I made this Reel because pastors need places where they can talk about the strange rhythms of this vocation with someone who understands them.

This is part of what I'm trying to create through Cultivate—a place where pastors don't have to carry the peculiar weight of ministry alone.

Cultivate Pastors

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We were going to plant a church.

Our kids were six, four, and two years old. We didn’t know a soul. Not one family. Not one built-in network. Not one grandparent nearby. No cousins. No lifelong friends. Just the conviction that God was somehow calling us to a city we barely knew.

When people plant churches, they usually know somebody.

We didn’t.

I used to joke, “There’s really no pressure. If this doesn’t work, no one will blame us. And if it does work, everyone will celebrate.”

It was funny because it wasn’t true.

There was enormous pressure.

Generous churches and individuals had entrusted us with nearly $300,000 to make this dream possible. Many of them were wonderfully supportive, though I suspect more than a few were thinking, You’re going to San Francisco? Better you than me.

We had three years to prove this wasn’t crazy.

Or perhaps to discover that it was.

December 1996, four months into our new life in San Francisco.

The journey actually began more than a year earlier.

In the spring of 1995, Lewis Ruff first approached us about planting a church in San Francisco. That June we made our first visit. Like every tourist from the Southeast, we packed for “California.”

Within hours we were buying the obligatory San Francisco fleece. Who knew it could be cold in June?

But somewhere between the fog and the hills, something happened. We both sensed that this city might become home.

On the flight back to Tennessee, my wife looked over at me and quietly said, “I’m ready when you are.”

I couldn’t believe she said it.

If you know Terely, you know she’s thoughtful and deliberate. She doesn’t rush decisions. She weighs them carefully. But somehow she had arrived before I had.

Looking back, I think that was our first holy story.

Before there was a holy yes, someone was willing to say yes first.

The months that followed were strange ones.

Outwardly, I was finishing my work with Reformed University Fellowship at the University of Tennessee. Internally, I was already living in San Francisco. My mind was divided between two futures, one I could see and one I could only sense.

By January 1996, our denomination needed an answer. I knew this decision would shape not only my life but the lives of our children. I wasn’t afraid of hard work. I was afraid of getting it wrong.

One evening, after we’d put the kids to bed, we found ourselves standing in the hallway outside their bedrooms. Terely reached out, grabbed me by the shoulders, and looked me straight in the eyes. She said, “You can do this. I have no doubt in my mind that we’ll move there and a church will be planted. I believe in you.”

I’ve replayed that moment countless times over the past thirty years. Not because it removed my fear, but because it gave me courage greater than my fear.

Sometimes God speaks through burning bushes. Sometimes God speaks through the person who knows you best. That hallway became holy ground, and her telling me that was a holy story.

A few weeks later came another holy story.

I was reading a book that told of Charles Wesley spending the night with prisoners who were scheduled to be hanged the following morning. The author paused the narrative long enough to write the following:

“I believe there are hundreds of strange and radical things God will call us to. It may be something you never dreamed of doing. I am praying that you will be courageous and yield.”

I couldn’t keep reading. I just sat there and cried.

It felt less like reading a sentence and more like hearing a summons.

In early February of 1996, we finally gave our answer.

Our holy yes.

I spent most Sundays between February and August of 1996 at a local bookstore reading the Sunday edition of the San Francisco Chronicle. There was no way to do any “online” research at the time, since the internet as we know it today didn’t exist yet.

I recently came across a quote from Scott Galloway that brought all of this rushing back.

“Unless you’re willing to take an uncomfortable risk, nothing wonderful is ever going to happen to you.”

That certainly describes our move to San Francisco.

It was uncomfortable. It was uncertain. It was terrifying.

But it also became the doorway to more joy, more friendships, more grace, more heartbreak, more growth, and more glimpses of God’s faithfulness than we ever could have imagined.

Our children didn’t have much say in the decision. We dragged them across the country because we believed God was calling.

Today they thank us. They tell us what a gift it was to grow up in San Francisco.

And then, as if God wanted to remind us that holy yeses have a way of multiplying, one year later our fourth child—a genuine San Francisco native—joined the family.

I’ve been thinking lately that every holy yes contains countless holy stories. And, as my spiritual director asked, “How do I keep saying the Holy Yes?”

The yes is rarely the biggest miracle. The miracle is everything that unfolds around it.

Thousands of conversations. Unexpected friendships. Lives intertwined. People changed. Moments of despair. Moments of astonishing grace. Children raised. Dreams reshaped. Faith deepened. Ministries entreprenured. Churches started. Campus ministries founded. Lives changed.

Looking back over thirty years, I don’t primarily remember planting a church. I remember hundreds, thousands (?) of holy stories that could never have happened had we not said yes first.

We celebrated tonight! Missing Lunden (arriving October ‘97!)

Maybe that’s the invitation for all of us.

We spend so much time asking God for the whole map. God often offers only the next faithful step.

So let me ask you: what has been the holy yes of your life? When did you say yes to something that felt bigger than your certainty?

A marriage. A vocation. A child. A recovery. A move. A difficult conversation. An act of forgiveness. A calling you couldn’t fully explain. A new chapter of living as your authentic self that others might not understand. An insistence on your own well-being, even if it meant walking away from what was harming you. A step of obedience that didn’t make sense to anyone else at the time.

If you look closely, I suspect you’ll discover what I’ve been discovering.

Every holy yes has many holy stories.

And perhaps today God is quietly inviting you to say another one.

We found a cable car on the way back to our car! :)

This year, one of those players was Giants pitcher Landen Roupp.

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Roupp wrote Genesis 9:12–16 on his cap1 during Pride Day at the ballpark, the passage that ironically describes God’s covenant with all creation. Not some creation. Not the approved creation. All creation. I do not know Landen personally, and I do not know exactly what he intended by displaying that passage. I could see he was very uncomfortable answering questions about it.

His follow-up to the media when asked what he’d like to say to the LGBTQIA+ community: “Read the Bible.”

Oof.

No Christian should ever have to choose between being biblical and being Christlike.

Many of us were taught that if we wanted to be faithful to Scripture, we had to oppose the affirmation of LGBTQIA+ people. We were taught there was a choice to be made. Either be biblical or be affirming. Either stand for truth or stand with LGBTQ people.

What I wish Landen, and countless sincere Christians, could know is that this is a false choice.

You can love the Bible and love LGBTQIA+ people.

You can take Scripture seriously and still affirm same-sex relationships.2

You can be deeply committed to Jesus and deeply committed to the flourishing of LGBTQIA+ people.

In fact, many of us became affirming not because we stopped taking the Bible seriously, but because we kept taking it seriously. We kept studying. We kept listening. We kept asking hard questions. Most importantly, we kept paying attention to the fruit because the Bible told us to.3

Jesus gave us a way to discern whether something is true. Jesus taught that we recognize a tree by its fruit. Not by its confidence. Not by its certainty. Not by the number of Bible verses marshaled in its defense. By its fruit.

The fruit of rejection has been devastating. LGBTQIA+ people who experience rejection from family, church, and community face dramatically higher rates of depression, addiction, self-harm, and suicide. The problem is not that they are LGBTQIA+. The problem is what happens to them when they are told that they are unacceptable, disordered, or unworthy of full belonging. The fruit of that teaching is rotten to the core.

Imagine a doctor prescribing a treatment that repeatedly harmed patients. Imagine that every year, more evidence accumulated showing that the treatment was producing suffering rather than healing. At some point, we would expect the doctor to become curious. We would expect questions to be asked. We would expect a willingness to reconsider long-held assumptions in light of the evidence.

This is why Pride keeps people alive.

Pride is not primarily about parades, rainbow merchandise, or culture wars. Pride exists because people have spent generations being told that they should be ashamed of who they are. Pride emerged as a refusal to disappear. A refusal to accept shame. A declaration that LGBTQIA+ lives have dignity and worth.

Among many factors in my journey to fully affirming my LGBTQIA+ siblings was realizing that I had been taught that being biblical mattered more than being Christlike. Nobody would have said it that way, of course. But that was often the practical result. We defended doctrines even when we could see the harm they were causing.

Jesus never asks us to choose between truth and love.

The question is not whether we can quote a verse. The question is whether our reading of Scripture is making us look more like Jesus.

Because when I look at the fruit of affirmation, I see life.

I see people who no longer hate themselves. I see families restored. I see faith renewed. I see people discovering that they do not have to choose between their relationship with God and their own humanity. I see communities becoming healthier, kinder, and more reflective of the radical welcome embodied by Jesus. I see life where there was once despair. And Jesus was always in the business of bringing life.

That is why Pride matters.

Because Pride keeps people alive.

Because somewhere, a kid who knows he is gay is dreaming of playing in the big leagues, sees that hat, and his heart sinks. Maybe if Landen knew that, he would realize that what is at stake is not a culture war or a theological argument. It’s a human life.

There’s a strange, often-overlooked Sunday in the church year, the one between Christmas and the start of whatever comes next.

The candlelight has faded. The carols are still echoing somewhere in our bones. The decorations may still be up, but the emotional intensity of Christmas has already begun to thin out. Some of us are tired. Some of us are relieved. Some of us are grieving. Some of us are quietly anxious about the year ahead.

The world, it turns out, did not pause just because we sang Silent Night.

That’s why I’ve always loved the gospel story the lectionary gives us for this moment: Jesus at twelve years old, lingering in the temple while Mary and Joseph head home without him.

It’s a story about growing up.
It’s a story about anxiety.
And at its heart, it’s a story about curiosity.

It’s also a story that sits underneath the work I do through Cultivate, walking alongside pastors and faith leaders who are trying to follow Jesus with integrity in seasons when the old answers no longer work, but the new ones are not yet clear.

Losing a Child (and Finding the Story)

In 2016, it was just me, my wife, and our son, then 22 years old, traveling together in Jerusalem as part of a larger group.

One evening, our son stayed up late in West Jerusalem while we made our way back to East Jerusalem, where we were staying. The plan was simple: the next morning, we’d meet early and walk the Stations of the Cross together through the Old City.

But when morning came, he was nowhere to be found.

We opened his hotel door. Empty.

His phone went straight to voicemail. No text. No reply.

Not wanting to panic the rest of our tour group, we kept our fear mostly to ourselves, telling only one close friend. Then, with our hearts pounding and our minds racing, we walked the Stations of the Cross through the streets of Jerusalem, retracing the path of Jesus’ suffering… all the while not knowing where our child was.

At one point, our friend tried to lighten the moment and said, “Well… there is a Bible story about this sort of thing.”

When we finally returned to the hotel for breakfast, there he was, walking in the door as casually as could be.

Relief flooded our bodies.

He looked at us and said, “Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?”

No. He did not say that. I mean, he is a preacher’s kid, so it’s possible, but no.

What he actually said was something more like, “I was playing pool all night with some new friends and crashed on their couch.”

The child, after being retrieved. :)

I can tell you with complete sincerity: I never want to feel again what Mary and Joseph must have felt.

Holy Curiosity Is Not Disobedience

Luke tells us that every year Mary and Joseph went to Jerusalem for Passover. This was their tradition they were passing on to their son.

But when Jesus is twelve, something changes.

After a day’s journey home, they realize he is missing. They rush back to Jerusalem and search for three days, three long days, until they finally find him in the temple.

And what is he doing?

He is sitting among the teachers.
Listening.
Asking questions.

Many of us grew up in religious environments where faithfulness was confused with compliance. Where good believers didn’t ask hard questions, didn’t wander intellectually or spiritually, didn’t press on uncomfortable edges. Curiosity wasn’t seen as a gift; it was treated as a threat.

But Luke tells us something very different.

Jesus’ faith matured through curiosity.

Holy curiosity.

There’s a famous scene in Ted Lasso, the dart scene. Ted is playing Rupert, the smug villain. Rupert builds a big lead, and Ted is down to his last three darts. To win, he’d have to make three nearly impossible shots in a row.

Before he throws, Ted offers this line, quoting Walt Whitman: “Be curious, not judgmental.”

He goes on to say that the people who underestimated him never asked questions. If they had, they would have asked things like, “Have you played darts before?”

Ted answers: yes, every Sunday afternoon with his dad, from age ten until his father died.

Three darts. Three bullseyes. Game over.

“Be curious, not judgmental.”

That line could just as easily be stitched into Luke’s gospel.

Faith that grows is faith that asks.
Holy curiosity is not disobedience; it’s often the doorway to deeper trust.

Growth Always Involves Tension

Luke includes a small but crucial detail after Mary confronts Jesus:

They did not understand what he said to them.

Parents, take comfort, Mary and Joseph didn’t understand their pre-teen either.

And Luke doesn’t rush to fix that tension.

Because growth in faith, personal or communal, is rarely smooth. It creates friction. Between generations. Between tradition and change. Between what feels safe and what feels true.

I experience this all the time in my work with pastors.

I regularly get phone calls, often late, often quiet, from pastors who come from much more conservative traditions than my own. Somewhere along the way, their curiosity led them to new convictions, often around LGBTQ inclusion. And now they’re scared. If they speak publicly, they risk losing their jobs, their communities, their sense of belonging.

And I almost always end those conversations with the same words: Stay curious.

Ironically, that curiosity is what got them into trouble in the first place, the kind of good trouble the church should be known for.

What if faith sometimes requires us to release what we thought we understood in order to encounter something deeper?

If your faith feels tense right now, less predictable, more complicated, what if that doesn’t mean you’ve lost the story?

What if it means you’re inside it?

Faith Was Never About Certainty

Toward the end of Wake Up Dead Man, the latest Knives Out film, there’s a quiet, desperate moment. The congregants are begging the detective to finally explain how their priest died.

One of them blurts out, “I need the truth! Can’t you just give us the answers? Isn’t this what all of this is for?”

You can hear the subtext: I need certainty to calm my anxiety.

And honestly, I get that.

The world is frightening.
Ambiguity is exhausting.
Certainty feels like safety.

But the gospel keeps telling a different story.

Mary and Joseph don’t get answers; they get a growing child they don’t fully understand.
Jesus doesn’t offer certainty; he offers calling.
And Luke is clear: they did not understand.

As Richard Rohr often reminds us:

The opposite of faith is not doubt. The opposite of faith is certainty.

Maybe the church isn’t meant to be the place where all the answers are nailed down so we can feel safe.

Maybe it’s meant to be the place where questions are held, so we can learn how to live faithfully anyway.

Mystery isn’t a problem to be solved.
It’s a path to be walked.

Why This Matters (and Why Cultivate Exists)

This conviction, that curiosity is not a liability but a spiritual discipline, is at the heart of why I do the work I do through Cultivate.

Cultivate exists to support pastors, faith leaders, and communities who are navigating change with courage. Leaders who refuse to shut down their questions in order to survive. Leaders who believe that growth, inclusion, and spiritual depth are worth the tension they create.

So many people haven’t rejected faith; they’ve rejected environments that punished curiosity.

I’m convinced people are hungry for communities where growth is expected, questions are welcomed, and the messiness of becoming is embraced.

If the church can be that kind of place, maybe fewer people will grow out of faith, and more will grow into it.

As we head into a new year, that feels like a calling worth claiming.

So stay curious.
Trust the questions.
And don’t be afraid of the holy tension that comes with growing up in faith.

That’s where Jesus is.

As this year comes to a close, I want to offer a simple invitation.

If this vision of a curious, courageous, spacious faith resonates with you, I invite you to support the work of Cultivate. Today is the final day of 2025, and your year-end gift helps sustain pastors, leaders, and communities who are choosing growth over fear, curiosity over certainty, and love over control.

Thank you for being part of this work, whether through your prayers, your encouragement, or your generosity.

Stay curious.

Fred

You are going to be ok.

My family system was complicated. Loud. Anxious. Always on edge. My nervous system lived in a state of high alert. I was the youngest of four, growing up in a household that often felt like it was one breath away from flying off the handle. My mom would reassure me with those words:

You are going to be ok.

That’s me, holding my mom’s hand, which was usually the best way to know I was ok.

I counted down the minutes every afternoon until 5:00 p.m., when Mr. Rogers would come on TV and gently remind me, without saying it directly, that I was safe, seen, and loved. That I mattered. That I would be ok.

You are going to be ok was tonic for my anxious soul.

Years later, my wife would say these words to me, too. Especially in our darkest seasons. I would look at her and say, “Tell me I’m going to be ok.” And she would. Again and again.

I’ve whispered it to myself—in dreams, in prayer, and in the everyday moments of my life.

And somewhere along the way, I discovered Julian of Norwich and her luminous words:

All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.

Different voices. Same message.

And I know how this can sound. There are people for whom the words “you are going to be ok” feel painfully out of touch. Tell that to families torn apart by deportation. Tell that to Black and brown bodies living under constant surveillance. In the face of that reality, Advent hope is the insistence that even here, especially here, God is not absent. You are not alone. God is with you. And that presence is what fuels both survival and resistance.

Recently, I led a weekend men’s retreat. After a half-day break, I went straight into another retreat where my only job was to be a participant.

Held at Serra Retreat in Malibu, a beautiful and holy place, we were guided by the brilliant team at . On the first day—and well into the second—some of the introspective work stirred up old anxieties and worries. My body hadn’t caught up with the shift from responsibility to receptivity. I realized I was quietly repeating the words, ‘you are going to be ok’.

That evening, during worship, we passed the peace more intentionally. Each of us received a small yellow card and was invited to draw or write something that symbolized peace. We folded our cards so no one could see what we created, then exchanged them over and over again as a way of passing peace to one another. I must have passed ten cards, maybe more.

Then we were finally asked to unfold the cards in our hands. Here’s the card I ended up with:

I wept. My spiritual director suggested I see this as ‘God’s canopy over my life’.

This Advent, I wonder if this is the word many of us need. A deep reassurance. A canopy over your life that says, ‘You are going to be ok’.

The world feels out of control politically, environmentally, economically, and spiritually. Anxiety is everywhere. We carry it for ourselves, for our children, for our planet, for our fractured families, for a future that feels increasingly uncertain.

Advent and Christmas don’t deny any of that. They don’t rush past suffering.

They tell us that God with us happened in occupied Palestine under an oppressive empire, doing what empires always do. Fear. Violence. Acquisition. Uncertainty. And into that world came presence. Nearness. Love in the flesh.

God with us? I’ll take it.

I’d love more evidence that we will be ok. You probably would too. But Advent rarely gives us proof. Instead, it offers us presence. A promise whispered, not shouted. A truth meant to be received more than explained.

And the truth Advent keeps whispering is this:

You are going to be ok.

Not because everything will suddenly resolve. Not because the anxiety will vanish. But because you are seen. Because you are not alone. Because Love has already entered the story and has not left.

That is the blessing of Advent. God with us. God close. God speaking gently to anxious hearts.

It’s also an Advent invitation.

To let ourselves hear what God has been saying all along. To rest, even briefly, in the assurance that we are held. To trust that presence is already here. And to carry this word gently into the lives of others.

You are going to be ok.

It’s often said, and it is true: “Love is not passive. Solidarity costs something.”

Every June, our timelines glow with rainbows. Straight allies hand out hugs, wave flags, and post #LoveIsLove selfies. Many are genuinely committed to queer liberation—until Sunday morning, when they slide back into pews that refuse to bless same-sex love, deny baptism to trans believers, or preach “love the sinner, hate the sin” sermons that still wound.

It’s time to admit the disconnect: we can’t celebrate queer people in the streets while bankrolling churches that harm them from the pulpit.

The toll of non-affirming churches—by the numbers

• Mental-health crisis. In The Trevor Project’s 2024 national survey of 18,000 LGBTQ+ youth, 39 % seriously considered suicide in the previous year; the rate climbed to 46 % among trans and non-binary youth. Restrictive or hostile religious settings were a key stressor.
  

• Religious rejection hurts. Peer-reviewed research shows that non-affirming theology correlates with higher psychological distress, lower self-esteem, and increased health-risk behaviors for LGBTQ+ Christians.
  

• Spiritual exile. About 29 % of LGBTQ adults say they’ve been made to feel unwelcome in a place of worship; one-third of those who remain religious report an internal conflict between faith and identity.
  

• The power of affirmation. When queer youth experience high family or community support, suicide-attempt rates drop by half compared with those who face rejection.
  

  These aren’t abstract figures; they are lives—fragile, beloved, and too often pushed to the brink by pulpits that preach exclusion, either actively or passively.

“But I love the music…”

Let’s be honest about the reasons we stay: the soaring worship band, the kids’ program, our friend group, nostalgia. Those comforts are real—and so is the harm sustained every Sunday when anti-LGBTQ theology is normalized. Our presence and our tithes keep the lights on.

Choosing solidarity will come at a cost: awkward conversations, the loss of a familiar community, and perhaps being labeled “divisive” (and that’s a kinder version of what you might be called). Yet the gospel cost has always been picking up a cross, not picking out a worship playlist.

I was a pastor in a non-affirming church that I founded. Changing wasn’t easy. I lost social capital. I lost relationships I had nurtured for years. Some questioned my call. Others quietly backed away. Hundreds simply ghosted me.

But I have never regretted it.

The Spirit didn’t just lead me out—it led me into something deeper, truer, and freer. Into a faith where everyone is welcome to Christ’s table. Into a ministry that aligns with the Jesus I believe in—the one who never asked anyone to shrink themselves to be worthy of love.

A word to the Nicodemus-at-midnight pastors

You call. You text. You tell me you’re affirming, but quiet. You’re scared of the fallout. I hear you. I’ve been you. I will always listen and encourage when you call.

But here’s the hard truth: your silence won’t save anyone else. It might keep you safe for a while, but it doesn’t save queer kids sitting in your pews wondering if they’re an abomination. It doesn’t save the closeted teen praying the gay away. It doesn’t save the trans congregant slowly disappearing under your church’s “we welcome everyone” veneer.

Come out. Speak up. We’ll be here when you do.

What voting with your feet can look like

1. Leave—loudly and lovingly. A quiet exit keeps systems intact. Tell leadership why you’re gone, then go in peace.
   

2. Divert your tithe. Fund affirming ministries, bail funds for trans youth under attack, or queer-led church plants.1
   

3. Form a landing pad. Start a small group or house church for those disillusioned but not done with Jesus.
   

4. Stay if you’re called to fight—briefly. If you have influence to shift policy, set a timeline and measurable goals. I like to tell well-meaning people who say they are staying to bring about change: Change without a clock becomes complicity.

You’ll be all right

Walking away can feel like the earth is cracking under your feet. It isn’t. I have found deeper worship, authentic friendships, and a Christ who is infinitely bigger than any worship set list. The arc of liberation is long, but leaving non-affirming spaces yanks it forward.

So, straight allies: pick up your rainbow flag—and your shoes. March right out of the churches that refuse to bless queer bodies, then plant yourself in communities where love doesn’t come with an asterisk. Your feet are a vote. Cast it for life.

Anything less is just rainbow-colored complicity.

When the Sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of James and Salome bought spices, so that they might go and anoint him. 2 And very early on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, they went to the tomb. 3 They had been saying to one another, “Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to the tomb?” 4 When they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had already been rolled back. 5 As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man dressed in a white robe sitting on the right side, and they were alarmed. 6 But he said to them, “Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him. 7 But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.” 8 So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them, and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.

I’ve often joked that one year I might preach a Christmas sermon on Easter Sunday—just to see if anyone’s really paying attention. You know, just to toss a theological curveball into the mix. But the truth is, Mark already beat me to it. This particular Easter text from Mark 16? It’s its own kind of curveball.

Because, let’s be honest—something feels off here. Something feels... missing.

JESUS.

That’s right. No risen Christ appears. No dazzling encounter with the resurrected Lord. No “Do not be afraid” from the mouth of Jesus. In Mark’s telling, Peter and the other disciples are absent. And the women—the ones who bravely show up—aren’t shouting “He is risen!” They are trembling. Afraid. Silent. Psychologists would say they are experiencing trauma. Their friend had been kidnapped, betrayed, tortured, publicly executed…and now this. When will this week end?

This Easter ends not in fanfare, but in silence and fear. And maybe that’s where some of us are too, standing with these women—unsure, hesitant, wondering if resurrection is possible in a world of Good Fridays. If that’s you, you’re not alone. You’re in good company.

Let’s take a deeper look.

Full house. Beautiful music. Joy, wonder, and resurrection hope in every corner.

1. Easter Is Terrifying

It begins quietly. Just after sunrise, three women walk to the tomb to anoint Jesus’ body—completing the rushed burial. In their world, as in ours, grief needs ritual. But even this tender act is steeped in sorrow.

These women lived under Roman rule, where trauma and state violence were daily realities. They had watched their beloved teacher brutally executed. Their grief was not abstract—it was personal, political, and already present before the tomb.

And yet, somehow, the empty tomb terrifies them even more.

They came expecting death and grief. Instead, they meet an angel who says Jesus is risen. It’s not comforting—it’s disorienting. They flee, trembling and speechless.

Because here’s the truth: Resurrection is terrifying.

We like to skip to joy and victory, but real resurrection—the kind that disrupts the very order of death—isn’t neat or tame. It shatters what we thought we knew. It undoes our assumptions. It takes away the tidy rituals we counted on and throws us into mystery. Into awe. Into holy terror.

When I was a kid, I went to my first funeral. I was nervous already, and then I saw the open casket. My Uncle Lonnie lay there. I was scared stiff. But I worked up the courage to peek in. And in my hyperactive little-kid brain, I swear—I saw him move. I leapt back and shouted, “He’s alive! He’s alive!” It was traumatic!

Sometimes, I wonder if that’s how we come to Easter, too. We show up hoping for something comforting—but also thinking, deep down, “Jesus is dead. This is just a nice story.”

I know, literal, physical, spiritual, mythological, experiential, metaphorical — I’d imagine all of those perspectives are present in this room today.

But here is what we know. SOMETHING happened. Jesus was experienced after his death. How? That’s another conversation. The world was turned upside down, and here we are still talking about it.

Here’s a good question to wrestle with: if death really didn’t have the last word, what would that mean for how we live?

It would mean we’re not in control. We’re not free to cling to our old ways of power and safety and familiarity. We’re called into something disruptive. Something transformative.

Kelly Brown Douglas writes in her book “Stand Your Ground: Black Bodies and the Justice of God” that resurrection is God’s bold No More to crucifying systems like racism, empire, and greed. For the oppressed, resurrection is not abstract. It’s not just spiritual. It’s survival. It’s the divine refusal to let death have the last word.

And so, Easter begins in fear. Because it changes everything.

2. Easter Is Amazing

But the story doesn’t end there.

The angel says, “He has been raised. He is not here. Go and tell the disciples—and Peter—that he is going ahead of you to Galilee.”

“And Peter.” Peter—the one who denied Jesus three times. Peter—the one who failed. Peter is not disqualified. Grace is already chasing him down.

The women stand between trauma and ecstasy—words rooted in the Greek for “terror” and “amazement.” Easter holds both. We live in that tension today—between a broken world filled with war, violence, racial injustice, ecological disaster, the poison of oligarchy. and the glimpses of resurrection that still break through. Have you seen them?

We all saw it just this week, when the picture of Senator Van Hollen of Maryland sitting with Kilmar Abrego Garcia. I exhaled and whispered to myself, “He’s Alive!” What an Easter gift that is, and of course, much more work to bring him home.

I see it:

1. In Black churches, after centuries of violence, holding grief and gospel together as they keep proclaiming that Black lives are sacred. That’s resurrection.

2. In trans and nonbinary youth and their allies marching, testifying, and telling their stories—often at great risk—to claim belovedness in the face of dehumanization. That’s resurrection.

3. In every person in recovery choosing to enter therapy, seek sobriety, leave an abusive relationship, or begin healing from trauma is living a resurrection story, moving from death to life, often in quiet, courageous ways. That’s resurrection.

4. In every spring blossom that bursts through a crack in the sidewalk, every beehive rebuilt after fire or flood, every ecosystem slowly coming back to life—that’s creation’s way of echoing the resurrection. God’s newness keeps showing up in the soil, the sky, the sea.

5. In quiet acts of forgiveness, insisting that love still has the power to heal and restore.

Where do *you* see it?

Sometimes resurrection looks like a dramatic sunrise, but more often it looks like people daring to love again.

And sometimes, it’s just someone showing up—burial spices in hand—waiting for the story to begin again.

These are resurrection stories. They leave us amazed if we pay attention, and in today’s America, we must look for beauty, look for scents of Easter, if we will not live lives marked by anxiety more than gratitude.

Easter isn’t just about what happened to Jesus. It’s about what is happening in us. In the world. Here and now. The promise of Isaiah 25 is alive in our day: God is swallowing up death. Wiping away tears. Preparing a feast of joy. Even in a year like this one. Inisist on it.

3. Easter Is Inviting

But perhaps the most striking thing about Mark’s account is this: it’s unfinished.

The women don’t proclaim. They don’t run to tell the story—yet. They flee in silence. The resurrection doesn’t conclude with a neat bow. Mark ends it mid-breath.

Because resurrection isn’t the end of the story—it’s the beginning of an invitation.

The angel says, “He’s going ahead of you to Galilee.” Galilee—where it all began. Where Jesus first called them. Where the poor were healed, the outcast welcomed, the hungry fed, and the powers challenged. Resurrection is not a detour from justice—it’s the renewal of it.

Where is your Galilee?

Where is the place Jesus is calling you to meet him?

• Maybe it’s in a hard conversation you’ve been avoiding.
  

• Maybe it’s leaving behind a toxic relationship, or a belief system that no longer fits the God you’ve come to know.
  

• Maybe it’s in the hard work of healing, therapy, or recovery.
  

• Maybe it’s in saying yes, I need help and support in this chapter of my life.

Wherever it is, Easter invites us there.

And yes, it might feel terrifying. But it will also be amazing because resurrection is God’s promise that nothing is wasted. No failure. No trauma. No death. Nothing is beyond redemption. The final word is always love. Always life.

A few years ago, the show The Crown depicted the real-life disaster in Aberfan, Wales, where a coal mine collapsed and killed scores of children. The camera lingers on the community, standing at the grave site. The queen didn’t go. Prince Philip did. He returned to the palace shaken. And when asked what struck him most, he said, “They didn’t riot. They didn’t scream. They sang. The whole community. It was the most astonishing thing I’ve ever heard.”

They sang.

That’s resurrection. That’s the defiant, tender, amazing response to death’s cruelty—hope refusing to be silenced.

And here we are again. Easter. In a world still aching. And yet… we sing.

Not because death hasn’t done its worst. But because love has done more. Amen. .

I haven’t always followed my own advice, but in this, I’m grateful: when our kids reached the age where questions rise—honest, sharp, necessary ones like “What was that all about?”—we don’t turn away. We welcome the conversation. Because of course, we got it wrong sometimes. Of course, we would choose differently now, knowing what we know.

One of the most damaging things a parent can do is cling to the belief that they got it all right. That kind of defensiveness builds walls, not bridges. It doesn’t always push kids away physically, but emotionally, it creates distance, and connection fades.

I think the reward for allowing them to become their own people is you get to enjoy who they are in their late twenties and thirties, not because everything’s gone smoothly, but because the relationship is real. It’s never a finished project. But the more honest and open you are, the more room there is to grow together.

And this one—well, we’re both the youngest of four. Clearly, the gifted ones. 🙂

They’re all remarkable in their own way, but there’s something about the caboose… a quiet wisdom shaped by watching, waiting, and learning the hard way. The last to arrive, but never the least.

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One day in class, my seminary professor looked at us and said,
“If you make your living by your faith, you’ll eventually lose one or the other.”

I felt it land somewhere deep. I couldn’t quite grasp all he meant, but I knew it mattered. Knew there would come a moment—maybe many—when I’d have to choose.

Would it be my faith that bent? Or my integrity that broke?

At the time, I was still fully immersed in a tradition that believed it had a lock on truth. Looking back, it seems almost laughable—but in that moment, it was intoxicating. Certainty can feel like security when you’re young and searching. And in seminary, that kind of confidence was like a drug.

But somewhere deep down, I already knew: That confidence I felt wouldn’t survive contact with real life. And neither would my faith unless I learned how to hold it with honesty.

Over time, I encountered writers who were all pointing to the same truth: the human journey moves through stages. Walter Brueggemann, in The Message of the Psalms, names them orientation, disorientation, and reorientation. Others echo this pattern—Richard Rohr’s “order-disorder-reorder,” James Fowler’s stages of faith, Joseph Campbell’s hero’s journey. Different language, same arc: transformation through disruption.

My favorite is Paul Ricoeur’s First Naïveté → Critical Distance → Second Naïveté. One could argue that he was the one that influenced the others listed above.1

Paul Ricoeur, circa 1970 upon his arrival at the University of Chicago

First Naïveté

This is the stage of unquestioned belief—a simple, direct trust in the stories, values, or systems we've inherited. Whether it's religious, cultural, or personal, we accept things as they are because they’ve always been that way.

"This is just how the world works."
"The Bible says it, I believe it, that settles it."

Critical Distance / Sophistication

This is the phase of questioning, analysis, and often disillusionment. We begin to examine what we once accepted—asking hard questions, noticing inconsistencies, and seeing through assumptions. It can feel unsettling, even cynical, but it’s a vital part of growth.

"Wait—why do we believe that? Who benefits from this story? What if it’s not true?"
"Who wrote this? Why? What was going on historically? What parts feel unjust or incomplete?"

Second Naïveté

This is a return to meaning but with depth and awareness. It's not about going back to how things were but choosing to engage with belief, story, or tradition in a new, thoughtful way. It's a posture of trust that holds space for mystery, nuance, and complexity.

"I don’t have to take this literally to find truth in it. I can choose to live meaningfully, even with questions."
"This story may not be factual, but it’s deeply true."

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In Ricoeur’s The Symbolism of Evil, he says,

“Beyond the desert of criticism, we wish to be called again.”
— The Symbolism of Evil, p. 349 (Harper & Row, 1967 edition)

This poetic line captures the heart of his idea: after moving through critical analysis (the "desert of criticism"), we still long to return to meaning, myth, and symbol—but now with open eyes. This return is what he calls the second naïveté.

And maybe you’ve been there—
you once believed with a kind of sweet, uncomplicated trust.
God was good. Life made sense. The Bible was true.
But then something shifted.
You grew.
You asked questions.
Life broke open.
The answers stopped working.
And suddenly the simple faith you held started to feel too small.

That’s what Ricoeur would call the move from first naiveté to critical distance—
from unquestioning belief to a season of deep questioning.
That desert, or dry place, where you’re not sure what still holds.
Where every answer feels like it has a crack in it.

But here’s the grace:
Ricoeur says we don’t have to stay in that desert forever.
“Beyond the desert of criticism, we wish to be called again.”

That’s the invitation of what he calls the second naiveté—
not a return to childish faith,
but a move forward to a deeper, wiser kind of trust.
One that holds questions and meaning together.
One that hears a story—not as a literal checklist,
but as a symbol full of truth that can still speak,
still move, still call us.

This is where so many of us are:
not throwing it all away,
not going back to what was,
but walking forward with eyes wide open—
still choosing to believe in grace,
still showing up for the mystery.

So if you’re in that desert,
if the old answers feel hollow,
if you wonder if there’s a way forward—
take heart.
There is a faith beyond the breaking.
There is love beyond the logic.
There is a second naiveté waiting to welcome you home.

P.S. Why pastors are afraid of this:
Because most churches are built on the first naïveté. You can sometimes survive critical distance—if you keep it quiet. But embracing the second naïveté? That’s risky. It might shrink your church, shrink your budget… maybe even cost you your job.

Still, pastor friends, the choice is yours. I say: take the journey anyway. Insist on it. Your soul will thank you.

P.S.S. My friend Stan Mitchell often points out that Joni Mitchell’s Both Sides Now beautifully captures this very journey. Give it a listen—you just might hear the movement from first naïveté, through disillusionment, to something deeper and more true.

To those who were here for it, it will always be known as “the Letter”. On this day in 2015, City Church San Francisco, the church I founded in my living room in 1996, publicly announced its change in how we would welcome our LGBTQ siblings after our elders and staff had spent 8 months studying, praying, and deliberating about one of the most contentious issues facing the church today. This is not a post to re-hash all the details of how “the Letter” came to be. Whatever ways I remember it will not always be how everyone else remembers it, and who wants to argue about that 10 years later?

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Perhaps the greatest privilege of being a pastor is listening to the stories of so many people’s lives. In 2022 I wrote an article for The Reformed Journal that told a bit of my story. In it I said the following:

Those stories included not only rejection from family and ministries, but also harmful stories of trying to “repair” their sexual orientation. When therapists and religious leaders seek to change the sexual orientation of LGBTQ youth, those young people are two to three times more likely to attempt suicide. This is why many former “ex-gay” leaders have not only renounced their former beliefs, but apologized to the LGBTQ community for the damage they have caused.

According to a landmark 2009 study, when families reject their LGBTQ children, their children are 8.4 times more likely to attempt suicide, 5.9 times more likely to have high levels of depression, and 3.4 times more likely to use illegal drugs than LGBTQ children who have supportive families. Suicide rates are highest among transgender people; 41% of transgender adults in the United States have attempted suicide in their lifetime, compared to only 1.6% of the overall population. Read more on this here.

When people ask me why we changed our mind in 2015 and became an affirming church, I say this: stories and statistics. Through listening and loving, I saw that my theology was demonstrably and unquestionably harming people. This kind of discovery is nothing new, the church has been answering the question “Who is the gospel for?” throughout its checkered past and has a long history of “we were wrong” discoveries followed by repentance. One way to understand the New Testament is as a product of asking this question while it wrestled with the inclusion of Gentiles in the movement Jesus started.

The cost of doing such a thing was immense. Hundreds vanished from my life never to speak to me again. Many left quietly, others, out of their unresolved inner conflicts, saw fit to scapegoat, slander, lie, and try to bring our church down, often doing so as they believed every half truth and rumor that surfaced about our process.

Others were just sad. The City Church they had come to love was going to be much smaller and much different, and that was a legitimate loss to grieve. Sometimes, our grief comes out sideways.

It would have been so easy to do nothing. Our church’s financial future—along with my own, to be honest—would have been secure for decades if we had just changed nothing. A departing church leader told me, “This move is just bad for business.” The moment he said it, I think he knew it was wrong. I simply replied, “We are not a business; we are a church.” He nodded.

The Sunday after the letter went out—the last Sunday at City Church for hundreds—I stood before the congregation, inviting them into a process of discovery and conversation. Few accepted. During my presentation, I shared the sobering statistics I mentioned earlier. Afterward, a longtime congregant—someone I had walked with through life’s highs and lows—approached me and said, “You’re causing this much trouble for just 3% to 5% of the population?”

I replied, “You know, Jesus tells a parable about a shepherd who leaves 99 sheep to find the lost one.”

He simply raised his hand, turned, and walked away. I haven’t seen him since.

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Gospel work is seldom easy.

Perhaps the lowest point came a month or so later, when the editor of World Magazine, recruited by disgruntled former congregants, claimed to be investigating City Church’s process. During our interview, he suddenly asked, “Isn’t this really about your son?” My heart sank. My son, my precious boy, who had courageously come out to me in 2010, surely he wasn’t going to be dragged into this? I told him, “Do not make this about my son.” He replied, “The journalist in me wants to get all the facts straight.” I countered, “I hope the Jesus in you wants to be charitable.” Months later, he publicly outed my son by quoting one of his tweets in the article. I’m guessing, in the frenzy of culture war logic, his tweet was seen as fair game. I never imagined parenthood would mean calling my son to tell him a deeply personal part of his life was in a magazine that would be on the coffee table of every member of his extended family.

The church would never be the same. It would never be as large. It would never be as rich. It would never command the respect and accolades of the evangelical world again.

And.

It would never be complicit in harming our beloved LGBTQ siblings again. It would never, even if passively, make them feel less than. It would never be part of the death dealing harm that non-affirming churches bring, intended or not, to a group of people who simply want to live in peace and follow Jesus. Our church became one of the lucky ones who got to welcome fully, without conditions, some of the finest Jesus followers I’ve ever been around.

About that text.

It read, “I’m sure I'm not the first to text you about the testimony shared at City Church yesterday. I really want you to watch it because this man’s story is the fruit of your labor.” It starts at minute 38:10.

The only edit I’d make to her text: it was the fruit of OUR labor…the courageous staff, elders, and congregants who weathered the storm.

People ask me if I have regrets. I do. One big one. I regret we waited so long.

Sorry you haven’t heard more from me in 2024, but I’ve been busy, in the best way possible! My coaching, consulting, and spiritual direction practice have continued to grow in 2024, through my nonprofit, Cultivate Pastors and Churches, Inc.

In mid-December, Cultivate received a matching gift that would unlock $25,000 for the work I’m doing. We are getting close! I’d love to have you on the team of supporters that make this happen. If you feel so inclined, here’s a link that makes donations easy.

May God be with us all in 2025!

Grace and Peace,

Fred

PS: We were grateful to have the whole crew with us this year!

Below is a sermon I preached on 12/22/24 at the church I’m serving in a pastoral and consulting role. Joseph, thank God, understood the assignment, and it wasn’t to be biblical.

—-------------------------------------------------

The Joseph Hermeutic

A sermon preached 12/22/24, Stone Church of Willow Glen (PCUSA)

My name is supposed to be Jamie. James Frederick Harrell. However, when I was born in 1963, my mother was under anesthesia during delivery. Before she regained consciousness, my grandmother persuaded my father to alter the name to include her husband's. Furthermore, when my father informed the nurse that my name should be Frederick Ormond Harrell, he was unsure of the spelling of "Frederick" and told her to "just put Fred." This is what my mother woke up to. She called me “baby boy” for my first two years because she couldn’t call a little boy “Fred” she used to say. True Story! I had a rough start yall!

Our youngest was to be named McKenzie Ellis Harrell. After Terely gave birth on Saturday, I announced her arrival to our church the next morning. However, when I visited the hospital that afternoon and asked Terely about McKenzie, she replied, "Her name is Lunden." I responded, "Well, the congregation thinks her name is McKenzie, so I have some calls to make!" (Lunden, btw, is very happy she’s named Lunden instead of McKenzie)

Those two stories are messy. This story is messy too. Matthew loves messy stories. Between the cast of characters in the genealogy, to the stories he chooses to include, Matthew is saying “Following Jesus is Messy Business”. Following Jesus is never the ‘easy way out’ of anything.

But Joseph? He needed an angel to intervene, but he embraced the messiness. The dream may have felt equal parts dream and equal parts nightmare, but in the end, he gets it right.

First, imagine how shell-shocked Joseph must have been. “Who is this person?” he must be thinking. Which, when I think about it, is something that comes out of every married person’s mouth at some point! She doesn’t seem like she’d be unfaithful this way. How will Joseph respond?

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If he wants to be biblical? He can find scriptures that tell him his responsibility is to divorce her and stone her. We might say to Joseph “Well, the Scriptures are clear”. Beware anyone who tells you such a thing, because you know we can get “the Scriptures” to justify anything, including wars of conquest, genocide, women held as property, and the institution of slavery. Joseph is not infected with the heresy of biblicism. For a quick primer on biblicism, see this post by my friend, Brian Zahnd.

The text says Joseph will “dismiss her quietly”. Joseph asks a better question than “What is the biblical thing to do”. He asks, apparently, what is the way of love here? Given his understanding, he was choosing the way of least humiliation for Mary. The easy choice for Joseph is to follow the letter of the law, which would have Mary shamed and blamed and discarded. The harder choice which may lead to persecution, is choosing the way of love.

Maybe, years later, when Jesus was brought to the woman caught in adultery… Jesus thought to himself, “This could have happened to my mom! And my dad would not allow it. I won’t allow it either”, as he saved that woman in John chapter 8, from stoning. Speculating. Possible.

But I don’t suspect anyone in this room is thrilled with Joseph’s less-than-completely awful response. He needed a dream. And he got one.

And it begins with the most common one-liner in the Bible. “Do not be afraid”. Said some 365 times in Scripture. Because God knows fear is what drives most of our lives. And Joseph is understandably afraid. He, like us on many occasions, finds himself in an unexpected predicament. Unexpected predicament.

What are your unexpected predicaments?

• Never thought I’d still be single

• Never thought I’d be childless

• Never thought my marriage would end

• Never thought my career would be like this

• Never thought I’d get this diagnosis

• Never thought Middle School would be this hard

• Never thought my parents would divorce

• Never thought I’d lose so much in this life

Never thought. You stand with Joseph and Mary today in all of your “I never thoughts”.

Joseph is told those famous lines of the Christmas story: "Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. 21 She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins."

Joseph is called by the dream to something far more radical than a quiet dismissal. He is called to embrace her pregnancy as an act of the Holy Spirit, which means to follow God by not following the law. Imagine the criticism this would invite.

Joseph chose to embrace good news in the midst of a lot of bad news…because that’s usually the only way good news comes to us. He has no idea how this is going to turn out. The Disciples had no idea how Jesus would turn out. They all embraced good news. Why?

“Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel," which means, "God is with us."

Isaiah from 740 years previous: God can be trusted. God is with us. The original “god with us” had to do with a potential military conflict and the prophet is reassuring them saying “as surely as this woman (not virgin) will give birth to a child, so will God be your advocate, will be with you, etc.” That’s the original “God with us.”

But Joseph could take it farther. If this dream is true? God is with us in radical solidarity and full participation of all that it means to be human! Joining us, AS US. Identifying with our humanity in all its pain, loss, sorrow, and joy. If we can believe that, perhaps we can begin, to trust God in all of our “never thought, this…” moments. To begin to believe that God is for YOU, and for US, and all humanity.

"For whatever reason God chose to make man as he is—limited and suffering and subject to sorrows and death—He had the honesty and the courage to take His own medicine. He has Himself gone through the whole of human experience, from the trivial irritations of family life and the cramping restrictions of hard work and lack of money to the worst horrors of pain and humiliation, defeat, despair, and death. When He was a man, He played the man. He was born in poverty and died in disgrace and thought it well worthwhile." - Dorothy Sayers

Do you want the Advent courage of Joseph? God with us, in radical solidarity with humanity, has the potential to make you fearless. Amen.

First, there was the distance of birth. He was the eldest, seven years ahead of me. With that much age difference, we were essentially born into two different family dynamics. In 1956, our parents were newlyweds. By 1963, when I was born, they had been married for eight years and had four kids. Frantic, anxious, and exhausted are words that come to mind when I think of the home I was born into. Despite the love, care, and provision, our upbringing was framed by the typical challenges of a middle-class American family with four children in the '60s.

We talked about this form of distance.  

Yee Haw!

Then there was the distance of the name.  He was Jack, Jr.  Our father was a dad to all of us, but one thing none of us other siblings would ever be was his namesake.  Jack was the heir to whatever throne there would one day be, however small it may have seemed in 1956. And in many ways, he was perfect for the role. He was a brilliant developer of a nascent juggernaut of a company. 

We talked about this form of distance. 

Then there was the distance of personality.  With the exception of being extroverted and huge sports fans, we couldn’t have been more different. Jack was rough and tumble, a lineman who could grind it out in the trenches with the best of them. I played Quarterback, Center Field, Pitcher, Catcher, and garnered the spotlight. To me, Jack was my smelly older brother who liked to ‘practice’ the figure four on me. (Wrestling fans, IYKYK).  Jack was loud and took up space.  I didn't know where my space was in our family system. He was confident, even brash in his early adulthood, and I was anything but confident, though most thought I was.

We talked about this form of distance. 

Then there was the distance of knowledge. Jack had an incredible memory for every movie, every song, every experience. He held countless stories within our family because only he had heard them from Dad or our grandmother. If we wanted to know about our extended family, Jack was the one with the knowledge. As the youngest, I missed out on a lot of information. I can barely remember movies, need to re-read books, and lack Jack's uncanny ability to recall details. 

We talked about this form of distance. 

My first day of 1st grade, Jack’s first day of 8th grade.

Then there was the distance of faith. Early in our lives, I was drawn to faith, seeking shelter, protection, and unconditional love, while Jack showed little interest in it. This would change for both of us. As an adult, Jack found faith in a new and fresh way, a version of Christian faith that I helped lead him to—but which I have since left behind. Like much of our country, we both follow Jesus, though our paths have led us to very different places in that commitment.

We talked about this form of distance. 

We were “Best Man” for each other’s weddings.

Then there was the distance of politics. As our lives unfolded, we saw the world more and more differently. How could we not? I lived in a variety of places, experiencing diverse cultures and perspectives, while Jack lived in Lakeland for 66 of his 68 years. This doesn’t make my politics better or worse, but it's no surprise that it made ours different. I believe we were both right and wrong on all sorts of things. 

We talked about this form of distance. 

Then there was the distance of wealth.  I’m not disparaging wealth.  And it’s well documented how generous Jack was with his wealth to various causes in Lakeland and beyond. This doesn’t change the fact that we were on different planets financially, with the attendant lifestyle differences and available choices. Money is never neutral, and lots of it will challenge any human being.  Jack and I are both wealthy, not compared to one another, but to the rest of the world.  Jack and I both agreed, money makes things weird. 

We talked about this form of distance.

We couldn’t have been more different.  But we talked. It didn’t occur to either of us to not talk. I mean, we both like to hear ourselves talk, this we did have in common. :) Often the conversations were about more superficial things to be honest. Sports or Family were the usual topics. But we talked.  We didn’t always listen. But we never stopped talking. 

Walking with Jack just after his surgery this spring.

Now we face another kind of distance. On Tuesday night, July 9th, I said my goodbyes to my brother. We both knew this was it. He had been asleep most of the day, and I was flying home the next morning. But, thanks be to God, he was awake when I went to see him one last time. I told him cancer sucks and I was sorry he had to go through it this way. I thanked him for the things he taught me about life as we grew up. We cried together, held each other, and reminded ourselves we would see each other on the other side. For ten minutes, he squeezed my hand in silence as he lay there in his liminal state before gently letting it go. I’ll interpret that long squeeze as Jack saying things he wasn’t able to say in words. I kissed him on the head as he started to drift back to sleep. In that moment, our distance didn’t matter—only our love did.

We were close for having such distance between us.  

PS - And thank you for always saying before every one of my sporting events “don’t embarrass the family”  Classic. Rest well Jack.  I’ll see you on the other side where I’m thinking… there will be no more distance.

I spent my childhood in Lakeland, Florida, residing on Meadowbrook Avenue, fondly dubbed Christmas Tree Lane. Each household on our street proudly displayed a Christmas tree in their front yard, attracting a stream of cars for weeks leading up to Christmas.

During our dinners at the Harrell household, conversations occasionally turned to infamous figures in history like Hitler, Stalin, and Ivan the Terrible... along with those dreadful teenagers who stole Christmas tree lights just to smash them in the street for the popping sound. They were deemed fit for the lowest echelons of condemnation.

One Saturday night, while my parents were out on their customary date, my friend Jeff came knocking on the door. We, along with a few others, proceeded to steal a whopping 52 light bulbs that evening.

The perpetrator at the age the crime was committed. (Hello Crystal Lake Jr. High School!)

As soon as I got back home and confided in my sister, whose role it was to report any of my bad behavior as fast as she could to my parents, I knew I was in for trouble. 

My parents' response? 

1. I love you. 

2. You will replace every last bulb and apologize while doing it to each person on the block. 

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My parents weren’t perfect but perhaps their greatest gift was given to me that day. I knew I could fail and they would love me.  Parents look for this opportunity with your kids. But really for all of us. Failure is an opportunity to love.  

And there are so many other options, aren't there?  Shame, blame, resentment, rejection, passive aggressive behavior, writing people off.  But my parents saw my failure as an opportunity to love me.  The truest, the most powerful friendships you have ever had in your life are the ones where failure coexists with love. 

Peter had failed. He had told Jesus ‘I’ll never deny you!’  Jesus told him ‘Yes you will!’ And indeed he did. Three times. And here we are around 2 weeks later. Jesus shows up on the shore while they are fishing.   

In the midst of our failures, how does God make His presence known? Here's our blueprint: Jesus manifests Himself to us amidst our shortcomings through Community, Compassion, and Commission.

Initially, let's look at community. Simon Peter, Thomas, Nathanael, the sons of Zebedee, and two other disciples - quite the ensemble. Imagine yourself among them. What might they be discussing? Perhaps reminiscing over the past three years? Possibly, they're gripped with fear, realizing they're now associated with someone who suffered state-sponsored and religiously endorsed execution. The fate of Jesus could easily become theirs. Persecution lurks ominously. The trauma of recent events weighs heavily upon them.

Whatever they are talking about, one thing is crystal clear. They needed each other for survival. 

So. Do. We. That little boat is every church that has ever existed. Because Christian community is honestly a gathering of failures who need each other and God’s grace, because truth be told, every church is a group of people who are largely failing miserably at following Jesus.  

Welcome to Stone Church! Hope this is encouraging! If you are new here I want to set your expectations well… we are all human beings, none of us saints, and all of us in need of grace at every second. And sometimes, just sometimes, we really show up for each other in remarkable ways. 

Live action shot from Stone Church on 4/14/24 :)

Here’s my point: You need others who know Jesus  in your life in order for you to know Jesus the way you need to!  Especially to deal with your inevitable failures. You need a team of people to convince you that God’s grace and love are for you because we so easily forget.  

Question: Are your failures crushing you instead of teaching you because you have isolated yourself in your Christian journey and experience to just yourself?  Or maybe you are isolated but not by your choice?  What might it look like for you to see your Christian commitments as something that must be done together with others who are doing the same? 

Next, Jesus approached them, and us, amidst their failures with compassion. Now, what does that entail?

John 21: 4 Just after daybreak, Jesus stood on the beach; but the disciples did not know that it was Jesus. 5Jesus said to them, ‘Children, you have no fish, have you?’ They answered him, ‘No.’ 6He said to them, ‘Cast the net to the right side of the boat, and you will find some.’ So they cast it, and now they were not able to haul it in because there were so many fish.

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Now, if you have been around these Jesus stories, this may sound familiar. There’s a place in Luke 5, early in Jesus’s ministry where this same thing happens.  Same problem: no fish. Same solution: Jesus tells them to throw their nets and they have so much fish they can barely haul it in.

Here's the contrast: Peter's reaction. In Luke 5, at the onset of Jesus' ministry, Peter falls down in fear, recognizing Jesus' divinity. Fast forward three years to John 21, encountering the resurrected Jesus, Peter's response might be seen as falling down in gratitude. However, he does something unexpected—he leaps into the water and swims towards Jesus, the very person he had previously let down. Perhaps, on this side of the cross and resurrection, Peter comprehends that he is a cherished failure.

Question: In the midst of your failure, which voice holds sway over your thoughts? This voice is running your life, shaping how you respond to stress, anxiety, adversity, work, parenting, and life's unforeseen hurdles. Perhaps it's the voice of a condemning parent, a critical friend, or even your own inner dialogue—few are as harsh on us as we are on ourselves, it seems.

I’m convinced this is connected to how we construct our self-image. 

1. Basing it on your performance... Where any failure, reminder of weaknesses, or perceived 'lack' feels like a crushing blow. You may say “Oh I don’t let it bother me when I fail” but you are betrayed by your actions.  You become sensitive, reactive, and inclined to conceal, much like the initial characters depicted in Genesis 1.

2. Embracing the gospel of God's Grace... Here, you live with the awareness that you are inherently precious to God. Your failures and flaws only deepen your appreciation of God's boundless love for you. Consequently, you can become the kind of friend, parent, colleague who others feel safe failing with too!

How do you know if you are becoming like Jesus?  That’s the goal right?  Christlikeness?  When others fail do they move toward you or away from you? Ask someone who will be honest with you. 

Thirdly, Peter required more than just community and compassion. He needed assurance of his continued significance in God's Kingdom. Jesus brought forth a commission, reaffirming Peter's role in His service.

Our memory is connected to our sense of smell.  I went on google for this:
The sense of smell is closely linked with memory, probably more so than any of our other senses. Scents bypass the thalamus and go straight to the brain's smell center, known as the olfactory bulb. The olfactory bulb is directly connected to the amygdala and hippocampus, which might explain why the smell of something can so immediately trigger a detailed memory or even intense emotion. 

When Peter was denying Jesus, he did so over a charcoal fire.  At this breakfast, that same smell of charcoal (same greek word) is in the air. Imagine Peter emerging from the water with the smell of his failure in the air. Some analysts suggest that Jesus orchestrated this deliberately, indicating His intention to extend grace while also aiming for Peter's restoration. Those familiar with recovery journeys understand this concept deeply and have valuable lessons to offer. Confronting failure directly and traversing through it, rather than avoiding it, is essential.

Jesus asked him three times, the same number of denials, “Peter do you love me?”  Peter answered three times.  Yes I love you.  What might Peter be thinking?  I wanted to love you in my success… I was there after all.  But I love you in my failure.  I wanted to love you in my heroic loyalty, but I love you in my denial.  

Jesus is for anybody who desperately needs to know you can love someone in your failure, imperfection, and denial.  Which would be all of us. God can and will use this kind of honest, real, and imperfect love.  I think by doing this Jesus is opening up Peter’s capacity for love. Flawed people who love others well can change lives.  Isn’t it good news to you today to hear that your imperfect love for God… for others… is still love?  

Peter, who boldly declared he would never deny Jesus, has now been freed from that misguided confidence and arrogance. He no longer feels the need to prove himself, defend himself, conquer, or win approval. "I have achieved everything on your behalf, Peter. Can you now trust me when I promise never to abandon you?" Peter's transformation is irreversible.

You will never be the same when you realize deep in your bones that the God you worship, the God we worship here each week, the God revealed in Jesus Christ… is a God who makes breakfast for failures. Amen. 

Fast forward to the 44 minute mark to watch the sermon.

However, by "call," I simply refer to the inherent human desire to believe that the decisions we make are guided by Divine wisdom.

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You'll undoubtedly require Divine wisdom because the task ahead is no small feat. I recall the Apostle Paul's sentiments when discussing ministry: "Who is equal to such a task?" The answer: Nobody. Yet, I find it especially challenging when undertaking a new pastoral assignment. You step into a congregation with its own unique history, established patterns, ingrained habits, overlooked blind spots, cherished traditions, and peculiar non-negotiables. Doesn't it resemble a family system? That's because it is one.1

Lately, I've been pondering this topic extensively, particularly because I've recently assumed a new role as a Transitional Pastor (formerly known as Interim Pastoring). I appreciate the updated terminology as it underscores the fact that you're not merely filling a gap until the next pastor arrives. You also serve as a consultant, leveraging your experience to guide the church through a reset and preparation phase for their next long-term pastor. Will I heed my own counsel? I certainly hope so!

Because of the scarcity of wood following WW2, the church is made of 200 tons of Carmel stone from Soledad. The Stonemason, Manual Sunyer, slept with the stones at night so he could “get the feel of them” before setting them in place.

So what have I told pastors taking a new church?  3 things, but there are of course many more things to say.    

1. Continuity versus change: these are the opposing forces you'll grapple with. Which should take precedence in your first year? Almost invariably, it's continuity. The mere fact of your presence, replacing the former leader, represents a significant change for the congregation. Often, that’s about as much change as they can handle in year one. In transitional ministry you have to move a little faster, but the principle still holds.

   However, more crucially, you're in no position to discern what needs changing until you've listened, observed, and asked questions—from the previous pastor to the freshest face in the pews. Emphasizing continuity is essential because, frankly, you lack the insight to pinpoint necessary changes. After all, you've just arrived! Change inevitably breeds conflict, making continuity a valuable ally in the early stages of your tenure.

   Failing to prioritize continuity in this regard can spell disaster.
   

2. Respecting the past is pivotal for fostering innovation in the future. Innovation necessitates trust, something you don’t have upon arriving at a new church. "Trust is earned, not given,” parents the world over have in one way or another told their recalcitrant teens. This axiom holds true in the realm of church leadership as well.
   
   When I speak of honoring the past, I'm not suggesting reverence for the former pastor, especially in cases involving scandal. However, unless there's such an extreme circumstance, it's crucial to honor the collective history of the church. This history is rich with the sacrifices of individuals who have dedicated their time, resources, and talents. They've weathered both good and bad times, and their faith has been shaped by their experiences within the church community.
   
   While you may identify aspects of the past that you find disagreeable, dismissing it entirely would be foolish, unless it involves a grave scandal. Instead, acknowledge and honor what God has accomplished through the church's members in the past. You honor what God has done through them in the past, and they are ready to join you in making new history in their future, under your leadership.  Failing to recognize this step can have catastrophic consequences, albeit in a subtle manner. It may take significantly longer to earn the trust of the congregation, and in the interim, congregants will vote with their feet.
   

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3. Your first 20 appointments in a new call will likely be what I call “grievance appointments”.  “I wanted to start a dog walking ministry and the pastor before you said ‘No’!”   Now, I know there are also grievances that are serious and difficult as well. All churches are filled with people and are therefore filled with flaws. The old saying goes if you find a perfect church don’t go there because then it won’t be.  These appointments serve as crucial opportunities to delve into the church's history, offer pastoral care to those who have been hurt, and grasp the dynamics of the church's family system structure. Here’s the massive mistake on this one: Listen, empathize, and learn…but by no means set an agenda based on grievance appointments. These are helpful things to know, but you have to have enough experience to know there are 3 sides to every story and often, paradoxically, two things can be true at once.  But don’t shy away from these appointments. There is gold in those hills!

   

   On the first Tuesday of each month, locals gather for TAIZÉ. The sanctuary is visually stunning, the music moving, the silence, Divine.
   

4. I might have mentioned three things, but there's always an extra one up my sleeve. Those who've endured my preaching over the years know there's always a little extra I like to sneak in, lol.
   
   What you accomplished at your previous church, though helpful in part, is only a fraction of what's needed. In our moments of doubt and wavering faith in God's guidance, we pastors often fall into the trap of trying to recreate what we've done elsewhere. This tendency arises from a failure to engage in personal introspection and growth, either recently or ever. A new environment brings with it fresh challenges, aspirations, fears, values, and dreams, requiring a different approach altogether. Responding to novelty with familiarity only exacerbates the problem, resulting in self-inflicted setbacks.
   
   This advice dovetails with my earlier point: familiarize yourself with the context before imposing your grand schemes, lest you be misunderstood or, worse, rapidly diminish a congregation. It would be tempting for me to simply transpose my previous role onto my new one, but that would be both shortsighted and reckless.

Alright, that's my advice. But will I heed it myself? Will I follow the counsel I've imparted to others? Here's one early observation about myself: I'm already sensing an impulsive urge to rush change! Fred, rein it in! Surely, I've learned my lesson by now about the perils of moving too swiftly. I hope so. At 61, it appears I still have an opportunity to heed my own advice, and the advice of many seasoned practitioners in ministry. 

More to come as I embark on my new adventure. Pray for me. Thanks!

The good folks of Stone Church of Willow Glen hosted a reception for me and Terely on my first official Sunday.

The words I spoke were not words I could have envisioned saying in 1996 when I moved to San Francisco. I have changed so much. I’ve written and preached elsewhere about the nature of Christian spirituality, as always evolving, ever reforming, as the Spirit leads us.1  In all of this, I’m trying to do the work of “being the person I was born to be, to fulfill the original selfhood given to me at birth by God.” 2 

I was asked at a conference recently: “What’s it like to have handed over your life’s work to someone else?” I blurted out: “If the church I founded were my life’s work, I’d be devastated.” It was interesting to see the knowing agreement in the audience of those who had lived a little more life than some of the others.

There is a Hasidic tale that reveals both the universal tendency to want to be someone else and the necessity of becoming one's true self: Rabbi Zusya, when he was an old man, said, "In the coming world, they will not ask me: `Why were you not Moses?' They will ask me: Why were you not Zusya?" Or as Oscar Wilde put it: “Be yourself; everyone else is taken.”  That is my life’s work and yours too.

Here’s me being myself and testifying to the ongoing work of the Spirit in my life: 

Transcript:
I hear y'all have taken to hearing testimonies around here every week.  Well, here’s mine on this MLK weekend. 

If you don’t know the history of this church, you should. Not because it’s perfect and pristine but because it’s instructive.  

A young kid obsessed with who’s in and who’s out started this church in his living room on Lake St. in 1996.  While telling people all were welcome, that was not true. It was not intentional, but it was indeed false.  

Soon, a crowd formed in that living room, and we moved to the Presidio Chapel, where we grew to a crowd about this size. Then we moved here in December of 1997.   I joke that I started a church in the 1900s. :) 

And it grew and grew and grew.  We were up to 1200 on a Sunday, with around 2000 total people involved. Some of you were here for that chapter.  I’m grateful God always and only uses crooked sticks to draw straight lines. God insists on doing God’s work of renewal despite our distorted takes on what God’s renewal looks like.  

I believe you have to honor the past to understand your way forward. While that past was marked by exclusion, God was patiently at work anyway. Thank God.  

But something happened in 2010.  I was seen for the first time.  A therapist saw me as the wounded, repressed little boy that I was… who had been wounded horribly and tragically as a 5-year-old. I discovered the power of being fully seen, known, and loved.  The gospel that I had preached here for all those years that God sees you knows you, and fully loves you finally hit home for me.  

Then, everything began to change for me as a pastor. I wanted everyone to be seen, known and loved.  I wanted everyone to know that God saw them and loved them unconditionally. And a funny thing happened. I learned that’s not a way to grow a big church. 

It’s a problem for our species. Something deep in us is soothed by excluding others. Being ‘in’, while noticing others are ‘out’ can draw a big crowd. But the better news, what Jesus called the good news, is just so much better than ‘good.’  I had completely missed the message of Jesus: Everybody’s In, Nobody’s Out. 

If you were here before 2010 and are still here now, you bore witness to my (admittedly clumsy)  passion growing about this. It culminated in 2015 with our Elder Board’s insistence that LGBTQ beloveds know they are fully included here. And we proceeded to have a “Scottish Revival” (that’s Presbyterian humor for you).  We shrunk significantly.  Our species doesn’t do well with inclusion. It’s just so hard and uncomfortable. Unsettling. Disruptive. 

But, if embraced, transformative. To align yourself with God’s inclusive love always is. It will be both more lonely and more life-giving than you can imagine. And it was for us. Each Sunday after 2015 was tears and joy.  I think that’s maybe the way the church should be.  A reflection of life on this God-forsaken and God-filled earth we live on. 

In my 60s, I’ve dedicated my life to inclusive communities and the pastors who lead them. This is still the fire that animates me every day. I want everyone to know they are seen, known, and loved. I want everyone to know what St. Hagar taught us about God when she, after Abraham and Sarah ‘colonized her body to gestate their hopes’ in the words of Wil Gafney, was run out of town discarded, raped, abused by religious zealots… and was visited by God. Attended to by God. Nurtured by God in her infinite wisdom.  Hagar, the most important person in the Bible to me outside of Jesus, named God before all the dudes chimed in.  It’s the best name, the only name anyone gave God in Scripture. 

El Roi.  The God who sees me.  

I’ve given my life to starting churches that do the same. I am crazy enough to think it will change the world. A world that seems hell-bent on destroying itself over who’s in and who’s out.  I’d love to tell you more about it over lunch. Please join me. And it’s great to be back.  And it’s great to know the church we started is continuing to proclaim an Everybody’s In, Nobody’s Out Gospel. The City of St. Francis needs you to proclaim and embody this far and wide.    Amen. 

Beautiful, clean, the picture of health?  Nice and tidy? 

The reality?  Consider this painting by Henry Ossawa Tanner, one of America’s greatest African-American painters. This is from 1898.

Tanner's portrayal of Mary is marked by a youthful innocence and a gentle vulnerability that resonates with the tender age of adolescence. She is a teenager, probably 13 or 14, getting ready for bed. Notice her toes sticking out beneath her robe. Serene and radiant, and we might add, resolute.

What must be remembered is her social context as well. Mary is a teenage girl living in military occupation.

It is difficult for people who have never experienced occupation to imagine the horror of having your autonomy and the autonomy of your people lost to a foreign military. You walk the streets of your village, and soldiers are standing at every intersection, soldiers who don’t share your language, values, or taste in food; soldiers who view your body as one of the spoils of war; soldiers who can enter your home at any moment, to do whatever they will with your God-given dignity. No move you make or breath you take goes unnoticed by the force that shouldn’t be in your neighborhood in the first place.

- The Reverend Canon Broderick Greer

And she’s not in Jerusalem, Rome, or Athens. But in the backwater town of Nazareth, in Galilee. God has a habit of showing up in the least expected places.

“Don’t be afraid,” the angel says to Mary, and it's what they are always saying.  It’s what heaven has to say to earth. Don’t be afraid.

“You have found favor with God,” the angel tells Mary. God says the same thing to you. God has no disposition towards you other than unconditional, unwavering love. As Martin Luther said on Christmas Eve in 1532, “God is not at enmity with us human beings.”

Mary seems to be leaning forward, not away in fear. She gives a little half-smile. “I’m listening,” she seems to say. “You have my attention. Now convince me.”

“You will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him ‘Yahweh’s Salvation’, Yeshua, Jesus… and His kingdom will never end,” the angels say to Mary.

Mary has questions. And her question is very personal. “How can this be since I’m a virgin?”

Even in the Iron Age in an androcentric and patriarchal culture, she knows her body belongs to her. She doesn’t ask what her father will say, what about the shame this would likely bring on her, her family, and their name. Instead, she testifies to the integrity of her body under her control. In her question, “How can this be?”

In a world that did not necessarily recognize her sole ownership of her body this very young woman had the dignity, courage, and temerity to question a messenger of the Living God about what would happen to her body before giving her consent. That is important. Before Mary said, “yes,” she said, “wait a minute, explain this to me.”

- The Rev. Wil Gafney, Ph.D., in an article entitled “Did Mary Have a MeTOO Moment”

And what was Mary’s answer? She says nothing like, “I am not worthy” or “I don’t know how I’m going to do this.” What she says is, “Here am I.” Echoing Abram, echoing Isaiah. It’s a consensual response and a response of faith and courage. It is fierce. A harbinger of things to come.

Look at the painting again. Do you see the cross formed by the angel as the light intersects with the shelf? Mary is looking at the cross she will bear. That yes she gave was fierce. She said yes, not based on the expectation of things being awesome for her but on the expectation that God can create something out of nothing. Can you ask God today for that kind of ‘yes’?

We are all invited to say ‘yes’ to birthing something holy from God in this world that brings healing and restoration. It’s not like Bethlehem is the only place this can happen.

Mary then goes to Elizabeth, where she hears, “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb.” The Annunciation is followed by what we might call The Validation.

Mary is inspired to sing. And does she ever. The first Christmas carol is A DOOZY. First, the easy part.

‘My soul magnifies the Lord,

and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour,

for he has looked with favour on the lowliness of his servant.

Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;

for the Mighty One has done great things for me,

and holy is his name.

People love this first part of her song. Especially those who are not poor, not hungry, and not oppressed. This keeps Mary manageable and docile. This is how I was raised to view Mary.

But the Magnificat gives us another version of Mary altogether as a revolutionary, depicted beautifully in this woodcut from Ben Wildflower:

His mercy is for those who fear him

from generation to generation.

He has shown strength with his arm;

he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.

He has brought down the powerful from their thrones,

and lifted up the lowly;

he has filled the hungry with good things,

and sent the rich away empty.

He has helped his servant Israel,

in remembrance of his mercy,

according to the promise he made to our ancestors,

to Abraham and to his descendants for ever.’

Welcome to Mary, the woman of Holy Rage. The woman who indicts an economic system built on idolatrous ideas about what kind of people do or don’t deserve things like food and shelter.

It’s so disruptive that when the KJV was created, the British crown replaced thrones with ‘seats.’ Many countries outright banned the Magnificat from being recited in liturgy or public. When American slaveholders wanted to produce a redacted Bible for their slaves, as you might imagine, this part of the Magnificat didn’t make the cut because this is an anthem of liberation.

In (Mary’s words) we see a God who is setting the world right. When we see Mary’s song, questions arise about how Jesus was brought up. Questions around what might have been whispered into Jesus’ ear by his mother, the revolutionary, the rebel. We are led to wonder whether Joseph received his proclivity for risk from Mary. We are led to wonder whether Jesus inherited his rebellious nature from Mary. We are led to wonder whether Mary’s rebel anthem moonlighted as Jesus’ lullaby.

- The Reverend Canon Broderick Greer

The lullaby informs the good news Jesus would later preach in his first sermon in Nazareth. Good news for the poor. Good news for those who continue to be crushed in a world that thrives on exploitation and injustice. Good news for those needing liberation. Surely, a few in the crowd stood there, shaking their heads, thinking: “Well, that apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”

But the Magnificat is good news, too, for those who ARE well-fed, rich, or in a position of power and might benefit from systems that oppress others, like me. It shows us that our path of liberation is to use our position and privilege to lean into the values of Jesus, to lift up the poor, to center their voices, to learn how oppression works, to learn from those on the margins, and to find out God has been there all along.

Perhaps no one captures all of this as well as the late Rachel Held-Evans:

With the Magnificat, Mary not only announces a birth, she announces the inauguration of a new kingdom, one that stands in stark contrast to every other kingdom—past, present, and future—that relies on violence and exploitation to achieve “greatness.” With the Magnificat, Mary declares that God has indeed chosen sides.

And it’s not with the powerful, but the humble.

It’s not with the rich, but with the poor.

It’s not with the occupying force, but with people on the margins.

It’s not with narcissistic kings, but with an un-wed, un-believed teenage girl entrusted with the holy task of birthing, nursing, and nurturing God.

This is the stunning claim of the incarnation: God has made a home among the very people the world casts aside. And in her defiant prayer, Mary—a dark-skinned woman, a refugee, a religious minority in an occupied land—names this reality.

Courageous Mary whose boldness was passed down to her son to reveal the loving heart of God and show us a new way of being in the world.

Courageous Mary who proclaimed that her story and God’s story were one, that God’s dream of liberation and salvation was HER story.

Courageous Mary, who just through the act of giving birth, sanctified the holiness and courage of birthing children. Contractions, tearing, bleeding, cracking, trying to get a baby to latch, postpartum depression, perhaps.

We talk about Jesus’ body being broken for us, but we don’t talk enough about how Mary’s body was broken for his. The savior of the world was completely dependent on her most vulnerable and intimate body parts.

- Kat Armas

In my theological tradition, we don’t pray directly to Mary. But can’t you see why most Christians in human history have? If I ever do practice praying to someone other than the God revealed in Jesus, it would be her. So let’s pray to Jesus and ask Jesus to give us the courage of his mom that we might resist where need be, to be agents of God’s joy and justice in the world. Amen.

This beautiful art of The Madonna and Child was created by Anthony Vanarsdale.

In March 2014, I embarked on an immersive journey through Israel/Palestine, marking the initial leg of two significant trips.1 Diverging from the typical sanitized tours of the Holy Land, orchestrated by advocates for the Israeli government, strategically curated to divert attention from the military occupation, this particular tour plunged us into the heart of the conflict, affording us the rare privilege of hearing perspectives from all sides. The experience was transformative, leaving an indelible mark on my perspective. Upon returning to the US, I was fueled with the passion of a newfound believer, eager to unveil the realities of military occupation.

Not everyone welcomed the revelations, to say the least. I posted about my experiences there, and what I believe is happening on the ground, and the blowback was profound. I went from posting opinions on sports and restaurants and my kids…to highlighting what was happening in a military occupation few were paying attention to anymore. I certainly wasn’t. So, I get how much I confused people.

A few months later, the Gaza War of 2014 erupted. Spanning 50 days of hostilities from July 8th to August 26th, the conflict resulted in the tragic loss of 2,251 Palestinian lives, with an estimated 1,462 civilians among them, including 551 children and 299 women. Additionally, 66 Israeli soldiers and five civilians, including one child, succumbed to the violence.2

I wrote this Facebook Note (remember those?) prompted by the Ceasefire of that Israel/Gaza war. I have only added footnotes. While 9 years have passed, things have only gotten worse, and I continue to pray for peace and another ceasefire.

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August 2014

Thanks be to God for this ceasefire. For those who may wonder….

What on earth has happened to me about my posts about Palestinians?

Bottom line.  I spent a week or so in the West Bank in March of this year. It was a privilege that few in my FB friend base will ever have.  I am not smarter, wiser, etc. than any of you, most likely less than most of you by a long shot. But I saw what I saw. I saw what you haven’t seen. 

I think the moment I most remember was at the Dome of the Rock. A 70+-year-old Palestinian man was trying to sell us maps of the Holy Land. A 20-something IDF soldier kid, who probably doesn’t want to be there anyway, whose own soul has been compromised by the occupation, humiliates this older man. “Come over here”.  The old man runs over. He receives his humiliation and scurries off.  I remember our wise guide looking at me and saying “That is occupation.” 

Right after this humiliation, a new class of 18-year-old girls entering the IDF crossed agreed-upon lines with the help of armed IDF soldiers, just to sit near the mosque to give the finger to every Muslim in the vicinity. Especially Muslim women. Just to sneer at them, take Instagram pictures, and let them know that they are powerless, worthless, and subhuman. 

Parents who live each night in mortal terror that IDF soldiers will bang on their door, interrogate their 10-year-old children at 3 a.m., and leave them blindfolded in a village that nobody knows about, a village that is sacred and has existed for hundreds of years, on a street.  Alone, urinating in their pants, alone. Until somebody finds them. This is what the IDF does daily.  This is what they do before, during, and after this Gaza episode in the West Bank. Ask World Vision who employs staff to represent kids in the only country in the world that tries children at a military court.3 

Children, kids with names that I got to meet, and talk about American football, who echo the above paragraph and tell me about their friends. And their fears, as I cry, take pictures, and then imagine any of my 4 kids in the same situation. I’m showing them pictures of me at a 49ers game with my son, and they are gleefully smiling. I am crying because that night will be another night of them hoping the front door doesn’t get pounded on by IDF soldiers. Suddenly, everything changes.  My perspective is compromised. I have no doubt about it. 

A refugee camp father expresses every parent's universal aspiration—to guide their son through the critical 12-18 age window. In this poignant context, nearly every Palestinian youth engaging in the act of throwing rocks falls within this age bracket. These are young, impulsive boys fueled by testosterone, witnessing pervasive injustice and experiencing oppression, murder, and degradation on a daily basis. It all unfolds before their eyes, affecting their fathers, uncles, friends, elders, and brothers and sisters. Take a moment to imagine the weight of such a reality. How would it shape you?

The children I shared my 49ers game pics with… while I cried. I wonder how many of them made it through the “12-18 window”?

College students tell me what they do for fun each day is to return home and avoid occupying IDF soldiers their age.  They get their degrees from Bethlehem University, Bethlehem Bible College, with nowhere to go. No prospect for the future at all.  Wondering why they haven’t migrated.  There is nothing like looking at a young, bright, energetic educated person telling you they have almost no hope for their future. You can’t until you see it.

These students from Bethlehem University told me they had never seen the Mediterranean Sea because they had never seen anything beyond the 26-foot concrete walls surrounding them.

I could go on. 

• Checkpoints4 where Palestinians are stopped and held so they lose their job. 

• Olive groves destroyed5 by (mostly American) Jewish illegal settlers who also steal the water just to rub it in their face, in hopes that they would leave the land their family has farmed for hundreds of years. 

• Hearing stories of IDF soldiers who stand in their high guard stations and snipe Palestinians in refugee camps.  

• Sitting with families in Palestinian villages talking about having their kids taken in the middle of the night for interrogation

We engaged in conversations with a diverse array of individuals, including former IDF soldiers, Israeli settlers asserting that Palestinians welcomed their presence as "masters," Palestinian Muslims, and Palestinian Christians. It seems we covered every conceivable category. This, once more, underscores a privilege that many may never experience.

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And then this bombing killed thousands of civilians, many of them children.  Of course, I don’t condone Hamas lobbing bombs into Israel. What sane person would?  After what I saw, the boot of oppression on the necks of Palestinians every day, I wonder what I would do. With my white privilege and college education and access to every material wealth.  Why wasn’t I born in some remote Palestinian “Area C” horror story?  (do the research on what “Area C” means… search on Netflix for “Budrus”). Every breath I draw is a gift from God.  All my comfort and ease is a mysterious gift from God. Yours too. 

So, friends, I ask for grace.  And I’ll do the same for you, even when I haven’t always extended it before.  I’m sure I’ve been biased, although my FB status update is no news organization.   I’ll err on the side of the oppressed for the rest of my life. If you are a Christian this might be your mandate too, just a suggestion.  And if you haven’t had the privilege, and it really is a privilege to sit in the home, the land, of people who have truly been oppressed, I certainly don’t hold it against you in any way.  I also think, you, like me before March of 2014, are likely, not certainly, clueless about what’s going on in Israel-Palestine.  How could you not be? I know I was… so maybe I’m just projecting my own cluelessness. 

And all of this… I hope…. will become a matter of prayer for you. For Israel, for Palestine, for Peace. 

All of that was written in 2014. And here we are in 2023, where armed Zionist settlers in the West Bank inflict vigilante violence in retaliation for what Hamas did on October 7th.6 I can’t imagine visiting half the places we visited last time anytime soon. I pray, I march, I give, and I call7 my political representatives. Christ Have Mercy.

#CeasefireNow

PS - the most effective documentary I’ve ever seen, produced by the folks who took me to Israel/Palestine is now available on YouTube.

During the summer of 2018, I had the incredible opportunity to accompany David Whyte1 and around 25 other individuals, all strangers hailing from different corners of the globe, on a memorable walking tour through the enchanting Lake District in the Fells of Northern England. The experience was nothing short of magical and profoundly transformative. In anticipation of the journey, I immersed myself in his poetry, and there was one particular poem entitled “Blessing for Unrequited Love” that deeply moved me every time I read it.2 However, I couldn't pinpoint the exact reason behind my emotional response. It was confounding. 

David and I in the glorious Fells of the Lake District, Northern England. June 2018.

During the journey David Whyte recited the same poignant poem, once again evoking tears in my eyes. Afterward, he encouraged us to share our thoughts with the person seated beside us. As fate would have it, I found myself next to a fellow pilgrim who also happened to be a therapist. Interestingly, she was already familiar with my story, as several years prior, while visiting San Francisco, she had stumbled upon City Church and had since become a devoted listener to our podcasts/sermons. On the first day of our pilgrimage, she mentioned that she had been following my journey, particularly referencing the significant events in 2015 when our church embraced LGBTQ affirmation, and the subsequent challenges and fallout we faced.3 She leaned forward and said, “I’ve been following you and I know what you have been through”.  

So, here we are a few days later talking about this poem. I confided in her, saying, "I can't quite fathom why this poem affects me so deeply. I have a loving spouse, wonderful friendships, and have experienced reciprocal love." She gazed at me and responded, "Unrequited love isn't limited to individual experiences; it can also manifest collectively. Who else in this room, or almost anybody, has such a unique psychological event as having hundreds of people vanish from your life in a single day?  That kind of event can  leave profound marks." As she spoke those words, everything suddenly clicked into place. 

Recently, I shared this experience with my Spiritual Director. He offered a comforting insight, saying, "Grief has its own timetable; it just needs to be respected and acknowledged when it surfaces." At that moment, with her loving and nonjudgmental presence, my tears of grief became a significant step forward in my healing journey toward recovery.

The God Who Sees Me

During that moment, I shared with my Spiritual Director the profound sense of being seen, drawing parallels to the story of Hagar in the Hebrew Scriptures. Despite Hagar's own overwhelming grief, she named God "El Roi," which means "the God who sees me."4 This name holds tremendous significance for me and has now become central to my spiritual practice and when assisting those I guide and support.

Through my experiences coaching and consulting with pastors, I have come to understand that one of the most significant hidden griefs they carry is the phenomenon of people disappearing from their lives, commonly called ‘ghosting’, without a word. This occurrence is present in every church, regardless of its theological orientation – be it conservative, progressive, or any other. We implemented substantial changes that exacerbated this dynamic5, but the reality remains that every pastor must be prepared to be 'ghosted' numerous times throughout their ministry careers. 

While all individuals in listening professions (coaches, pastors, therapists, spiritual directors.) experience ghosting, it hits the hardest for pastors. Unlike therapists and coaches, pastors often develop close friendships with those who ghost them. They play significant roles in people's lives, baptizing their children, providing support during their darkest times, conducting funeral services for their loved ones, and offering countless prayers on their behalf.  And then, in the blink of an eye, they simply vanish. Pastors wonder if all of their relationships are simply transactional.  They feel expendable. They feel used. 

The impact of such actions on the soul of a pastor should not be underestimated. Pastors are not immune to emotions; they too need community and support, just like anyone else. The pain caused by being ghosted runs deep and leaves profound wounds. Ask their spouses, they know all too well.  And you wonder why a pastor like me would love the first name given to God in the Scriptures.  El Roi.  The God who sees me. 

Everything Belongs, as Richard Rohr has taught me. Being OK and sadness can and do co-exist. It never occurred to me to simply bless unrequited love.

A BLESSING FOR UNREQUITED LOVE

A blessing on the eyes that do not see me as I wish,
A blessing to the ears that can ever hear the far inward
football of my own shy heart. A blessing for the life
in you that will live without me, to see the open door
that now and forever takes you away from me;
blessings to the path that you follow alone and blessings
to the path that awaits you, joining with another.

A blessing for the way you will not know me
in the years to come, and with it, a blind outstretched
blessing of my hands on anything or anyone
that cannot ever come to know me fully as I am,
and therefore, a blessing even, for the way I can
never fully know myself, above all, the deepest, kindest
wishes for my own hidden and untrammeled heart
for what you had to hide from me, in you.

Let me be generous enough and large enough
and brave enough to say goodbye to you without understanding,
to let you go into your own unspoken understanding.
May you always live in the sweet central, hidden shadow
of my memory without needing to know who you were
when you first came, who you were when you stayed
and who you might become in your freedom, now that
you are passed through my life and gone.

…

From THE BELL AND THE BLACKBIRD
© DAVID WHYTE AND MANY RIVER PRESS 

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In December of 1994, filled with apprehension and excitement, my wife and I attended an event known as the "Church Planting Assessment Center." This center, affiliated with the Presbyterian Church in America (PCA), aimed to evaluate pastors' skills and core competencies to determine if they were capable of initiating a new church from scratch. The concept of "Church Planting" was all the rage within my PCA community during the early '90s. Influenced greatly by Tim Keller1, I had come to perceive starting new churches as an incredibly alluring and daring endeavor for pastors. It aligned perfectly with my restless nature and my innate drive to create and take on entrepreneurial ventures—a characteristic I shared with my father.

One of the assessors I encountered early on was Lewis Ruff, a larger-than-life figure who exuded a jolly and upbeat demeanor. With his distinct Philadelphia accent, he sought out fellow risk-takers who were willing to venture to the untamed West in order to spread the PCA's version of the gospel. Having arrived at the assessment center with Tim Keller's endorsement, as he was recruiting me for a church planting project in Long Island, Lewis probably didn't think he had much chance with me, so he mostly left me to my own devices. Nonetheless, I observed him closely. He possessed a visionary spirit, an infectious sociability, an abundance of ideas, and an outright hilarious nature. Without a doubt, he stood out as my favorite personality throughout the Assessment Center experience, bringing much-needed levity to a week filled with tension and demands.  

I also wondered if Lewis might be gay. 

The next time I heard his voice was April of 1995.  I had rejected two church planting opportunities in the Northeast and Lewis had just found out.  “I heard you turned down Tim Keller and Terry Gyger. You were one of the highest-rated pastors we have ever had at Assessment Center and I think you would be perfect for San Francisco.”  

I didn’t consider myself ready to plant a church in a major urban center. During my time at the Assessment Center, I kept my desire to work in a city to myself, even though it was my true passion. When Lewis presented the opportunity to consider San Francisco, I felt it was premature. However, Lewis believed in me long before I believed in myself. This would become a recurring theme. After the call I shared my conversation with my wife downstairs in our kitchen, our children clinging to her legs, she looked at me and uttered, "That's it, you know."2 Her words hit me like a ton of bricks, and I had to take a seat to absorb what she had just said. San Francisco? Seriously? It seemed too distant, too "secular," too everything. Yet, by June of that same year, we found ourselves boarding a flight to explore the possibilities that San Francisco held.

Lewis was 2 hours late to pick us up at the airport.  Another recurring theme. Punctuality wasn't exactly his strong suit. In an era before cell phones, we sat there for two hours, anxiously hoping that the same gregarious individual I remembered from the Assessment Center would eventually show up. But as always, Lewis came through, pulling up in a wood-paneled station wagon that perfectly matched his larger-than-life personality and physique. I vividly recalled the driver's seat being partially reclined as he maneuvered the vehicle. It was quite a sight to witness a man from Philadelphia driving a massive station wagon all around San Francisco and the Bay Area, engaging in lively conversations with every driver encountered. "Hello, sir! This lane is mine, thank you very much!" "Ma'am, please don't pull out in front of me, thank you!"  "Please don't turn into that garage, we need a parking space!" His running commentary provided endless amusement. I can hear his voice now. I wish I could still hear it.

Lewis took this picture on our recruiting trip to San Francisco in June of 1995. The look on my face seems to be saying “This is California, I thought it would be sunny and warm, what is up with this place?” Terely says she sees two people who are completely out of place and wondering “what are we doing here?”

Everything else Lewis said was straight facts about San Francisco.  If you knew Lewis, you knew he loved facts. Loved stats. Loved history.  Loved telling the stories of a place. Lewis was the ultimate demographics man.  His unwavering dedication to thoroughly understanding a city, a locale, or even a country was a testament to his unique genius. I had never witnessed anyone who could interpret and comprehend a city's essence quite like Lewis did. He emphasized the significance of recognizing a place's distinctiveness and the responsibility of starting a church that honored its history and sensibilities. Much like Tim Keller, Lewis created a space for church planters to embody both theological depth and practical wisdom simultaneously—a balance that was often rare to find in those days. 3

A friend of mine, who was also a church planter from our shared past, texted me after Lewis's passing, stating, "He was the best person I've ever known at reading a community." Lewis had an insatiable curiosity that drove him to gather extensive knowledge of any church and its surrounding community before he arrived to offer his consultation. He led with a spirit of listening, approached every situation with genuine curiosity, and carried a fervent desire to introduce others to Jesus. While he tooled around the streets of San Francisco, effortlessly sharing intriguing facts and historical tidbits, he also listened attentively to us—the anxieties, reservations, and lack of confidence we harbored regarding the feasibility of this crazy idea. I believe Lewis could sense that we were in the early stages of grieving the loss of our familiar family and community in the South, as this call would bring huge disruption to our life. His sensitivity to that was indicative of his pastoral skills. He read the room well, always. 

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Fast forward to 2009.  Lewis had been discovered as a gay man. His coming out was more about him being found out, than any kind of healthy process of telling the world who he was and seeking to navigate that reality in a way that might preserve his closest relationships. It is not surprising, as a lifetime of suppressing one's true self can take a toll on an individual. Growing up in more conservative religious circles, Lewis, like many from his generation, had limited options presented to him in his formative years: either a life of celibacy or marrying. Recognizing that celibacy was not a gift he possessed4, Lewis chose to enter into a marriage, have children, and suppress his true sexual orientation. However, it is now understood that repressing one's sexual orientation can lead to unhealthy and secretive means of its expression.

The aftermath was immediate and challenging for Lewis. In his early 60s, he found himself without a career to rely on. However, his determination to live his life authentically persevered. Over the years, I had often sought Lewis's expertise in tax matters, as he had a natural talent for it. With that in mind, he ventured into the world of tax preparation and quickly became a standout at H&R Block, and later Lindi Tax Service. His success allowed him to gradually build a thriving practice, affording him the opportunity to pursue his true passion: traveling. Lewis embraced these new adventures with the same fervor he had approached church planting. He thoroughly immersed himself in the cultures and histories of the places he visited, particularly destinations like Egypt, India, and many others. His Facebook followers were treated to a wealth of knowledge about these locations. Lewis approached his travels with the same meticulousness he displayed in church planting, meticulously researching each destination, identifying the sights he wanted to see, the questions he wanted answered, and the local cuisine he wished to savor. His insatiable curiosity about how cultures evolved and endured throughout time remained a driving force in his life.

His Facebook page served as a travelogue of his trips all over the world.

It feels almost fitting to say, "Of course, Lewis passed away while he was traveling." And indeed, that's exactly what happened in Mexico City. Just as we were beginning to enjoy his insightful Facebook posts about the vibrant life and culture of the city, he was taken from us. His final posts on Facebook were on June 20th, around 7 pm. He was enthusiastically praising the delights of Esperanza Bakery, sharing, "Dealing with the Phillies' loss to the Braves in Mexico City with a trip to Esperanza Bakery, where they continuously unveil an array of bread, donuts, pastries, and exquisite desserts right before your eyes and appetites." And then another post followed, simply stating, "Esperanza Bakery, Mexico City. Mucho yummy!" It was a perfect last post from Lewis, and as I write this with tears in my eyes, it encapsulates the essence of his joyful spirit.

I am sharing my personal experience of Lewis here, knowing that it resonates with many who knew him as well. However, it is important to acknowledge that Lewis, like all individuals, was complex. People can be perceived differently depending on the context in which we interact with them. The friend who appears one way with us may present themselves differently in their professional life or with their family. There have been times when I wished I could have seen my own father through the eyes of his friends, as they seemingly experienced him in a way that I did not. I have come to realize through my own interior work that we are all walking contradictions. We are a mixture of beauty and brokenness, and God, in His unwavering love, sees all of this and relentlessly pursues us to bring healing and restoration. 

The significance of Lewis's posting from "Esperanza Bakery" is truly fitting, as the word "Esperanza" translates to "Hope." Lewis embodied hope in his life. No matter how disheartened I felt, he always directed my attention toward the positive things happening around me that I might have overlooked. Even during the challenging years he faced, I never heard him complain or speak negatively about others. When I inquired about why certain individuals had distanced themselves from him or severed connections, he responded with empathy, understanding their perspective without uttering a discouraging word. A friend of mine used to say that "vision is hope with a blueprint," and Lewis possessed both vision and unwavering faith that God had a plan and would ultimately work everything out. I'm certain Lewis was familiar with the renowned quote from Julian of Norwich, which beautifully encapsulates my experience of him: "All will be well, all will be well, and all manner of things will be well."

May you find deep rest, my dear friend. Your legacy lives on, with countless churches established, numerous pastors uplifted, and a vast network of friends and family who cherished you profoundly. The impact you made will continue to unfold in ways beyond our comprehension. And I am grateful to have witnessed your transformation from TastyKake to Esperanza Bakery because, truth be told, those TastyKakes were, shall we say, underwhelming. I can almost hear your voice playfully correcting me on this in the realm beyond. I’ll see you on the other side.

I will miss this man so much.