.

Every season carries its own purpose. Every age has its own calling. Every day offers another opportunity to love, to serve, to forgive, to create, and to become.

The clock keeps running. We can't stop it or rewind it.But we can decide how we'll spend the minutes we've been given. Maybe the question isn't, "When is the right time?" Maybe the better question is, "What is God inviting me to do with this moment?"

I heard that phrase for the first time the other day, and it immediately got my attention. As a native Atlantan, a good traffic metaphor always speaks to me.

Part of sabbatical has been making space for reflection. The slower pace has given me time to notice things I usually rush past; including myself.

Lately, I’ve felt stuck. Upon reflection, I have been feeling this way for the last year or so.

Not overwhelmed exactly. Not burned out. Just...stuck. Like I was sitting in traffic, waiting for something to move. I also know as an Enneagram 7, this is one of the most difficult spaces to feel like we are in.

Then I heard this quote the other day.

What if I’m not stuck in traffic?

What if I am the traffic?

I believe that in most professions, people are exceptionally good at three or four things. The healthiest teams recognize this. They are built so that each person's gifts complement the others rather than compete with them. One person's strengths cover another person's weaknesses, and together everyone moves forward.

The problem is that many of us are expected to be generalists. Or we build teams where everyone excels at the same things, leaving important work uncovered. Or, perhaps most dangerously, we convince ourselves that we need to be involved in everything. We begin stepping into everyone else’s responsibilities, believing we’re helping, when in reality we’re slowing everyone down.

No one enjoys working for a micromanager.

And eventually, no one enjoys being one either.

We aren’t stuck.

We become the traffic.

I serve in a role where many people probably assume I need to be good at everything. But here’s the truth: I’m really only gifted in about three or four areas. Those are the places where I bring the most value to our community. Those are the places where I feel energized rather than depleted.

The rest?

I’m surrounded by people who are more gifted than I am. People who genuinely feel called to the work that drains me. That’s not a weakness in our team—that’s exactly how it’s supposed to work.

Maybe “calling” is the better word.

I believe God calls each of us toward particular gifts. When we spend our lives trying to do everything, we often end up doing very little well. We create bottlenecks. We delay decisions. We carry burdens we were never meant to carry.

We become the traffic.

Perhaps one of the hidden gifts of sabbath is that it reveals where we’ve confused faithfulness with indispensability. Rest has a way of exposing the illusion that everything depends on us. It reminds us that God’s work has always been bigger than any one person.

Maybe the invitation isn’t to work harder or learn twenty new skills.

This week, ask yourself a simple question: Where in your life are you feeling stuck?

Then ask the harder one:

Is the obstacle really in front of you—or have you unintentionally become part of it?

I’d love to hear your thoughts. Have you ever realized you were creating the very bottleneck you were frustrated by? Or have you found freedom by embracing your gifts and letting others embrace theirs?

Share your story in the comments, or send this post to someone who needs permission to stop trying to do everything.

The at-home weeks are a different story.

This is one of those at-home weeks. I genuinely love being home with my family; even if we’re still waiting on the AC to be repaired. (If you’re the praying type, we’re hoping Thursday is finally the day.)

This week I finally admitted something to myself: I’m restless.

It feels strange not to be doing something. I wake up each morning with the urge to fill my calendar, tackle a project, or accomplish something measurable. Suddenly I’m convincing myself that Mary Michael and I should become suburban chicken farmers by building a chicken coop. (If you know me, you know I couldn’t build a chicken coop if my life depended on it; and, just as importantly, I have absolutely no desire to.)

When people ask how sabbatical is going, I feel like I need something to show for it. A project. A finished product. A list of accomplishments.

The problem is that rest and renewal don’t produce many tangible results.

You can’t point to a rested soul the way you can point to a completed deck, a cleaned garage, or a crossed-off to-do list.

I think I’m wired to produce, but I’m also beginning to realize that I’ve been conditioned to believe my value is somehow tied to my productivity. Maybe most of us have.

The rhythm God gives us tells a different story. From the opening pages of Scripture, work and rest belong together. Sabbath isn’t a reward for getting enough done; it’s a reminder that our identity was never meant to be found in what we accomplish.

Jesus seemed to understand this tendency. When religious leaders criticized his disciples for not following Sabbath rules, he responded, “The Sabbath was made for humankind, and not humankind for the Sabbath” (Mark 2:27). In other words, Sabbath isn’t another task to master or another standard to meet. It is a gift. God didn’t create rest to burden us; God created rest to restore us.

I’ll confess that I’ve worn my accomplishments on my sleeve more than once. It’s easy to believe that what I produce determines who I am. But that’s never been how God sees me.

God doesn’t love me more on my busiest days or less on my quietest ones.

Maybe that’s one of the lessons sabbatical is trying to teach me.

Perhaps the hardest work of rest is trusting that I don’t have to earn my worth every morning when I wake up. My value doesn’t come from what I build, write, preach, fix, or check off a list. It comes from being a beloved child of God.

That’s a truth I know in my head.

Now I’m learning to let my soul believe it, too.

We returned home from our travels earlier this week and walked into a house that felt like an oven. You know the feeling—that blast of warm air that hits you the moment you open the door. Our air conditioner had gone out.

The good news is that the failed part is under warranty. The bad news is that because it’s under warranty, we have to wait on the manufacturer, and, of course, this all happened heading into a holiday weekend. Our service technicians have been wonderful and are doing everything they can to move the process along. Still, in the meantime, our house has been...uncomfortable.

Perhaps that’s also a fair description of how many Americans felt this weekend as we celebrated our nation’s 250th birthday.

Uncomfortable.

The thing about discomfort is that it isn't always something to avoid. Sometimes discomfort is a warning that something is wrong. Sometimes it's the growing pains that come with becoming something better. The question isn't whether we feel uncomfortable; it's what our discomfort is trying to teach us.

As someone who enjoys a great deal of privilege, I have to remind myself that I have the luxury of merely feeling uncomfortable. For many of our neighbors, the challenges they face today are far more than uncomfortable. They are fearful. They are uncertain. They are wondering whether the systems that are supposed to serve the common good still have a place for them. Or if the systems were created to exclude them.

I love this country. I am deeply grateful for those who have served—and continue to serve—so that we may enjoy the freedoms we often take for granted. I also believe that the American experiment has always been rooted in the pursuit of “a more perfect Union.” That pursuit has never been about pretending we have arrived. It has always been about acknowledging where we fall short and striving to become something better.

To me, patriotism is more than waving a flag or singing the national anthem. It is loving our country enough to tell the truth about it. It is celebrating our ideals while refusing to settle for less than them. It is believing that America is strongest when it works for everyone—not merely those with the most wealth, power, or influence.

As Christians, this should sound familiar. Scripture repeatedly calls God’s people to seek justice, care for the vulnerable, welcome the stranger, and love our neighbors. Those values should shape how we engage our public life every bit as much as our private faith.

Our house will eventually cool down. A new part will arrive, the system will be repaired, and the discomfort will pass. The harder question is what we do when our discomfort isn’t caused by broken machinery but by broken relationships, broken systems, and broken trust.

We can ignore it. We can learn to live with it. Or we can recognize that discomfort is often the first sign that something needs repair.

My hope is that we won’t become comfortable with a nation that leaves too many people behind. Instead, may our love for our country move us to do the hard work of building a more just, more compassionate, and yes, more perfect union—for everyone.

The World Cup is underway. Held every four years and now featuring 48 national teams, it is the world championship of football (or soccer, as it’s known in the United States).

Already, there have been moments that remind us why the tournament captivates so much of the world.

Curaçao scored against Germany.

Cape Verde held tournament favorites Spain to a draw, the most exciting 0-0 result in many years.

There was plenty of trepidation leading into this World Cup. Concerns about FIFA, the governing body of world soccer, mixed with concerns about the current United States administration. High ticket prices, unclear ticketing policies, greed, and fears of corruption all cast a shadow over the event before a ball was ever kicked.

However, the first week of the World Cup has shown me something.

People don’t hate one another.

One of the strengths of any event that brings people from all over the world together is that we catch a glimpse of the full diversity of humanity; something that can be difficult to see when we are confined to our own bubbles and routines.

We understand the thrill of seeing Cape Verde’s 40-year-old goalkeeper, Vozinha, preserve a historic clean sheet against Spain. We also understand the pain of learning that his mother initially lacked the financial resources and visa approval needed to travel and watch her son play. (The State Department and House Minority Leader Hakeem Jeffries have since stepped in to make it possible for her to attend Cape Verde’s second match.)

There is a shared experience in moments like these that reminds us we are more alike than we often realize.

As someone from the American South, I can even relate to the stories of German travelers experiencing their first late-night Waffle House visit. There is something universal about sharing a patty melt at 1:00 a.m.

Much of the conflict in our world comes not from ordinary people but from governments, institutions, and the small pockets of individuals who profit from unjust systems. It is far easier to monetize fear and weaponize distrust than it is to cultivate love, understanding, and grace.

Yet every four years, the World Cup offers a brief reminder of a deeper truth. Put people in the same stadium, the same city, or even the same diner after midnight, and most discover they have far more in common than they imagined. They cheer for their teams, celebrate improbable victories, grieve heartbreaking losses, and share stories with strangers who quickly become friends.

The headlines often tell us that division is inevitable. The World Cup tells a different story.

For a month, the world gathers around a common experience. And in doing so, we are reminded that beneath our flags, languages, politics, and borders, we remain remarkably human.

Maybe that’s the real beauty of the World Cup; not simply the football, but the glimpse it gives us of the world as it could be: a place where our shared humanity is stronger than our differences.

Quick note: I wrote this in a coffee shop in Chattanooga called Mad Priest Roasters. I’m sitting in an old church pew, you get the vibe. Amazing coffee as well!

I’m on sabbatical, which of course means I’ve spent some time cleaning out my closet. The truth is, I wish I could fully embrace the minimalist lifestyle, but I just can’t. Still, I’m getting better.

As I sorted through clothes, I pulled out a sweater and asked Mary Michael if it was still in style.

“No,” she said. “Not in style. Honestly, I don’t think it ever really was.”

I thought about that conversation yesterday when I read that the SBC (Southern Baptist Convention) had doubled down on the idea that women should not serve as clergy. It’s always interesting to watch a stage full of men tell women what they can and cannot do. Their views on women in ministry may not be in style today, but the truth is they were never a particularly good fit to begin with.

I am fortunate to have grown up in—and now serve in—the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ). From an early age, I saw women serving as pastors and elders. The younger version of me wasn’t even aware that other Christian traditions believed women should not serve in those roles.

Even today, people visit the church I serve and comment on how refreshing it is to see women clergy in such prominent leadership positions. Other than me and our music director, every member of our pastoral staff is female.

Let me pause for a moment to acknowledge something important. I serve as the Lead Pastor of one of our larger congregations. While the Disciples have been ordaining women for generations, we still fall short when it comes to the number of women serving as senior leaders in our largest churches. As someone who currently occupies one of those positions, I recognize that I’m part of a system that still has work to do. My hope is that this changes sooner rather than later.

Here’s the thing: people—especially those who crave power—have always tried to speak for God. Too often, the issue isn’t faithfulness to scripture or tradition. It’s the desire to maintain power over others.

Jesus offers freedom from those who would use religion as a means of control.

The call of God upon a person’s life is ultimately between God and that person. The discernment of that call happens in community—with trusted friends, mentors, and the church. But no convention, denomination, or committee gets the final word on whom God can call.

I shudder to think about the state of the church—or the world—without the witness of my female colleagues. My own ministry would not be the same without their gifts, wisdom, leadership, and courage. I am a better human because of the female clergy I work with every day and those whom I am blessed to work with in the wider church. Each has impacted my own faith in a multitude of ways.

I would not tell someone where they should or should not attend church, but I will offer this. If you are attending a church that only allows males in pastoral leadership, you are missing out on so many of the gifts that female pastoral leaders have to offer. You are missing the full witness of God.

Some ideas do go out of style. Some were never in style to begin with. The belief that a group of men gets to tell women they are not called to ministry is one of them. The church is better, stronger, and more faithful because women have answered God’s call. And that will never go out of style.

At this point in my life, I have filled out more than a few forms. Some of them have asked for a “religious preference.” If I had to guess, only about a third of those forms have included my denomination as an option. Most of the time, I end up checking some version of “Christian—Other.”

On the occasions when I have found “Christian Church (Disciples of Christ)” listed, it has felt a bit like winning the form lottery.

Last week, the Pentagon announced that it was streamlining the religious preference options available to military personnel. As a result, many faith traditions—including the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ)—would no longer appear as individual options. Instead, service members would select a broader category such as “Christian—Other.”

My first thought was about the service members and chaplains from my denomination and the many other traditions affected by the change. In debates like these, it is easy to lose sight of the people involved. My second thought was about how this administration, particularly within the Department of Defense, continues to move in ways that concern those of us who worry about the influence of Christian Nationalism in public life.

Here’s the thing: if I do not want a government shaped by Christian Nationalism—a government rooted in a narrow expression of Christianity—then I cannot turn around and argue that the alternative is a government rooted in my preferred expression of Christianity.

I believe in the biggest table possible, not a narrowly defined movement. I believe our public life is strongest when people of many faiths—and no faith at all—have a seat at that table.

That commitment can be frustrating at times. It means resisting efforts to privilege one religious tradition, even when it might benefit people like me. It means recognizing that the protections I want for my faith depend upon extending those same protections to others.

Maybe that is part of what we are experiencing right now.

I want elected officials who value compassion, empathy, peace, justice, and mercy. I want leaders who recognize the dignity and humanity of every person. I want people in public office who are committed to building a society where everyone can flourish.

My faith deeply influences those hopes.

But I do not need the United States to be a Christian nation to pursue them.

I recognize that people from other faith traditions—and people with no religious tradition at all—may arrive at many of the same commitments. I see that as a strength, not a threat. And I recognize that some will come to different conclusions than I do. That is part of the work, and the gift, of living together in a diverse democracy.

So yes, I believe the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) should be on that list. Names matter. Traditions matter. Being seen matters.

But the larger principle is still true.

The goal is not for the government to recognize my particular faith tradition. The goal is for the government to create space where people of every faith tradition—and people with none—can live, serve, contribute, and belong without fear of favoritism or exclusion.

That is not a rejection of faith. It is, in many ways, one of the best protections faith can have.

In a diverse democracy, we will not always get the recognition we want. We will not always see our own values reflected in every decision. But if we can preserve a society where no one must surrender their convictions to participate fully in public life, we will have gained something far more important than a checkbox on a form.

We will have protected the freedom that allows all of us to sit at the table together.

We’ve been watching season two of The Four Seasons. The show follows three longtime couples whose decades-long friendship is tested when one couple divorces, disrupting their tradition of taking seasonal vacations together. As relationships shift and new partners enter the picture, the group is trying to figure out its “new normal.”

As the second season begins, the group is on a springtime trip to the mountains to scatter the ashes of their friend Nick.

As with most group vacations, not everything goes according to plan. They end up stuck together in a run-down motel while a police manhunt unfolds outside. Arguments ensue, old wounds reopen, and relational things quickly go south.

Desperate and hungry, well-meaning Jack breaks into the Snack Shack to steal nachos for the group. Let’s be honest: who doesn’t love concession stand nachos?

The scene cuts to the group sitting around a table, deep in conversation over those nachos. Slowly, healing begins. Relationships start to soften. Reconciliation feels possible again.

I looked at Mary Michael and said one word:

“Table.”

I don’t know if it comes from how I have experienced the holy, or if it comes from a fierce belief I cannot shake—perhaps both—but I trust that many things can be healed and reconciled around a table. What’s on the table does not usually matter all that much. What matters is that people are willing to sit down, listen, acknowledge one another, and honor the humanity across from them.

We live in an era marked by a deep lack of social trust. We do not trust one another on an individual level, and some have capitalized on that distrust. Some have even monetized it.

People ask, “How do we heal the country?”

I’m not sure the country can be healed unless we are first willing to do the work of healing our relationships. And I am looking in the mirror here.

There is no way to reimagine broken systems if we do not trust one another enough to do it together.

Maybe the work begins smaller than we want it to. Not with a platform. Not with a post. Not with winning an argument. Maybe it begins with a table.

A real one.

A shared meal. A difficult conversation. A willingness to stay seated when leaving would be easier. A commitment to listen without preparing our rebuttal. A belief that the person across from us is more than their worst opinion, their sharpest words, or the label we have placed on them.

I do not think the table fixes everything.

But I do think it gives grace a place to land.

The timing is hard to ignore. June is also Pride Month, a celebration that has become increasingly visible across the United States. For many Christians, Pride Month represents a commitment to the dignity, worth, and belovedness of LGBTQ people. For others, particularly within Christian nationalist circles, it represents a threat to a particular vision of family and society.

In practice, the “nuclear family” is often presented as a married heterosexual couple (first marriage) raising children together, ideally with clearly defined gender roles and a stable household.

Streams of conservative Christianity have spent enormous energy advancing interpretations of Scripture that they believe support this model as God’s preferred design for society. It is one design. I have been married for twenty-five years and Mary Michael and I have two kids. We also will not be celebrating “nuclear family month.” That does not mean that we do not celebrate that this has been our path, but it also doesn’t mean it’s the only path. It just happens to be ours.

Within many Christian nationalist movements, the nuclear family is often connected to a particular social vision: a male-led household, clearly defined gender roles, a narrow understanding of Christian faith, and suspicion toward people whose lives fall outside those boundaries. In this framework, challenges to traditional family structures are often viewed as threats to society itself.

The above is neither God’s design for family nor the consistent witness of Scripture. The way people come to be family in the Bible is all over the map—some versions healthy, some deeply unhealthy. Abraham’s family was complicated. Jacob’s family was fractured. Ruth built a family through loyalty and covenant. Jesus redefined family altogether, saying that those who do the will of God are his brothers and sisters and mother. Human relationships have always been messy. They become toxic when we seek power over one another, and life-giving when we learn to love one another well.

The problem isn’t celebrating families. The problem is pretending that one particular family structure is the only one God blesses.

For God, the goal has never been a “nuclear” family. The goal has always been a loving family where people can be who God created them to be. The biblical story consistently moves toward wider circles of belonging, not narrower definitions of who counts. God’s kin-dom is built not on conformity but on love, grace, hospitality, and mutual care. These are the things that Scripture celebrates.

So if June is going to be about family, let’s celebrate all the ways people create homes of love, commitment, sacrifice, and belonging. Let’s celebrate married couples, single parents, adoptive families, grandparents raising grandchildren, blended families, chosen families, and LGBTQ families. Let’s celebrate every community where people are cared for, seen, and loved.

Because the measure of a family has never been whether it fits a political ideal. The measure of a family is whether it reflects the love of God.

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I hope you are having a good week. If you were able, I hope you took the opportunity to vote in this week’s primary elections. The opportunity to participate in our democracy through free and fair elections is something we should never take for granted. It is a meaningful way to have your voice heard.

This Sunday should be a wonderful day in the life of the church. First, we will have our Mother’s Day Dessert Auction sponsored by our youth ministry. Arrive early to see the wide variety of desserts available for bidding or for purchase at a “buy it now” price. All funds raised will support youth mission trips. A big thank you to all of our bakers for sharing their time and talents.

My message in worship is titled “A Faith Passed On,” based on 2 Timothy 1:3–6a. We will reflect on how faith is passed from one generation to another and consider the ways that legacy can be both meaningful and harmful. Most importantly, we will be reminded of this promise: God is never finished with anyone. I hope you will join us and invite someone to come with you.

Let me also say a quick word about Mother’s Day. We will pass out carnations to all women and girls in attendance. I recognize that this day is joyful for many and difficult for many others. During our pastoral prayer, we will seek to honor the wide range of emotions and experiences connected to motherhood and the many forms of “mothering.” My prayer is that people always feel safe, seen, and loved in worship.

Finally, next Sunday, May 17, will be my final Sunday preaching before my sabbatical begins on May 23. Our personnel policy at Geist provides clergy with a three-month sabbatical every five years. This policy was updated last year by our board, changing it from every seven years to every five years. In August, I will mark seven years as one of your pastors.

A sabbatical is not intended to be a vacation, but rather an opportunity to step away from the day-to-day responsibilities of ministry in order to experience rest, renewal, and spiritual rejuvenation. These seasons away can foster renewed creativity, clarity, and commitment in ministry. During my sabbatical, I will spend time traveling with family, taking some solo retreat time, enjoying time at home, and working on my final doctoral project. I plan to return to the church on September 1.

While I am away, you will be in wonderful hands with our pastoral team. They have some meaningful things planned for the summer, and you will have the opportunity to hear from a variety of voices in worship. The church will continue moving forward and participating in God’s work in this place.

I look forward to seeing you on Sunday.

Grace and peace,
Danny

Hello church! A couple of notes for you during this Holy Week:

Tonight at 7 PM is our Maundy Thursday service. “Maundy” comes from a Latin word meaning command—it remembers the meal Jesus shared in the upper room before His death the next day.

Our service has a relaxed, coffeehouse-style feel. We’ll sit around tables, hear Scripture and stories, enjoy music, share simple snacks that reflect the upper room meal, and take part in communion and prayer. It’s appropriate for all ages, and childcare will be available. The service is typically about 50 minutes long. We hope to see you tonight!

On Easter Sunday, we have three worship opportunities:

• 7:30 AM – An indoor service in the coffee shop with a sunrise feel (about 40 minutes)

• 10:00 AM & 11:30 AM – A grand Easter celebration, including a kids parade at both services and my message, “The Ride Isn’t Over.”

Here’s where we could use your help: if your schedule allows, we’d love for some who typically attend the 10:00 AM service to consider coming at 11:30 AM instead. We expect many visitors at both services, with 10:00 AM likely being the most crowded.

So if you’re thinking about brunch before church—or just sleeping in a bit—we’d love to see you at 11:30! Also, if you arrive early, please move to the center of the aisles. Many visitors arrive right at the start of worship and seats on the end of the aisles are more welcoming than having to scoot past people into rows. I am excited for so many to experience the best that Geist Christian Church has to offer.

With Easter hope,

Danny

When you are a pastor, you get asked your opinion on a variety of topics that, ordinarily, no one would be too concerned about what you think.

Sometimes people are asking for a professional opinion, and sometimes they are asking for a personal opinion. Often, I’m not entirely sure what the difference is.

Over the past week and a half, I’ve been asked several times:

“What do you think about the war in Iran?”

My first response is usually:

“Do you want my personal opinion, my professional opinion… or perhaps my opinion as a person of faith?”

Because in truth, that’s the lens through which I form both my personal and professional views.

So here it is.

I’m not a fan of war.

I believe what is happening in Iran is not prudent and will lead to both short-term and long-term consequences that will negatively impact people here at home and across the world.

As a person of faith, I am especially troubled by politicians who use their version of Christianity to justify war. We are living in a season where national leaders twist the biblical story to fit political agendas and provide cover for their actions. When faith becomes a political tool, it often pushes younger generations away from Christianity altogether. Many want no part of that kind of faith.

Too often the loudest voices speaking about war in the name of Christianity sound nothing like Jesus.

Many younger people today are not walking away from Jesus—they are walking away from a version of Christianity that seems more interested in power than in peace. When faith becomes a tool to justify violence or advance political agendas, it stops looking like the way of Jesus. The Gospel calls us in another direction: toward humility, compassion, and the hard work of peacemaking.

By no means am I a foreign policy expert (although I do have a degree in Political Science with a concentration in International Relations). Still, I try to stay informed about current events and listen to a variety of perspectives so I can better understand the complexities of global conflicts.

Let me also be clear about something else: this does not mean I do not support our troops.

Those who have said yes to serving our country carry an extraordinary burden. It often occurs to me that the people who decide to go to war are rarely the ones who bear its greatest cost. Our service members are doing something very few of us are willing to do, and they deserve our respect and gratitude.

This also does not mean I support the Iranian government. Its misuse of religion has contributed to decades of human rights abuses against its own people and throught out the region.

But from a Christian perspective, war is never something to celebrate.

Jesus reminds us, “Blessed are the peacemakers.” As followers of Jesus, we are called to be people who pursue peace.

Christian tradition has sometimes spoken about just war—the idea that war may be morally permissible as a last resort when every other option has failed. In my estimation, what we are seeing in Iran does not meet that threshold.

War always has consequences. Most notably, it costs human lives.

Already, U.S. service members have lost their lives, and innocent people—including children—have been killed. As I mentioned earlier, the people who make the decisions about war rarely pay the same price as those who live through it.

From my perspective as a person of faith, that is where I land.

Your opinion may be different, and I respect that. Conversations like this are not easy, but they matter.

In the end, we are stronger when we remain in community with one another, even when we disagree.

So please join me in continuing to pray; for peace, for wisdom among our leaders, for the safety of our troops, and for all those who find themselves in harm’s way.

Most of us are being spiritually formed every single day—and very little of it is happening at church.

We are shaped by the voices we listen to, the stories we return to, the outrage we consume, and the certainty we prefer. Formation is unavoidable. The only real question is who or what is doing the forming.

When Jesus begins his ministry in Matthew’s Gospel, his first words aren’t about belief or belonging. They are a call to change: “Change your hearts and lives! Here comes the kingdom of heaven!” From the very beginning, following Jesus was about transformation, not affirmation.These words mark the beginning of Jesus’ public ministry in Matthew’s Gospel. At the outset, Jesus calls people to change their minds, to take on a new perspective, to reorient their lives. In other words, Jesus invites us into spiritual formation.

And here’s the uncomfortable truth: the mainline church (the tradition in which I serve) has largely abdicated its responsibility for this work. I could make the case that the American Protestant church more broadly has done the same.

But I also wonder if part of the problem isn’t just institutional,it’s personal. It has something to do with how we show up to Christian community in the first place.

A few observations:

I think many of us come to church not primarily to learn or be transformed, but to have what we already believe about God affirmed and justified. As a pastor, I’m not immune to this temptation either. Still, I’m convinced that the church must reclaim spiritual formation as one of its core callings; intentionally creating spaces where people can actually be shaped, stretched, and changed. I must be wiling to show up not looking to have my beliefs, thoughts, and worldview affirmed or dictated to me, but open to being shaped while considering new possibilties.

Along those lines, I think the phrase “Bible-believing church” should be retired. Not because I don’t believe in the Bible, but because the phrase has become shorthand for churches that ask people to show up, suspend curiosity, and accept whatever the pastor says from the stage. It often reflects a narrow theological lens; one that goes down easy but doesn’t demand much. That isn’t discipleship. It isn’t spiritual formation.

The reality is that we are always being formed by something. In fact, we may be better at discipleship than we think because we are constantly being discipled. Maybe it’s by your favorite news channel or podcast. Maybe it’s by a social media feed or a tight circle of people who all think and live the same way. Formation is happening whether we acknowledge it or not.

If you spend significant hours each day immersed in one particular narrative about the world, that narrative will shape you. And the church, with one hour a week—if that—will always struggle to compete with that kind of formation.

So perhaps the question isn’t whether the church still has a role in spiritual formation. The question is whether we are willing to show up ready to be formed.

Spiritual formation requires humility, curiosity, and a willingness to be unsettled. It asks more of us than affirmation; it asks for transformation. And while the church must do better at creating environments where that kind of formation can happen, each of us also has to decide whether we are open to it.

Jesus’ first words were not “be right” or “be comfortable.” They were “change your hearts and lives.” That invitation still stands.

Yes, immigration is a complicated and important issue that needs to be addressed. And no—this is not the way to address it. Our political and governmental systems are past the point of handling it in a way that is productive, humane, or dignified. That may be where we are, but it is not where we should be. And Americans are paying the price.

I believe what is happening now is sinful. It makes God weep. This is not the way.

Yesterday, Alex Pretti paid that price.

Mr. Rogers famously told us that in times of trouble, we should “look for the helpers.” By all accounts, Alex Pretti was a helper. An American citizen. A nurse. Someone who showed up for others when they were vulnerable. On my best days, I hope I might be identified as a helper. I am fortunate to know many people who live this way, often quietly and without recognition.

A quick reading of the Gospels tells us that being a helper is not incidental to the Christian faith—it is one of its defining marks. Jesus says, “They will know you are my disciples by your love.” Love that shows up. Love that protects. Love that refuses to look away. A broad theme of the Bible is how nations are judged based upon how well they care for the widows, the orphans, and the foreigners in their midst.

The question before us is not whether immigration is difficult or complex—we already know that it is. The question is who we are becoming in the way we respond to it. When fear drives our policies, when force replaces dignity, and when helpers become casualties, something in our common life is deeply broken.

Following Jesus has never been about choosing the safest or most politically convenient path. It has always been about choosing love, even when it costs us something. Especially when it costs us something. If we are known for anything, may it be this: that we stood with the vulnerable, that we honored human dignity, and that we refused to accept cruelty as the price of order.

This is not the way. And we do not have to accept it as inevitable.