As a shy, early elementary-aged boy, I was easily intimidated and not one to draw attention to myself, definitely not if it could be avoided. It was midweek dinner at my church, and as I walked back to our table, dinner tray in hand, I quickly took a seat between my parents.

As I took in my surroundings, I peeked around my mother’s shoulder and saw a group of kids sitting together two or three tables down. I knew who they were—our church wasn’t that big—but as much as I wanted to go over and join them, I felt paralyzed at the thought of walking over there by myself.

After a couple of bites, I looked over again, but this time I made eye contact with one of the boys at the table—Andrew—and quickly turned my head away in embarrassment, acting as though nothing had happened.

A moment passed, then I felt a soft tapping on my shoulder. Twisting around, I was shocked to find Andrew standing next to me with a kind smile on his face. He had pulled up a seat at their table and was there to invite me to join them. My heart raced, but without missing a beat, I scooped up my plate and was off to join my peers.

That evening, I had the time of my life, talking and laughing about whatever kids talked and laughed about back then, and twenty years later, I would go on to share this small and simple memory in front of hundreds of people at the beginning of Andrew and his wife’s wedding ceremony.

Off all the stories I could’ve told in our decades-long friendship, this is the one I recalled, not because it was anything extraordinary (at least, not on the surface), but because when we find ourselves invited to the table—when we sit face-to-face with another and realize we are accepted—we catch a tiny glimpse of a heavenly reality that declares our lovability, worth, and belonging in an eternal family, and truly, it’s unforgettable.

Bonded by the Table

Gathering around the table for a shared meal is one of the most foundational pillars of the good life. It’s a place and practice we were made to enter into repeatedly with one another. It’s one of, if not the strongest reinforcements of our experience of belonging and communal identity. As seen in my microscopic example from childhood, even the most mundane of moments experienced around the table can create a seismic shift in the landscape of a person’s life.

Anthropologists call this act of shared eating around the table commensality. From the Latin com- (”together”) and mensa (”table”), research shows that commensality plays a crucial role in the strength of relational bonds among individuals and communities. Those who dine with one another often and for prolonged periods of time tend to exude:

• greater trust and relational depth,

• increased happiness and life satisfaction,

• improved health,

• and broader networks of friendships to rely on.

This is no random occurrence, but is in fact a reflection of the relational creativity of our Maker made manifest in us.

Perhaps one of the most interesting neuroscience studies that reinforces this layer of our design comes from a process called hyperscanning. Hyperscanning is a modern neurological method in which researchers measure the brain activity of two or more people at the same time while they interact with each other. Many findings show that during these kinds of face-to-face interactions—ones consisting of cooperative conversation, eye contact, emotional expression, shared attention, and coordinated behaviors—the patterns of neural activity between participants can become “temporally coupled”, a process also known as interpersonal synchronization. In comparison to various remote communication mediums (like a phone call or a FaceTime), studies consistently found greater between-brain synchronization during real face-to-face interactions. (source)

In laymen’s terms, when we are talking to one another, face-to-face, experiencing the same physical space, and even moving our bodies in a similar way (such as simultaneously lifting a fork or taking a sip of water at dinner), what we are actually doing is accurately noticing, attuning, understanding, and responding to one another, something that is required in all healthy relationships and something our brains physiologically bear witness to.

This is what a shared meal offers to a group of people around the table: a connection point unlike almost anything else. Not only do shared meals offer a special kind of bonding experience, but those particularly in the household setting create an entire environment supporting closeness and inter-relational alignment.

When time can be experienced with less rigidity and people can linger with one another indefinitely; when conversations are allowed the margin to ebb and flow from lightheartedness to depth and back again; when the physical space (particularly of a home) can produce a psychological safety and informality that allows “public” or “institutional” roles to become less dominant and personal identity to become more accessible, bonds begin to take form within us that can shape the very fabric of our inner person, even generate new neural pathways.

In homes and around tables, idiosyncrasies come to the surface, children interrupt conversations, family photos are on full display, food preferences are expressed, stories get prompted, laughter breaks out, unexpected tears emerge, messiness becomes visible, and new windows into greater authenticity and depth slowly start opening up, and all of it becomes good news to our souls!

The Table of Christ

How we come to the table and who we come to the table with says a lot about the kind of life we are living and the kind of person we are becoming. It’s a context of formation and transformation, and it’s no surprise that we are met with innumerable examples of “the table” as we wander about the corridors of the ancient Scriptures.

Abraham welcomed three strangers with extravagant food, leading to God’s promise concerning Isaac.

Lot fed strangers coming through Sodom, extending hospitality and protection.

Isaac and Abimelech, after considerable conflict over land and wells, made a covenant of peace and ate together. Jacob and Laban, as well as Joseph and his estranged brothers, also reconciled over a meal.

Upon hearing what God had done, Jethro, Moses, Aaron, and the elders came together for a meal of worship “before God.”

Families feasted during Passover; tribes received their daily manna together; David welcomed Mephibosheth in as his own kin; Elijah sat with the widow of Zarephath; Esther attended a banquet with the king.

Again and again and again the story of God’s people consistently returns to the table; its importance should not be overshadowed and cannot be overstated. The table was a context for celebration, hospitality, provision, worship, covenant, reconciliation, identity formation, and belonging.

In the ancient Near East (and in most nations and cultures still today), shared meals were not merely utilitarian functions of menial significance, for each held a substantive quality to all parties. Indeed, they were an invitation into relational intimacy, and even more so, personal association.

Those of us who did not grow up in honor-shame cultures can easily miss how much this matters, but in the biblical era, one’s name meant everything, and most wouldn’t dare taint it through proximity with someone deemed of lesser, lower, or impure status. The risk of social erosion was far too great.

But as per usual, our rabbi, Yeshua, came to upend and reorient such social constructs and redefine what it truly means to dine with honor. God incarnate and his disciples went to Matthew’s “home as dinner guests, along with many tax collectors and other disreputable sinners.” (Matthew 9:10) He called the exploitative Zacchaeus down from the tree to go join him for a meal in his home (Luke 19:1-10). And while at the table of a Pharisee, our Savior even let a “sinful woman” anoint His feet with oil. (Luke 7:36-50)

Each time, onlookers were filled with disgust at the inverted value system of Christ, and each time, those with eyes to see bore witness to the ever-expanding Kingdom of God being established in their midst—one which welcomes the poor and unhoused, the sick and the sojourner, the widow and the orphan, the outcast and the enemy. (See full article on What is the Kingdom, Actually? here)

While neuroscience has shown us that the shared table is a context of relational growth and belonging, it’s in the life of Jesus that we encounter what exactly we’ve been invited to belong to.

In God’s Kingdom, the table then becomes a unique place in which our bodies, souls, and spirits can each be fed simultaneously—where we align our tripartite beings to encounter (explicitly and implicitly) the goodness, beauty, and truth of God alongside our neighbor. It’s at the table we are reminded that all of us stand as equals before our Maker, and that none of us is greater than the other as children in God’s family.

In fact, Jesus captures this message most clearly in his exhortation of the banquet feast parable, when he call us to not only include the marginalized at our table, but prioritize their presence:

“When you put on a luncheon or a banquet,” he said, “don’t invite your friends, brothers, relatives, and rich neighbors. For they will invite you back, and that will be your only reward. Instead, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. Then at the resurrection of the righteous, God will reward you for inviting those who could not repay you.” (Luke 14:12-14)

O, the unspeakable richness that lays before us, to find ourselves reclining at the table, over a meal, with one another. May this be where we see and seek the Kingdom.

A few reflective questions…

If meals, around tables, in homes, are of such a significance to both the biblical narrative and our own relational and psychological development, then perhaps it would benefit us all to take a household inventory of the value systems and practices that currently exist around our table. Here are a few reflection questions to get us started:

• How often are meals shared together? (Note: per the following chart, notice the decline in daily family meals from generation to generation)

  

• How long do meals last?

• What kinds of meals are prepared?

• What is generally talked about at your table?

• Are there any anchoring rituals or activities at your table?

• Where is there greater opportunity for intentionality in conversations?

• Where might technology or other forms of materialism be causing a distraction?

• How might meals become more communal and less nuclear?

• How might you begin expanding your table to the poor and marginalized in your neighborhood?

P.S. If you missed the announcement last week, my first book, Sacred Gatherings, is now available, and it is all about creating intentional spaces around the table to experience the feasts and festivals of the Bible in community. I would be so very grateful if you would consider buying a copy or sharing about it with a friend!

Learn more and order here.

This book has been a long time in the making, and it feels a little surreal to finally say: you can buy it today.

Sacred Gatherings grew from something I’ve come to believe deeply—that gathering people together, particularly for special holidays, can carry greater depth and be more communal and celebratory than many of us have ever experienced. It’s an opportunity for us as a collective to anchor ourselves in a biblical story that’s bigger than ourselves while reimagining what it looks like to practice festive feasting as families and communities of faith.

That’s the heart behind this book, and my hope is that it helps you create more of those moments in your own life, be they daily prayer rhythms, weekly Shabbat dinners, or annual Passover or Sukkot parties.

If you’ve been planning to pick up a copy, today is a wonderful day to do it. Transparently, launch-day purchases make a HUGE difference in helping a new book find its readers and have a chance at ranking within Amazon.

My goal is to sell 50 copies today, and my request is: would you consider being one of them?

GET YOUR COPY OF SACRED GATHERINGS HERE

And if you’d like to help Sacred Gatherings reach even more people, I’ve included some easy ways to support today’s launch below. Buying a copy, sharing the book with someone who would love it, posting about it on social media (feel free to use the book promo image at the top), mentioning it in a Facebook group or church newsletter, or leaving an Amazon review all help more than you might realize.

Lastly, if you haven’t seen some of the incredibly kind endorsement messages we’ve received over the last couple of months, take a look below. I’m truly so grateful for each of these 5 individuals for their gracious support of this project! ( Dana Carrington )

Here’s to gathering with intention, reconnecting with the biblical holidays, welcoming people well, and creating spaces where meaningful connection can grow.

Happy launch day, Sacred Gatherings!

-Barrett

Maybe it’s the echo of jingles that unwittingly get stuck in my head, or the amount of disposable income spent on Amazon packages and cheap decorations, or the shallowness of most messages we mass produce across the country and around the world.

Call me a cynic, sure, but not due to a disdain towards holy days, so much as a dissatisfaction at the way in which our Hallmarkification of annual festivities has diluted our practice of them. Perhaps this is to say that much of my discontent in our celebrations today is rooted, not in the greatness and grandeur of our holiday expressions, but in how little regard we often give them.

In the process of researching and creating the various liturgical guides that now make up my upcoming book, Sacred Gatherings, I’ve found a renewed sense of appreciation for the wonder and depth and sheer elation that comes with robust, festive celebrations. There’s been new perspective—expanded imagination—a sense of abundance among an otherwise paltry cultural standard.

Reflecting on the holidays of Scripture has been a balm to my callousness and a wellspring of possibilities, both new and ancient, elevating certain holy day characteristics that would have otherwise drifted into the shadows. While far from exhaustive or novel, the holiday characteristics that I’ve come to value vastly more through the feasts and festivals are: Rhythm, Remembrance, Embodiment, Justice, and Community.

Rhythm

• While the Feasts and Festivals are not to be treated like a rigid blueprint or a stringent rulebook, they do have a consistent symmetry in how they move us through time. This postures us as gracious recipients called to respond accordingly at the arrival of each time and season.

Remembrance

• As the French poet Paul Valéry so beautifully put it, “Like a man rowing a boat that floats on the tide, we enter the future facing the past.” Remembrance keeps us connected to both our individual and communal story, influencing our trajectory as we move towards the future. It invites us to honor the goodness and beauty of our past while simultaneously telling the truth regarding historical wrongs and injustices, each moving us towards collective healing and wholeness.

Embodiment

• As tripartite beings—body, soul, and spirit—we cannot engage in and experience the fullness of the Feasts and Festivals without our whole selves. These holy moments are a context for us to connect with our five senses and move our physical bodies; they are a space to feel deep emotions and contemplate the world around us; they are an atmosphere to transcend worldly limitations and worship an eternal God.

Justice

• At the beginning of Christ’s ministry, he declared himself as the fulfillment of the Jubilee, having come to heal the blind, free the captive, give hope to the poor, deliver the oppressed, and much, much more. He showed this through his life by including those most marginalized at his table, challenging the rich and powerful, and establishing an upside-down Kingdom with economics and policies that make no sense to the empires of man.

Community

• The Feasts and Festivals were always meant to be a large communal affair, gathering with friends, neighbors, and extended family for prolonged time together. Whether in jubilation or in lament, in playfulness or in deep contemplation, the holidays of the Scriptures remind us, in a world of increasing individualism and loneliness, that man is not meant to be alone, especially in the most sacred of moments. Just as we belong to God, we also belong to one another in the family of God.

Of course, most of our celebrations remain overwhelmingly ordinary, simple, and imperfect—largely as they should.

By contemplating the way in which we not only shape our practice of holidays, but how our practice of holidays shapes us, we might begin to kindle a curiosity in ourselves for what a more substantive and enriching engagement of each festive gathering and sacred moment can progressively begin to look like.

P.S. Announcing the launch date for Sacred Gatherings soon! Stay tuned here.

P.P.S. I’ve added a few free resources to my website. Check them out here.

I know I’ve been a bit silent these past few months. This is in part due to the joys of new communal rhythms and the preparation of moving homes, in part due to the sleeplessness of baby-life (round #2) finally catching up to us, but also in part due to the thrill of an impending book launch!!

While I have made a few subtle (and one or two not-so-subtle) allusions to a future book, its realization finally draws near (and I have ‘proof’ 😏)!

So, without further ado, It is my pleasure to announce the title of my upcoming book to each of you:

SACRED GATHERINGS: FINDING RABBI JESUS IN THE FEASTS AND FESTIVALS (An Approachable, Liturgical Guide)

This artistically-designed, coffee table styled book is meant to function as a first rung on the ladder for Christians who are curious about the biblical holidays but with limited past exposure to them and who are uncertain where to begin.

(Huge shoutout to my incredible friends, Jenny Kafer and Adele Fogle, for their beautiful illustrations and artistry throughout this project. I truly cannot praise them enough for the ways in which they have brought all 150-pages of this custom designed book to life!)

Why did I decide to write such a specific book?

Story time!

About 10 years ago, I was invited to join my first ever Passover Seder with a house church community in Birmingham. With well over 100 people crammed into a backyard with stunning rituals, rich worship, and a delicious feast, I left a bit enchanted. The experience was so utterly profound for me, and honestly I couldn’t believe I’d never been a part of one before. I couldn’t believe just how little I knew about all of the ancient holidays that Christ himself would have practiced, much less that the Jewish community has continued stewarding and practicing for millennia.

I began reading books, looking up articles, listening to podcasts, and chatting with Jewish friends on the topic, and I grew only more and more captivated by the beauty of these communal celebrations.

As I learned more, I wanted to “dip my toes in the water” of more of them—to see what some kind of “minimum viable practice” could look like for each of them, especially for a Gentile beginner like myself.

Unfortunately, I had a really, really hard time tracking down any resources.

Eventually, as my family started practicing weekly Shabbat dinners with a few friends, I typed out a highly simplified (and kid-friendly) outline that we could fall back on and follow together, which in turn catalyzed my creation of a Sukkot liturgy, then a Shavuot one (happy Shavuot from this past weekend, btw!), then another one, then another.

It wasn’t until I was halfway through writing this book that I realized I was actually writing a book. For the longest time, I just wanted something my wife and I could use with my kids and our friends to cultivate small sacred spaces together.

Now, several years later, I get to watch it come to life.

Of course, I’m no scholar and I know so incredibly well the limitations of this book, but at the end of the day, my prayer is that this book functions as nothing more than a stepping stone—an entry-level tool for a far more magnificent journey ahead.

Tag Along for the Journey!

All of this to say, the writing and publishing process has been completely new terrain for me with a perpetual learning curve, but it’s been a joy and a gift nonetheless, much to the credit of many of you as encouragers, supporters, and even contributors along the way.

Now, as I prepare for the final stretch leading up to the publishing of Sacred Gatherings (targeting a Fall 2026 release), I want to share just how you can get notified regarding the book release date, opportunities to join our launch team, and other information and free resources.

Fill Out the “Notify Me When Available” Form

Excited about the release of Sacred Gatherings? Ready to snag a copy?

While we will not be able to offer a pre-order option, fill out the following form and we will send you a notification email once we have finalized the publication date, as well as reminder emails the week and day before the book is published.

(Fill out Notification Form HERE)

Join My Launch Team

Ready to take it a step deeper? Join the Launch Team!

I’m looking for a team of at least 20 individuals who are ready and willing to champion this project and commit to purchasing Sacred Gatherings, especially within the first 24-hours of its release.

More information will be provided closer to the release date, but for now, please reference the following list of 5 core expectations as a member of the launch team and fill out the form HERE if you are interested and able to be a part.

BONUS: All Launch Team members will receive special, early access to the digital version of Sacred Gatherings.

Visit My New Website

I finally put together a quick Squarespace landing page to feature information about the book, a few past articles, and other free resources. It should be an easy enough domain to remember (as long as you can handle all of the double letters in my name): barrettmerrill.com

Download Free Shabbat Guide

Lastly, as a little bit of a teaser, I wanted to go ahead and offer a free, digital copy of our Shabbat Guide. This simple outline has been a sweet little framework for our family and several friends to follow in recent years as a way to consecrate and celebrate the start of Sabbath each Friday night.

If nothing else, I hope this short guide can be a gift to you and your family/ community as you enter into a weekly rhythm of rest, delight, and worship.

Download Free Shabbat Guide Here.

Thank you again for being a part of this journey with me and I’m excited to see where it’ll take us in the next couple of months.

Grace and peace,

Barrett

I know I’m biting off more than I can chew here, and that my language and theological approach is going to be vastly inadequate in conveying the richness of truth and beauty of Christ’s Kingdom. As always, this piece is simply a “whack” at conceptualizing what I am learning and will likely change and evolve as I myself continue to grow as well.

“But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.” Matthew 6:33

In a world filled with many kingdoms, each promising to add a ‘limitless everything’ to our lives, there is only one that will prevail: the Kingdom of God.

This Kingdom is our goal. It’s the nation of our citizenship. It’s that place to which our heart belongs. It’s the context in which all is made good and right and whole. It is God’s land, ever expanding among us.

In Greek, the word for kingdom is basileia, which means a territory in which a royal power or sovereign has dominion — a kingdom over which the king has ultimate authority. As Wolfgang Simson put it in his book, The Kingdom Manifesto, “The Kingdom of God is the domain of [God’s] uncontested rule.” Dallas Willard also put it plainly, that the Kingdom is “where what God wants done is done.”

Unlike the other layers to our spiritual identity — as individuals, households, local church communities, and the global Church — we are not, strictly speaking, the Kingdom itself, so much as its residents. It is the atmosphere in which we dwell — the setting in which Adonai’s government and will, like a canopy, shelters all inhabitants in perfect justice and mercy.

And to be clear, it is a government — not one structured by coercion, borders, or bureaucracy, but by the personal reign of Christ our Messiah through sacrificial love. As the Prophet Isaiah put it:

“The government shall be upon his shoulder, and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Of the increase of his government and of peace there will be no end, on the throne of David and over his kingdom, to establish it and to uphold it with justice and with righteousness from this time forth and forevermore.” (Isaiah 9:6-7)

But it’s important we be not hasty in bringing our own presuppositions as to the nature of this divine government. We each, inculcated in the governments of man, must be astoundingly cautious as we lean into this exhortation from Christ, ensuring that we do not find ourselves instead seeking a rulership of man with merely God’s name stamped upon it. What a crime of treason it is to dilute the image of God’s Kingdom, making it look like nothing more than our own reflections.

It’s as Jacques Ellul warns in his work, The Presence of the Kingdom: “We must guard against baptizing our political ideologies and calling them the Kingdom of God. When we do so, we exchange the gospel for propaganda.”

Yet, scattered across the Scriptures we see many a man succumbing to so strong a seduction.

The Tower of Babel sought to reach the heavens. The Israelites longed to return to Egypt in their desert wanderings. Even Adonai’s chosen people, when established as a new city, cried out: “Now appoint for us a king to judge us like all the nations” (1 Samuel 8:5).

Our need for power, self-security, and control (even control over God) has a way of conforming the ways of our King to manmade empires while calling it holy.

Even when face-to-face with Yeshua, the King of Kings, far too many failed to perceive the mysteries of his Kingdom for lack of sight. For instance, after feeding thousands, it is written that:

“The people saw the signs that he had done, [and] said, ‘This is indeed the Prophet who is to come into the world!’ Perceiving then that they were about to come and take him by force to make him king, Jesus withdrew again.” (John 6:14-15)

Yeshua simply would not be forced to lead his people on a foundation or within an institution that was established devoid of his Father’s instruction. His mission was not to fill the containers of man’s misguided ideals, but to fulfill the commands of the one true God.

Eventually, both Jewish and Roman authorities had had enough of him, and they set up an unethical hearing that led to Christ’s crucifixion. At this trial, Pontius Pilate questioned Yeshua about the nature of his leadership role among the Jews, to which Christ responded:

“My kingdom is not of the world. If my kingdom were of this world, my servants would have been fighting, that I might not be delivered over to the Jews. But my kingdom is not from the world.” (John 18:36)

Unfortunately, our unbelief in (and even manipulation of) Christ’s words are a through-line throughout the last two millennia as well. From Constantine seeking to “Christianize” Rome in the 4th century to the heretical Doctrine of Discovery that led so-called Christian colonizers to steal land and conquer indigenous populations in the name of Jesus, to even Hitler invoking the name of Jesus to convince onlookers that the nefarious Nazi movement was inherently Christian, we as a human race have time and again constructed our own corrupted nations under the guise of God’s Kingdom. Even today, per one study in 2022, as many as 45% of Americans say the U.S. should be a Christian Nation, a clear indication that we are still simply trying to conform Christ to our world and worldview.

So, What is the Kingdom of God?

Even though God’s eternal Kingdom is vastly different than that of the world, it’s still a kingdom, and like any kingdom, it has certain similar underlying qualities. It too has an agenda and an economy, core values and an entire system of justice. But unlike the political institutions of this world, God’s kingdom is a divine government of both a spiritual and physical quality, exuding nothing but the character of God through and through.

While the Scriptures don’t provide us with a systematic definition of God’s Kingdom (at least, not in the way most Westerners might find appealing), no one elaborately describes the Kingdom of God more than the King himself: Yeshua.

Throughout his ministry, Christ largely used parables to portray his message of the Kingdom in the world—a modality that helped translate transcendent truths into illustrations that were more understandable and relatable. To list a few, Yeshua compared the Kingdom of God to:

• A seed planted in good soil — taking root and bearing exponential fruit, while remaining resistant to persecution, the deceit of riches, and the evil one.

• A harvest of wheat that grows alongside weeds yet is separated and gathered into the barn of the Master.

• The slow and incremental growth of seed that is scattered on the ground, that — in due time — reaches its harvest.

• A mustard seed that starts as the smallest of seeds yet grows to be the largest of trees, providing branches to house the birds of the air.

• Yeast hidden in flour, yet leavening all three measures of it.

• Hidden treasure in a field, for which a man will, in joy, sell everything he has to gain.

• A pearl that a merchant has searched diligently for, selling everything he has to purchase it.

• A net gathering fish of every kind, only later sorting out the fish once arriving to shore.

• A Master of a house who brings the new and the old out of his treasure.

• The mercifulness of a forgiving master and the judgment over a servant unwilling to extend forgiveness.

• The Master of a vineyard who hires laborers at various times, yet pays them the same amount at the end of the day.

• The son who said he would not work in the vineyard that day, but changed his mind and chose to anyway, unlike the brother who did the opposite.

• A wedding banquet in which some rejected, others came dressed inappropriately, and only a few were deemed truly worthy of attending.

• The five virgins (of the ten) who brought extra flasks of oil for their lamps and were ready for the bridegroom’s arrival and marriage feast.

Each parable met its listeners as a compelling alternative to the pervasive cultural worldview at the time. It would have been a challenge against the normative framework, exposing each person’s own blending of God’s Kingdom with man’s Empire.

The words of King Yeshua did not come with ease. To those without understanding, it would only exacerbate their perplexity, and to those with eyes to see, it carried the sharpness of a sword. In both cases, it’s no surprise that Christ was frequently met with the response: How can you say such things?

What the Lord of hosts had to say was simply too bizarre and unconventional, too alien and unfitting for their (and perhaps any) kind of society.

It’s quite telling that those who would later follow in the ways of Yeshua’s Kingdom would be dragged before the rulers in Thessalonica with shouts declaring that “These men… have turned the world upside down!” (Acts 17:6)

No matter the context or country, that is the effect that the Kingdom of God has. It is here to upend all we thought we knew about how we exist here on Earth and to turn our world upside-down.

The Upside-Down Way of the Kingdom

Alongside Christ’s parables, perhaps nothing reveals to us the upside-down nature of the Kingdom more than the Messiah’s famous Sermon on the Mount. As Scot McKnight put it, “The Sermon on the Mount crystallizes what Jesus gave to his disciples as the new way of life, the kingdom way of life in a world surrounded by the power brokers of empire.”

In the Beatitudes, Jesus offers not just a list of blessings, but a radical reordering of the world’s value system. In every line, the assumptions of empire are subverted: strength is replaced by meekness, wealth by poverty of spirit, pride by purity of heart, vengeance by mercy, and victory by persecution. The Beatitudes name as “blessed” those whom society calls cursed. They reveal that in God’s economy, proximity to suffering is proximity to the King.

The kingdoms of this world bless the powerful, the self-assured, the “winners.” They privilege certain races, genders, personalities, careers, economic statuses, and education levels. But Jesus blesses those who are emptied of themselves and dependent on grace. He calls blessed the ones the world overlooks, dismisses, or tramples underfoot. In doing so, He unmasks the false systems that claim to bring peace, prosperity, and security, revealing that the true flourishing of humanity comes only through surrender and lowliness, humility and love.

As Henri Nouwen once wrote, “The way of Jesus is the way of downward mobility. It is going to the bottom, staying close to the place of pain and struggle, and trusting that there you will find new life.”

This is why Jesus’ kingdom feels so alien to us. It doesn’t climb ladders of achievement or domination—it descends into servanthood and solidarity. It does not seize power; it lays it down. It doesn’t protect its own, but gives itself away for the sake of the other.

In the upside-down way of the Kingdom, weakness becomes the conduit of divine strength. Loss becomes the pathway to life. Mourning becomes the seedbed of comfort. Hunger becomes the appetite for righteousness. Poverty becomes the posture that makes room for God.

To live this way is to live prophetically—to embody a contradiction to every empire and institution built on pride, greed, and self-preservation. The Kingdom of God doesn’t mirror the power structures of the world; it exposes them through the presentation of so compelling of an alternative.

The Beatitudes are not ideals for a pious few. They are the lived texture of God’s reign breaking into the present. They are the constitution of the Kingdom—the values that govern its citizens and display its culture. They are the prelude of the Gospel of the Kingdom—Christ’s agenda of goodness and glory for the entire world.

The King’s Agenda

Gospel, or good news—euangelion in Greek—is one of those terms that contemporary society has almost completely Christianized. It’s been taped off as a Bible-only word, and has been even further distilled down to highly reductive evangelical tools such as the “bridge diagram.” Because of this, we tend to miss its cultural significance in the first century near East.

Historically, when a nation experienced a big military victory or saw a new ruler ascend the throne, a herald would go about the kingdom making proclamation of the news. As a part of such announcements would come the implications of the event — a general outlining of the ways in which life would be changing (ideally, for the better) based on what had just happened. Especially when it came to changes of power, this “good news” would entail a foretaste of the new administration’s “agenda.”

At essence, a declaration of who the king was could not be disconnected from what their intentions were for the kingdom and the citizens over whom they claimed rulership, as well as how the king would require his people to live.

The transpiring inauguration of Christ was no different.

Towards the genesis of Yeshua’s ministry, one in which he would begin declaring the good news of his Kingdom, Christ visited a small synagogue on Shabbat (one he very well could have grown up going to as a little boy), and read from the prophet Isaiah, saying:

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives and recovering of sight to the blind, to set at liberty those who are oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor…” (to which he concluded by saying) “…Today this Scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” (Luke 4:18-19, 21)

Right away, we see our Messiah’s value system on display as one of liberation — from economic inequity, disease and disabilities, physical incarceration and enslavement, social marginalization and injustice, and every other aspect of life tainted by evil, death, and darkness. It is clear that Yeshua came to deliver us out of all such bondages, but we must likewise recall that he came to deliver us into every form of goodness and glory as well (this is, in fact, the meaning of our Savior’s name, Yeshua, translated as “deliverance” and “salvation”).

When our Savior shared this, he spoke directly from the ancient prophecies regarding the Year of Jubilee. He was fundamentally claiming himself as the perfect embodiment of this climactic moment first commanded in Torah — a moment that was meant to represent the culmination of Adonai’s value system made manifest among his people. It was a returning to the harmonious, equitable, and righteous way in which the Lord had called his people to live. Such a practice was meant to reground God’s people after the years of spiritual erosion that came through the mistreatment of one another, and idolatry, and deception, and shame, and sin, and all those things of this world that derail us from our devotion to God and care for our neighbor.

Through epitomizing examples such as the Jubilee, Christ displayed His agenda as one of an alternative and eternal rulership that would wholly invert and transcend every aspect of the empires of man. In fact, He first and foremost embodied the ultimate message of this Kingdom in Himself, as a King who surrendered His own power, entering into both physical and spiritual suffering and serving the lowest of the low. As Paul put it:

“Though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped (harpagmos), but emptied himself (kenosis), by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. Therefore God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.” (Phil 2:6-11)

This is the way of our King, voluntarily relinquishing His power, status, and even divine privilege, instead making Himself lowly. Christ’s life was an agenda of kenosis — of “self-emptying” for the sake of others — in a world of harpagmos, ever attempting to “seize, grasp, and exploit” for personal gain.

Jesus’ unwavering propensity to offer himself as a sacrifice to others reveals the way of His Kingdom in stark contrast to the clinched-fisted, influence-seeking, privilege-entitled, warmongering disposition of worldly empires. There is no getting around it: the chasm of dissimilarity between the two is great, and we daily witness this juxtaposition as we live in both the world and Kingdom. For instance:

• In a world where leaders rule from platforms, prestige, and comfort, God’s Kingdom calls us to enter into the brokenness with Him, the suffering servant.

• In a world devoted to the accumulation of wealth and power, God’s Kingdom calls us to give away all that we have and are.

• In a world committed to defending its rights, God’s Kingdom calls us to lay our rights down as a sacrifice for others.

• In a world broken up by classes, God’s Kingdom calls us to find life among the poor and disenfranchised. (See article: So… Want to Live Among the Poor?)

• In a world demanding punitive justice for wrongdoing, God’s Kingdom calls us to forgive, for “mercy triumphs over judgment” (James 2:13).

This is the outworking of Christ our King. It is the way of the Kingdom of God all around us. Far from an ethereal heaven in the clouds, these are the glimmering signs of heaven invading earth as we incrementally begin occupying “the land of the living” today. (Psalm 27:13)

Living in God’s Kingdom Now

In Luke’s Gospel, he recounts a moment between Christ and some religious leaders, saying: “Being asked by the Pharisees when the kingdom of God would come, he answered them, ”The kingdom of God is not coming in ways that can be observed, nor will they say, ‘Look, here it is!’ or ‘There!’ for behold, the kingdom of God is in the midst of you”.” (Luke 17:20-21)

Simply put, Yeshua’s Kingdom is here.

It is coming, and it will not be fully complete until Christ’s return, but it also has come.

It is made manifest in the world this very moment.

It is in our midst, and we’re all invited into it.

As Cyprian of Carthage (200-258) put it: “The Kingdom of God has begun to be with us since Christ Himself is our King; all who live according to His rule already walk in His Kingdom.”

Athanasius of Alexandria (296-373) states similarly that: “The Savior has come, and with Him the Kingdom of heaven is already among us. His reign begins wherever men and women confess Him as Lord.”

And John Chrysostrom, in speaking of the Kingdom, claims that “We need not wait for the resurrection to taste its first fruits.”

More contemporarily, Dallas Willard, in his book Scandal of the Kingdom, articulated it beautifully when he said: “Jesus preached that the kingdom of God is now available. It was not about to happen; it was something that had happened. Whatever dimensions of the future realization of God’s kingdom may be when he returns in power and glory, the kingdom of God has come in Jesus Christ. It came with the king himself at the perfect moment in history.”

And finally, Howard Snyder echoes the sentiment, sharing that “The Kingdom is God’s reign through God’s people over God’s creation. It has already begun in Jesus and continues now through the Spirit and the church.”

Truly, the ecosystem of the Kingdom is directly before us. It is the container that holds our households and communities of faith—the canopy that covers over our local microcosms of redemption and light. Yes, the Kingdom of God is near, but to inundate our life in such a dominion, therein lies an astounding paradox: it is not easy to recognize, and it is even harder to enter.

It is difficult as our participation in such a realm requires our death to every other citizenship and allegiance imaginable, acknowledging Christ alone as the one worthy of our undying devotion. While there is utmost liberation within this domain in which Christ reigns, the pain of sacrificing worldly treasures has a perennial knack for hindering our entry. Doing so does not come without “first sit[ting] down and count[ing] the cost” (Luke 14:28). Again, Christ surely was not embellishing when he said: “the gate is narrow and the way is hard that leads to life, and those who find it are few.” (Matthew 7:14)

Entering the Kingdom is no halfhearted endeavor. It is not an a la carte add-on or a seasonal engagement. Choosing the Kingdom is freely electing to die to self and all that one clings so tightly to, reorienting the sum of one’s existence around the rulership of Christ—in family, place, community, and even one’s very life.

It makes sense then that John the Baptizer and later Jesus himself would go about proclaiming “repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand” (Matthew 3:2) and “repent and believe in the gospel” (Mark 1:15), as the word repent itself—metanoeō, in Greek—fundamentally means to turn one’s gaze and change one’s mind. Repentance is the process of reorientation around the Kingdom. More than the acceptance of a nice set of principles, checking off boxes, or the slight adjustment of one’s character—all of which is rich young ruler thinking (Luke 18:18-23)—repentance involves total transformation and rebirth. It is about being ever convinced, compelled, sustained, fulfilled, rejuvenated, motivated, enthralled, captivated, and inspired by the inherent and resplendent beauty of Christ and His Kingdom.

However, despite this alternative dominion into which we each have emerged, Christ followers still remain with the unusual call of walking in the tension of a dual reality. While we seek to dwell in the Kingdom of God as royal members of the household of faith, we likewise find ourselves abiding in the territories of man. Though we are “not of the world” (John 17:14) nor privy to imperial rule, we are still left navigating how to be in the world, occupying the nations of man, as faithful children of the Most High.

Inhabiting the Empire

So where does this leave us? What is our posture towards these foreign soils on which we reside? Like an embassy set in alien territory—for we are, as Paul described, “ambassadors for Christ” (2 Cor. 5:20)—how are we left to engage the powers around us? One example comes to mind.

Consider the words of Jeremiah as he speaks to the newly exiled Israelites, perhaps as a helpful archetype for contemplation in our own context:

“Thus says the LORD of hosts, the God of Israel, to all the exiles whom I have sent into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon: Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat their produce… seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the LORD on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare.” (Jeremiah 29:4-5, 7)

Wherever God’s people are planted, the calling remains the same: seek the welfare—the shalom—of the place in which we dwell and for the people with whom we dwell. No matter how ethical or corrupt or righteous or wicked the present political forces may be, we are meant to be peacemakers in our place, cultivating goodness and pursuing justice and lavishing mercy.

But that’s not all. We have been instructed further, and this is where things tend to get dicey. In Paul’s letter to the Church in Rome, he admonished believers, saying:

“Let every person be subject to the governing authorities. For there is no authority except from God, and those that exist have been instituted by God. Therefore whoever resists the authorities resists what God has appointed, and those who resist will incur judgment.” (Romans 13:1-2)

At first glance, Paul’s words may sound like a call to quiet submission or even blind loyalty to king and country. But that interpretation misses both the context of the letter and the character of the God to whom Paul is ultimately loyal.

When Paul wrote those words, he was addressing a fragile and misunderstood minority community living under the rule of Nero—one of the most violent, self-deifying emperors in history. To be a follower of “another Lord” in Rome was already a politically charged counter-identity, one accepting threat of national hostility.

So when Paul urges believers to “be subject to governing authorities,” he is not endorsing those authorities as morally righteous; he is instructing the church to live wisely, peaceably, and distinctly under them—without confusing submission with allegiance or even conformity.

In fact, the Greek verb hypotassō (“be subject to”) conveys the notion of ordered respect, not unquestioning obedience. It’s the same word Paul uses in Ephesians 5, where mutual submission in love defines Christian relationships. It’s a posture, not a pledge.

At essence, Paul is saying: Don’t overthrow Rome by Rome’s methods—overthrow it by love. Don’t “resist”—antitassō, or “range in battle against”—for no battle is won by the flesh. With the expansion of such language, one cannot help but think of the many nonviolent heroes of the Civil Rights Movement, protesting unrighteousness—not with the weapons of man—but by wielding truth and mercy and peace.

Paul’s next statement clarifies the heart of his logic as well: “For there is no authority except from God.”

Human governments, in Paul’s view, are delegated authorities, temporary instruments that God can use—but they are not divine in themselves. To absolutize them, or to equate patriotism with faithfulness, would not then be an act of obedience, but rather a form of idolatry.

When rulers act justly, they reflect God’s justice; when they act wickedly, they stand under God’s judgment (see Isaiah 10:1–3). The people of God obey insofar as obedience aligns with the love, peace, compassion, and mercy of God’s Kingdom.

This firm but nonviolent principle has always marked God’s people:

• When Pharaoh demanded the Hebrew midwives kill newborn boys, they disobeyed and “feared God rather than man” (Exodus 1:17).

• When Samuel confronted Saul for disobeying God’s command, he withdrew legitimacy from the king rather than endorse unfaithfulness (1 Samuel 13; 15).

• When Nathan confronted David for abusing royal power, he declared God’s judgment directly to the throne rather than remain silent (2 Samuel 12).

• When Elijah opposed Ahab for institutionalized idolatry and injustice, he publicly resisted state-sponsored evil rather than comply (1 Kings 18; 21).

• When Micaiah was pressured by kings and court prophets to endorse an unjust war, he refused to speak anything except the word of the Lord—even at the cost of imprisonment (1 Kings 22).

• When Azariah and the priests confronted Uzziah for unlawfully seizing priestly authority, they resisted royal overreach and upheld God’s boundaries for worship (2 Chronicles 26).

• When Jeremiah warned Jerusalem’s kings and priests against false assurances of divine protection, he endured persecution rather than preach comforting lies (Jeremiah 26; 36).

• When King Nebuchadnezzar demanded worship, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego resisted, even at risk of death (Daniel 3).

• When Peter and John were forbidden to speak in Jesus’ name, they replied, “We must obey God rather than men” (Acts 5:29).

These were not anarchists—they were ambassadors of a greater kingdom. Their loyalty to God required peaceful but resolute defiance of corrupt power. It was subversive, through and through.

In Paul’s world, Caesar claimed to be “Son of God,” “Lord,” and “Savior.” He was worshiped as the one who brought peace (the Pax Romana). But Paul reassigns every one of those titles to Jesus. By calling Christ Lord and believers citizens of heaven (Philippians 3:20), Paul is proclaiming that Caesar’s kingdom is temporary, while Christ’s reign is ultimate.

So when Paul says, “Pay to all what is owed” (Romans 13:7), he’s echoing Jesus’ own distinction: “Render to Caesar what is Caesar’s, and to God what is God’s” (Matthew 22:21). Caesar may get his taxes—but he cannot have your worship, your conscience, your blind loyalty, or your ultimate allegiance.

Because of this, true submission to God’s authority will at times look like holy noncompliance and protest of human authority. For instance, the early Christians refused to burn incense to Caesar, even though it cost many their lives. They cared for plague victims when the empire abandoned them. They rescued unwanted infants left to die. They practiced a politic of love that outlasted every empire.

This is the paradox of the Kingdom: We are called to seek the peace of the city, yet we are citizens of another. We honor (even pray for) the emperor, yet we worship only Jesus. We submit to earthly authority, yet we stand ready to disobey it whenever obedience to God demands it.

Living as Ambassadors

To reiterate: our loyalty is not passive acquiescence but active embodiment of Christ’s reign within the nations. We build, plant, and pray for the welfare of our cities, yet we never mistake them for our home. We honor laws that promote justice, yet we prophetically resist laws that violate it.

As Paul put it, “All things are lawful,” but not all things are helpful. “All things are lawful,” but not all things build up. Let no one seek his own good, but the good of his neighbor” (1 Corinthians 10:23-24). In other words, we are not meant to subscribe to those laws (even freedoms) of the land that would require us to walk in direct contradiction to the character of our God.

Simply because a land endorses a particular constitution, set of laws, or way of life has no bearing on whether or not such things align with the character of God. As it is, fallible governments will always create fallible institutions with fallible legislature. They are not the standard, as, more times than not, the standard of worldly empires is rooted primarily in the goal of self-preservation and the accumulation of power and wealth.

Which brings me to a fundamental point: while political aggrandizement and patriotic nationalism is the foundation of man-made governments, the Kingdom of God is established on sacrificial love and care for the most vulnerable. Such is the disposition that God’s Kingdom has always taken and always will when existing as a glimmering light within the darkness of all other kingdoms. The Kingdom of God seeks the flourishing of life rather than the exploitation of it—to bend low before others rather that domineer or conquer.

Bryan Stevenson put it well when he said, “Ultimately, you judge the character of a society, not by how they treat their rich and the powerful and the privileged, but by how they treat the poor, the condemned, the incarcerated.” That is most certainly the lens in which God’s Kingdom looks through.

This has nothing to do with partisan politics. Words like republican and democrat, conservative and progressive hold little substance here. Our King’s reign transcends such terms. It’s about the cultivation, protection, restoration, and flourishing of life in all of its forms, starting with the marginalized and at-risk. It’s about reflecting what liberation theologians call “God’s preferential option for the poor,” situating even our civic engagement around sacrificing our own political benefits for the sake of others, particularly the poor.

The word for poor that Jesus most commonly uses in the Gospels is the word ptōchos in Greek, which means far more than simply “someone without money.” It literally describes one who is bent over or crouching, conveying deep vulnerability and dependence. In Scripture, it often refers to those who are powerless, marginalized, or socially excluded—the people without status, connection, or a voice in the systems of the world. The “poor,” then, are not only the economically disadvantaged but also those pushed to the edges. This broader meaning reminds us that God’s concern for the poor is about restoring dignity, belonging, and justice—not just meeting material needs.

How exactly might this be displayed? It looks like…

• Living hospitably and providing housing for those without homes, rather than ignoring them or looking down upon them for their current living situation. (See Kevin Nye’s Grace Can Lead Us Home)

• Offering resources to those suffering from addiction or severe mental illness, and recognizing the depth and complexity of their suffering, rather than judging them based on their condition.

• Extending compassion and hospitality to the displaced, refugee, and immigrant, rather than choosing insularity or fear. (See Matthew Soeren’s Welcoming the Stranger)

• Supporting and resourcing mothers with unexpected or even traumatizing pregnancies, rather than distancing, shaming, or ostracizing them. (See The Whole Life Project)

• Protecting and dignifying the lives of the unborn, rather than disregarding their humanity, value, or worthiness to live. (See The Whole Life Project)

• Embracing peace, non-violence, and love of enemy, rather than defending violence, the obsession to own and wield weapons, or killing other image-bearers in any form. (See Preston Sprinkle’s work Fight)

• Caring for the environment and all of the created world, rather than destroying its resources for consumption or greed.

• Fostering and adopting at-risk children and orphans, rather than allowing them to fall prey to a system that is failing them.

• Liberating the trafficked and enslaved, rather than shielding our freedom from the rest of the world and consuming goods that support exploitative economies. (See International Justice Mission)

• Visiting the incarcerated, rather than reducing their humanity down to select actions and condemning them to rot in their cells.

Of course, such is easier said than done. There’s often a fine line between practicing the compassionate and restorative work of Jesus as Kingdom citizens and doing so nominally under the guise of empire. We must not be hasty in presuming our approach to the public square hasn’t been in some way tainted by the cultures, rulers, or philosophies of the day, no matter the fervor with which they invoke the “Christian” label. While we may advocate for the justice and care of others within the governments of man, our hope and loyalty is never to be found within them, but rather in “looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, who for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.” (Hebrews 12:2, NKJV)

Ultimately, the Kingdom of God is like a vessel that holds our life as individual parts, extended households, local communities, and church networks together under the singular will and order of Jesus. No human institution can manufacture the redemptive power and glorious reward that comes through the reign of our Savior throughout the world.

Reimagining our Kingdom Purpose

At essence, if the Church is a people—a family of faith scattered throughout the world in local households and communities—then its shared purpose (telos) is centered on the pursuit of Christ’s Kingdom. The Kingdom is the “why” around which our communities revolve—rhythms, resources, work, rest, play, and life—all in a particular place.

Telos means end, aim, and intended outcome; it refers both to design and purpose—how something is made and what it is made for.

Applied to the Church, telos holds two inseparable truths:

1. We are designed as an inter-relational people with a communal identity

2. We are aimed toward the ultimate end of being co-laborers and co-inhabitants in the ever-expanding Kingdom of God

From the beginning, God formed humanity with a shared identity—family, body, people—such that life apart from one another is a distortion of our design. This means something crucial:

We cannot seek the telos of the Kingdom of God apart from living into the telos of community.

Community is not merely a line item on a list of disciplines set apart for the spiritual life; it is the context and identity through which Kingdom life is lived under the headship of Christ. When believers live fragmented, autonomous, and disembodied lives, they are not simply missing out on “deeper fellowship”—they are attempting to pursue a Kingdom end while denying a communal design.

Life in ekklēsia is meant to align these two dimensions of telos:

• Design: a shared life as a Church family in local households

• Direction: a shared place in which the Kingdom of God might be inhabited

As a community grows into its designed identity—shared rhythms, shared responsibility, shared belonging, shared mission—it becomes capable of moving faithfully toward its intended purpose: seeing the Kingdom of God come more fully in a particular place.

In short: We become who we were made to be together, so that we can seek what we were made for together.

In Latin, the etymology for the word community (communitas) is (com) “together” and (munus) “shared duty, gift, or responsibility”. At essence, Kingdom community entails a people committed to working together, serving together, carrying burdens, and contributing to the calling of the whole. This matters because our communal life cannot be devoid of shared engagement and involvement. It assumes:

• everyone participates (not spectators),

• everyone contributes gifts and takes initiative,

• everyone shares responsibility for care, formation, and mission.

The result is practical: shared work, meals together, mutual aid, hospitality, collaboration, childcare support, presence with neighbors, and coordinated care for the vulnerable. At essence, Kingdom community involves an active participation in generative work together that springs forth God-glorifying goodness, beauty, and truth into the world. (See article: “What is Community, Actually?”)

Very practically, life in the Kingdom of God challenges us as local church communities to reimagine every layer of society (particularly among the margins) in the light of God’s restorative reign—His justice and mercy, compassion and love. It’s a kind of “dreaming with God” about how our communities might, in proximity, be a local, embodied presence of redemption in:

• Healthcare

• Education

• Athletics and Physical Fitness

• Restaurants

• Work spaces

• The natural environment

• Housing

• Transportation

• Technology

• Clothing

• Groceries

• Small business

• Local government

• Workforce development

• Social services

• Parks

• Public utilities and infrastructure

• Civil engineering

• Law enforcement and the justice system

• Music and the Arts

• And much, much more. (See organizations like Praxis)

Seeking first the Kingdom as a local church starts largely as a place-based movement: a particular people, in a particular neighborhood, living out a particular shared purpose—that the reign of Jesus might be made visible at every level of ordinary life.

As Wendell Berry once put it:

“No matter how much one may love the world as a whole, one can live fully in it only by living responsibly in some small part of it.”

My prayer is that we will ever learn to delineate between the empires of man and the Kingdom of God, faithfully inhabiting that tiny portion of creation in which we dwell alongside a community devoted to life together under the headship of Christ.

Yes, that is my prayer.

Let Your Kingdom Come.

Resources

Here are a few authors/ resources that initially come to mind that I have found personally helpful in my own journey of learning about the Kingdom from a variety of different angles.

• The Church Politics Podcast ()

• Unsettling Truths by Mark Charles

• How God Became King by N.T. Wright

• The Scandal of the Kingdom by Dallas Willard

• Garden City by John Mark Comer

• Desiring the Kingdom by James K.A. Smith

• Kingdom Manifesto by Wolfgang Simson

• Practicing the King’s Economy by

As I find myself perpetually thinking, reading, and in discussion about the nature of community, I recently felt compelled to ask myself a simple question: how do I define community? This article is the beginning of what I anticipate will be an ever-evolving response over the coming years, pondering the innate make-up of “community” versus all those preferential qualities, characteristics, and “add-ons” that adjust with each culture and context. That said, I welcome all gracious feedback along the way!

“Where is the Life we have lost in living?

Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge?

Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?

…What life have you if you have not life together?

There is no life that is not in community,

And no community not lived in praise of God.”

T.S. Eliot, The Rock

Fullness of life does not exist apart from community—that is a fact.

From the beginning, we were told that “It is not good that man should be alone” (Gen. 2:18); indeed, “how good and pleasant it is when brothers dwell in unity.” (Ps. 133:1)

Truly, we were made for community, down to a cellular level.

The reality of our design to live this life in togetherness is reflective of the communal God who made us; it tilts our gaze back to the Origin from whom we’ve all come—a Maker who lives in mysterious triunity.

The theological term for this is perichōrēsis—a mutual and harmonious indwelling of Father, Son, and Spirit—a dynamic relationship that has drawn scholars to wax poetic, calling it “the divine dance.” In Genesis, God is a being who was not (and has never been) alone—a nature for which He has similarly designated for us as well.

Clearly, fundamental to our design is a communality that depends on a particular way in which we relate to others who bear the imago dei.

We know this intuitively (and theologically, and neurobiologically), that community is imperative to our flourishing as humans—as children of God. That’s not in question. What we are left asking, however, is perhaps in many respects more practical than doctrinal, that being: what actually is community?

That is the goal of this short piece.

A Dictionary Baseline

As someone with an insatiable and unapologetic addiction to the topic of community, particularly in its ultimate form as the church, this has been a helpful exercise for me.

Pertaining to something so core to our identity yet so distorted in a land reeking of individualism, it behooves us to construct an adequate conceptualization of community, one that is neither bound in rigid thought nor lost in a sea of formlessness.

At essence: we need to know who we are—no more, no less.

As the dictionary defines it, community is:

1. A social group of any size whose members reside in a specific locality, share government, and often have a common cultural and historical heritage.

2. A locality inhabited by such a group.

3. A social, religious, occupational, or other group sharing common characteristics or interests and perceived or perceiving itself as distinct in some respect from the larger society within which it exists.

4. A group of men or women leading a common life according to a rule.

I appreciate each of these definitions as they appeal, both explicitly and subtly, to various characteristics of what make up the basic idea of “community;” however, I’d like to add a bit more color.

In Latin, the word for community—communitas—is a combination of the word com, meaning “together”, and munus, meaning “service, duty, or gift.” At essence, to be in community with a group of people is to work together in service of one another and others—to function in one accord through a diversity of shared gifts, responsibilities, and duties. Such a collective is formed (and ever forming) together through a bond of reciprocity as an outworking of common meaning.

This description expands well beyond what we typically think of as community—often seen contemporarily as a mere group of friends who spend semi-regular time together and who share some level of overlapping hobbies, interests, beliefs, experiences, or life stages. In fact, my proposal is that community is (and must be) vastly more robust and encompassing, breaking through the confines of a rather limited paradigm into one that is far more integrated and whole.

That being the case, what follows is a list of eight core pillars—an attempt to distill the most fundamental qualities of what a community is.

8 Pillars of Community

In reading what I suspect are very entry-level literary excerpts from key figures in the fields of sociology and anthropology (such as Ferdinand Tönnies, Max Weber, Robert Putnam, Émile Durkheim, David McMillan, and David Chavis) as well as theology, psychology, and history, I believe the following eight pillars are a relatively agreeable starting point for what life in authentic community entails.

1. Belonging - First and foremost, community is not some kind of exogenous entity in which we come and go as we please. Community is a part of our identity; it’s a relational reality to which we belong. Belonging, at essence, is the condition of being claimed, recognized, and obligated within a community such that one’s presence matters and one’s absence would be noticed. While an individual can amass hundreds, even thousands of friends, community holds a finite number of friendships that make up a limited group of people to whom we can truly be devoted. That is not to say one cannot leave a community or join a new one, so much as it is to articulate that belonging is no fleeting matter.

2. Relational Density - Such a communal sense of belonging doesn’t take form at a distance; it requires nearness, frequency, consistency, and depth. These aren’t one-off interactions or occasional get-togethers in segmented siloes; rather, they require a relational fluidity that spills across our various contexts. While community members may not do all of the same things or behave in all of the same ways as one another, they do have stake in each other’s activities which, overtime, forms a growing network of threads interweaving each person’s life with one another. (See my short note comparing the amount of time—relational density—that Jesus spent with his disciples vs. the modern Western church here)

3. Shared Purpose - This sense of ongoing—rather than staggered—life together does not occur without a wholistic reorientation of one’s life around a particular group of people, or, perhaps more accurately, a particular calling that draws a group of people together. In the context of the church, this ultimate communal purpose is the pursuit of the Kingdom of God (Matt. 6:33) (see my recent article on the Kingdom of God here), and the path that flows to (and through) this Kingdom is known as discipleship, which Eugene Peterson describes as “a long obedience in the same direction.” More than solely a series of habits or hobbies, a community is anchored in a specific vision that transcends both the individual and the collective, aspiring to reimagine civilization (starting on a relationship and neighborhood level) through a particular, generative lens. It’s both being and working together as participants in something greater than oneself. As David Brooks notes in his book, How to Know a Person, “a community is a people with a common project.”

4. Mutual Responsibility - Laboring together with a group of people—whether that be building a company, starting a garden, caring for a neighbor, raising children alongside one another, or so on—warrants a kind of interdependence that calls for the involvement, initiative, and ownership of all. To be a member of a community is to accept one’s role as an active partner in the overarching goal of the group, with involvement based particularly on one’s own maturity, character, spiritual direction, history, relational standing, gifts, and passions. When walking with one another, we must aspire to “do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than ourselves,” (Phil. 2:3), “outdoing one another in showing honor” (Rom. 12:10) and “rejoicing with those who rejoice and weeping with those who weep” (Romans 12:15).

5. Shared Place - To effectively seek any good or beautiful life together with a group of people, there must be a shared context in which the community lives, works, rests, and plays (See my short note on having a shared redemptive lens for your particular place here). As tripartite beings who are not only spiritual and soulful but also physical, a wholistic community must likewise reflect our need for embodied togetherness. As Wendell Berry beautifully put it, “No matter how much one may love the world as a whole, one can live fully in it only by living responsibly in some small part of it”—and I would add living responsibly in it together. Particularly in an era of heavy reliance on technology—be it commuting across town via car or creating alternative pseudo-communities through the medium of a screen or VR headset—we would do well to recall that technology can produce no adequate replacement for the tangible experience of proximity with one another. Only in the last two centuries following the industrial revolution has our “advanced” civilization determined we can be in community with one another without living in the same general location.

6. Shared History - Time alone does not, however, create community—it requires shared memory. As George Erasmus of the Dene Nation put it, “Where common memory is lacking, where people do not share in the same past, there can be no real community. Where community is to be formed, common memory must be created.” Community isn’t merely a bridge between present and future, but a willingness to journey into the past—entering into personal and collective narratives—for the sake of binding up fragmentation and dissonance. The stories we tell are our way of interpreting who we are as a people, and largely dictate who we become as a whole.

7. Norms, Boundaries, and Accountability - Community requires a shared value system and moral grammar that, explicitly or implicitly, establishes a mutual understanding for appropriate behaviors, expectations, and repair. As French sociologist Émile Durkheim put it, “Where collective conscience is strong, social bonds are strong.” Having some level of an agreed-upon definition regarding how each person is (or is not) meant to communicate with and treat one another offers liberating parameters in which a group can thrive together.

8. Durability over Time - Relationships are inefficient. Trust accrues slowly. Community takes time. As many contemporary community developers would agree—Bob Lupton, John Perkins, Shane Claiborne, and the like—we cannot think of creating or influencing a community in terms of weeks or months, but decades. There is a longevity to authentic community—a commitment to a continual journey that transcends seasonality and even precedes a level of our feelings and affections. Reminiscent of several lines from Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s Letters and Papers from Prison: love grows out of faithfulness. This kind of steadfastness doesn’t make community easy. In many respects, it actually becomes far more vulnerable, inconvenient, and messy—most certainly more risky. Conflicts must be engaged, not avoided, and challenges must be endured together. But the beauty of it—the intimacy, know-ness, and perseverance—presents a depth of love and stability that simply cannot be encountered without the long-suffered rootedness that comes with being together in community, day-after-day.

Community as Relationship, Neurobiologically-Speaking

At every level (and with each pillar), it’s clear that community is, at essence, a unique, centralized network of relationships.

Relationships are a fascinating interpersonal phenomenon that takes place along a particular path in our brains and bodies—a path that is oftentimes at odds with our highly-cognitive and programmatized versions of community (especially the church) in the West.

Let me elaborate.

As humans, we have a “vertical” (layered), three-part brain—or “triune brain,” as neuroscientist Paul MacLean called it. From bottom-to-top, our brains have a 1) reptilian complex (focused on safety and survival), 2) limbic system (focused on emotion and relationship), and 3) neocortex (focused on reason, language, and meaning).

This is the order that our Creator made our neurobiologies to process incoming information. While the brain does not function as a simple linear hierarchy, this framework helpfully illustrates how our nervous system prioritizes safety and connection before reflective integration, meaning-making, and deeper cognition can fully emerge.

In other words, when the nervous system does not perceive physical safety, sensory and emotional information is dominated by survival responses (extreme example #1: it’s difficult to pay attention to a friend in a coffee shop when someone just fired a gun); and when relational safety and connection are lacking, higher-order thinking and reasoning are significantly constrained (extreme example #2: it’s difficult to think clearly about a project idea being proposed by a coworker who has persistently slandered you, treated you poorly, and attempted to get you fired).

This is actually very important. It teaches us something essential about how we bond with others and how relational formation (and transformation) happens.

However, as mentioned, this is seldom the way in which the Western church approaches community. Often, our churches and faith communities attempt to “bypass” the lower regions of the brain, appealing instead to the more cognitive and rational regions. We explain and instruct and present compelling material, but we don’t take the slow, small, incremental path that leads to lasting, authentic community or discipleship.

As Jim Wilder and Michael Hendricks put it in their book, The Other Half of Church: Christian Community, Brain Science, and Overcoming Spiritual Stagnation (the book that first exposed me to this idea):

“Most discipleship in the Western church focuses almost entirely on the left hemisphere and the neocortex—on teaching people to think differently—while neglecting the relational brain that actually governs transformation.”

They go on to say:

“We have assumed that if people understand the truth well enough, they will live it. Neuroscience tells us this assumption is false… The church has become very good at explaining the gospel but not always good at creating the kinds of relationships in which people can actually live it.”

That’s not to pit trust against truth, relationship against reason, so much as it is to name our mis-ordered approach to establishing communal life. Rather than nurturing relationships through the organic growth of simple, meaningful, human-to-human connections (as we see, in many regards, in the early church; see past article here), we have sought to streamline the formation of our social (and spiritual) groups with the assumption that authentic relationship and community will materialize as a byproduct along the way. Ultimately, this is the outcome we might expect when we…

• Teach from theaters more than tables.

• Sit in rows more than circles.

• Spend time in commercial buildings more than homes.

• Listen to monologues more than engage in discussions.

• Take membership classes on doctrine more than we endure the long-suffered journey through each other’s stories.

• Sign up for groups called “communities” rather than cultivating friendships that breed community.

• Establish structures more than form rhythms.

• Seek agreeableness before pursuing intimacy.

• Visit more than live among.

• Learn information more than practice discipleship.

As incredible and intentional as many of the spaces and resources we’ve created are—classes, teaching series, worship gatherings, small groups, activities, etc.—I often wonder if such programs have, to some extent, become our greatest barriers to living into an authentic communal identity as the family of God. Have we created artificial surrogates that have replaced the real thing? Have we sacrificed our connection with others for the sake of something more convenient, predictable, and efficient? Have we focused so much on thinking and learning and systematizing that we’ve neglected the relational, lived experiences that actually shape communities?

True, communal relationships are available to each of us, if we are courageous enough to flip the current cultural system on its head (pun-intended) and begin walking with one another in a way that aligns with our image-bearing neurological design.

A Working Definition

So, in conclusion… how would I define “community” today? I think I’d put it something like this:

Community is a particular group of people bound together by belonging rather than preference, formed through shared purpose, place, history, and responsibility, and sustained by embodied, enduring relationships. It is a relational reality in which each person is known, devoted, and shaped together through mutual care, collective identity, shared memory, and committed love. In this way, community acts as the primary context for human flourishing and formation, reflecting the communal nature of the God who made us.

Final Note

Defining community in such a manner can feel challenging. I anticipate to some this list will be experienced as discouraging—daunting—even delusional or unrealistic. That is not my intention.

The purpose of this short essay is to lay some level of a foundation for a more clear and robust definition of what community is, particularly when juxtaposed to the subconscious default many of us have inherited in our individualistic culture. How we personally experience this definition and each of its pillars, I suspect, meets each of us across a wide-ranging spectrum of life stages and seasons.

My encouragement: let it energize you to take “the next right step” on your journey deeper into community, casting a vision of what life could look like when lived with others.

For instance, some possible steps might be:

• Cultivating an abundant imagination for what community is and could be

• Reorienting your framework for life (calendar, money, living arrangements, etc.) around the people you identify with (perhaps already call “community”)

• Establishing more integrated rhythms alongside those with whom you desire to walk more deeply

• Praying and fasting with other friends about what life together in community might look like

• Exploring avenues for group collaboration—shared work, mission, and purpose

• Doing hard things together

• Caring for (and being cared by) one another

• Serving others together

• Seeking greater physical proximity (read my article on proximity here)

• Rooting yourself more deeply in your neighborhood

• Entering into the depths of one another’s stories

• Reflecting on shared memories together

• Discussing values, expectations, boundaries, and accountability

• Persevering with hope and love

• Ultimately… continuing to move forward.

Community is a rare gift—a worthy one.

Let those of us who have found life in community thank God from the depths of our inner-man each day for its presence.

Let those of us in a liminal space with community be filled with wisdom to know where to move forward and where to step back, strengthened for the long-suffered journey ahead.

And let those of us in the thick of loneliness be met with the comfort of a God who gently reminds us that, while hope is risky, His hope does not put us to shame—even in our longing to find life with others.

P.S.

Happy New Year’s to all of you! Grateful to say we crossed the 400 subscriber line in the final week of December. Truly appreciative of each of you for tuning in and your continued willingness to read the things I write. As always, if you have a friend or family member who would benefit from or enjoy my newsletters, please invite them to join my email list.

Blessing each of you in your journey deeper into community in 2026!

‘Twas a year far more focused on writing than reading, however… I still read a few books along the way.

My attention, as you’ve likely gathered from several of my newsletters, tends to revolve around the intersection of community/ the church, psychology/ neurobiology, and justice/ nearness to the poor, so it’s no surprise that many of the books I read generally fall into one of those 3 buckets.

As always, I am grateful for the opportunity to learn from new perspectives and prayerful that any information I retain from the writing of others extends beyond head knowledge to life application and transformation.

Here is a list of the books I read, along with a brief thought or takeaway from each. (I’m limiting myself to 2-sentences per book)

1. Habits of the Household by Justin Whitmel Earley - There are endless ways in which we as parents (even with young children) can intentionally disciple our children in the embodied way of Jesus. One of our favorite ones from this book as of late has been incorporating the ever playful, call-and-response “YES!” prayer with our oldest son.

2. The Deepest Place by Curt Thompson - The fact that God has designed us with the innate ability to reduce the suffering of one another at a neurobiological level when extending a compassionate and kind presence has brought me to tears many times.

3. Tattoos on the Heart by Gregory Boyle - I laughed and cried from beginning to end. Father Gregory’s stories are some of the richest depictions of life in the Kingdom of God.

4. True Community by Jerry Bridges - Mehh. Wasn’t a fan.

5. Domestic Monastery by Ronald Rolheiser - I appreciate how Rolheiser draws connections between the spiritually formational habits of parenting and the monastic life.

6. The Art of Community by Charles Vogl - I thought Vogl’s section on community initiation and ritual was really interesting. Makes me think of how lost this is in community relationships today and how we’ve tried to programmatize and streamline this in the church through “membership classes.”

7. The Way of the Heart by Henri Nouwen - Silence, solitude, and prayer are good for the soul.

8. Practicing the Way by John Mark Comer - Yes, I absolutely enjoyed JMC’s book!

9. The Wisdom of the Desert by Richard Buxton - There are some wild stories about the 4th-5th century desert fathers—some inspiring, some weird, some I need to start telling my kids at bedtime. Definitely intrigued by parts of early monastic life.

10. The AI Driven Leader by Geoff Woods - I read this with my team at work. Super practical takeaway: using GenAI tools (i.e. ChatGPT) to interview yourself to help you organize/ formulate your thoughts (example prompt from work: “I’m creating an accelerator program for our mental health providers to help them scale their practice, please interview me—one question at a time—to develop a program format and strategic 90-day plan”)

11. Slow Church by Christopher Smith and John Pattison - Convenience breeds impatience, and Instant gratification ironically produces instant dissatisfaction. Part of being the church means letting the Kingdom permeate the kind of work we do, how we spend our money, and the way we engage our neighborhood… all as a local faith community.

12. Grace Can Lead Us Home by Kevin Nye - I will be recommending this book to literally anyone who brings up the topic of homelessness. Such a thoughtful, well-rounded, relationship-oriented take on walking with our unhoused neighbors.

13. Known by Dick and Ruth Foth - Loneliness is toxic. Few things compare to being seen, known, and loved in friendship.

14. The Intentional Father by Jon Tyson - Intentionally engage and guide your kids through every key topic and event (from their first shave to puberty to their first date to their questions about God). Excited to return to this book in 10 years when my kids are teenagers!

15. You Have a Calling by Karen Swallow Prior - I really, really liked her delineation between vocation/ calling and job/ career—a lot of people would find more purpose in life understanding this.

16. The Prophetic Imagination by Walter Brueggemann - This book is like the language of my soul, from beginning to end.

17. The New Parrish by Tim Soerens, Paul Sparks, and Dwight Friesen - We need more people writing about the significance of living in close proximity with one another—planting in a particular neighborhood, with a particular group of people, living with a particular purpose.

18. How to Know a Person by David Brooks - We are terrible judges and interpreters of others (on average, family members only have 35% accuracy when perceiving what another family member is thinking). Having curiosity about other’s stories and feeling the feelings they are experiencing is one of the strongest skills for knowing and being known by another person.

19. You Were Never Meant to Lead Alone By E.K. Strawser - Loved Strawser’s clarity of language around APEST giftings from Ephesians 4, along with the idea of circular leadership. Also, her focus on character and maturity, rather than mere giftedness, is sooooo important when discussing leadership in the 21st century.

20. Smart Son, Wise Son by Jack Alexander - Information is cheap; Seek wisdom. Also really liked the design/ pictures/ aesthetic of this small book.

21. The Deep-Rooted Marriage by Dan Allender - Marriages primarily drift when: there is a lack of delight, spouses feel lonely, contempt is consistently present, or things simply feel stuck. More times than not, these experiences are tied to unaddressed trauma that will not go away without engaging a path of personal healing.

There ya have it. A list of books.

Gearing up for 2026, I am particularly focused at the start of the year on digging into a very specific collection of books revolving around the sociology and anthropology of the early church, and how this history might inform contemporary life in community.

(Stay tuned for my next piece, What actually is community?, coming hopefully next week)

Beyond that, I don’t have many books on the docket so far, so please pass along your recommendations!

Happy New Year to all of you and Happy Reading in 2026!

This short piece comes in reflection of my ongoing journey through chronic illness, as well as several insights gained from Dr. Curt Thompson’s book, The Deepest Place, and ’s book, This Too Shall Last.

Hurt

“Those who sow with tears will reap with shouts of joy.”

Tears are an inevitability in a world gone awry—

A land aching-sick for the balm of shalom.

There’s no two ways about it:

We cannot exist amidst empires bursting with bombshells

Without feeling the perennial piercing of shrapnel against our skin.

The breach alone gives cause for weeping.

It hurts—

This life.

Like hell it hurts.

Clawing, stabbing, yanking, jabbing.

In anguish, we cry out, again and again—

For anything promising to resolve this affliction.

But here’s the kicker: it doesn’t stop there.

Downward and deeper,

The sting sinks from surface to sub-terrain,

Skin to soul.

Like an adversary drifting into the shadows,

So too this sharpened prick slips into the crevice of a much duller torment.

Sure, the gash of flesh-wounds screams out loudly,

But it’s the long malaise that follows—

That bleak canopy hovering about

Only there to crush the spirit.

And her instrument of choosing?

Well, story of course.

Pain may strip the cover off the book,

But Suffering,

Oh she conspires to rewrite it.

(And rewrite it she will!)

With a pen made of shame and an ink full of lies,

She lathers each impending chapter with motifs of loneliness and themes of despair.

It’s an abduction of the temporal lobe—

A ransacking of our very sense of narrative and time.

Suffering likes a good spiral,

And with her, it’s always descending and unending.

Held

There is no ascent without descent—of this I am certain.

To live is to die a thousand times over, and to be raised up again—

To cry and release what was never ours to carry at the start.

Every good seed that blooms must first fall,

Surrendering itself to the soils of hiddenness.

Our Savior did this, stepping down, then again.

His was a death that preceded death—

A path of self-emptying (kenosis) that brought fullness of life.

He made His dwelling here,

Holding what we cannot keep from breaking.

Our fragmentation became His,

And the God-man,

Well-acquainted with grief,

Took His place in our shadows.

In a word: God Incarnate stooped low, and sat with us there.

And He still sits with us—

Unrushed—

Pulling us ever closer in the thick of night terrors,

Keeping count of our tossings and storing our tears in His bottle.

It’s as if to say

Our Creator,

In near mathematical terms,

Has rendered to us a future good of commensurate proportion

To that which had at one point brought so great an affliction.

He whose name means Salvation

Accompanies us in the tumult of our stories—

Joining our decaying bones in burial dirge

With the ever-elusive promise of redemption.

Healed

We have been enveloped by the ground that covered its Maker—

Not as a grave,

but as a womb—

A garden—

For Hope to blossom In Suffering’s stead.

Hope:

The cryptic Prophet,

Incubating life in unforeseen places.

“Look here, look there,”

Cry the counterfeit sages

In their incessant search for a controllable destiny.

Yet Hope is in our midst—

And always has been—

Assuring us that each unseen pain

Can be reauthored in the presence of another.

Dr. Thompson said it perfectly:

“We suffer less not because the pain disappears,

But because the story is now held by more than one person.”

That is to say: we are healed as we are held.

Brain science affirms this.

Orthodox teaching confirms this.

But it is the gaze of another—

Of Understanding and Love—

That proves this.

It’s in the being seen,

And known,

And loved,

That the unbearable becomes bearable,

That contemptuousness might be soothed with grace,

And that Suffering can henceforth be counted as Joy.

Hope’s inscription is eternal,

With pen strokes cast over final page,

Working backwards

(And forwards)

To bring renewal

To every despondent chamber

That would otherwise leave us writhing in chains.

We whose tears have taken root

In the Land of the Living

Have a host of witnesses

Preparing what was at one point lost—

Wretched—

A stench to the soul—

As a soon-to-be Delight come harvest time.

The sumptuousness of the feast is of an unspeakable quality—

A glory inexplicable,

Renewing all things,

Shining in all her resplendence forever on end.

Quick Note…

To the nearly 400 of you that subscribe to this once-consistent-now-highly-unpredictable newsletter… thank you!

May this Advent and Christmas season be rich with hope and peace as we recall the blessed nearness of our King.

Along those lines, if you missed these short “Christmas” posts from last year, I’d love for you to check them out!

1. Adventus: God, Come Near

2. Balaam’s Redemption in the Magi

3. The Sheep of Bethlehem

*All names have been changed for privacy.

“Well hey there, I see you got your mini me with you this mornin’!”

As I reach across the table to grab a few markers for my son, I look up to find a familiar face smiling at me.

“I sure do, Ms. Danielle,” I reply with one of those ‘proud dad’ grins. “Been gettin’ a lot more one-on-one time lately since the baby came!”

She smiles back. “You know what I appreciate about you. You remember my name, every single time! And how is that sweet baby of yours doin’? Anotha boy, isn’t it?”

I share some pictures and ask about her week. She stays light on the details but, by the looks of it, it was another rough one. It’s hard to imagine life on the streets being any other way. Eventually, my toddler implores me to pull out his coloring book and refill his orange juice, to which I finally concede. And then, soon after, our time of worship begins.

You remember my name, every single time.

Along with many liturgical churches around the globe, we’ve been making our way through the lectionary readings from the Gospel of Luke.

One such story we’ve explored as of late has been that of the rich man and Lazarus. (Not one your kids are likely coming home with from Sunday School)

In short, Christ speaks of a rich man who lives lavishly—eating nice food, wearing nice clothes, and living in a nice house—and of a poor man, Lazarus, who lays outside the rich man’s gate longing for a mere crumb from his table.

Without even going into the story, we can already see the subversive counterculture that Jesus is presenting about His Kingdom—one surely picked up on by all who were tuned in.

The rich man in the story is unidentified, recognized for nothing more than his possessions; the poor man, however, is known by his name, Lazarus—meaning “God Helps”.

In antiquity, this is important. To be named (oral or written) is to be seen as important or noteworthy, and in Christ’s Kingdom, we see this value system inverted. Rather than being highly looked upon, the exalted are the ones who end up humbled, while it is the humbled who end up exalted. (see Luke 14:11)

God is with Lazarus in his lowliness. He has not forgotten him, nor has He bypassed him. In this Kingdom, Lazarus is seen, and he is seen by the King.

You remember my name, every single time.

The time to hear from the saints has begun.

Malcolm, sitting in his walker with a smile reminiscent of my newborn at home—big and toothless—chimes in quickly with a particular resonance regarding today’s passage.

“Ya know, this kinda make me thinka the church. And dis ain’t my first rodeo neither. I been to all kinda churches—big ones, small ones. Most of ‘em won’t even let folks from da streets in, and the ones that do, they always be puttin’ us in different places than everyone else and gettin’ folks to keep an eye on us.”

Tony jumps in: “Yeah man, it’s like they want us at they food pantries but not actually sittin’ down and bein’ with ‘em. Pastor Ronnie, do the Bible say somethin’ ‘bout that? Like, you think that’s what Jesus meant?”

Pastor Ronnie looks up with his all-too-familiar and gentle smile, conveying his response before even speaking a word.

“Tony, you know the answer to that. Of course I don’t believe that’s what Jesus wants for his church. His Kingdom was built on a way different foundation than what we see in a lot of the country. In Christ’s church, we are all invited to take a seat at the table—to be heard and known and loved.”

“I know, I know”, interjects Tony again, “it’s just frustratin’ sometimes, ya know. Like you always be tellin’ us, ‘it’s about relationship, it’s about relationship, it’s about relationship,’ but then, all I be seein’ is ‘it’s about they buildings, it’s about they money, it’s about all they fancy things’. I know I just be complainin’ now, but for real, I still be thankful. Like dawg, I appreciate gettin’ to be here so much. Like er’ week, you let us say what we thinkin’ and you listen to us. Like bruh, who does that?? Even though you da one with all da Bible knowledge, you still treat us like we got somethin’ to say.”

“Because you do,” responds Pastor Ronnie.

I smile silently as I listen in—watching an interchange that, for at least a moment, echoes of dignity, of belonging, of worth.

These women and men, for years—some their entire lives—have been seen as lesser, lower, and socially disposable, if even seen at all. But here, as a body of believers, a prophetic alternative has been raised, calling for the dismantling of our ecclesial systems that only give voice to a select few while preserving a firm separation from “the least of these.”

In the midst of a majority church culture often marked by a kind of spiritual disembodiment (even class system), I sit with the words of Paul as he says:

“On the contrary, the parts of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable, and on those parts of the body that we think less honorable we bestow the greater honor, and our unpresentable parts are treated with greater modesty, which our more presentable parts do not require. But God has so composed the body, giving greater honor to the part that lacked it, that there may be no division in the body, but that the members may have the same care for one another.” (1 Corinthians 12:22-25)

Every member of the Body is precious and known by the Head who is Christ.

Each carries tremendous value and indispensable worth—especially those who go unrecognized in the empires of man.

You remember my name, every single time.

More commentary follows, and of course some end up straying off course more than others.

Calvin takes advantage of a long pause to offer crucial encouragement to Falcons fans, reminding everyone that Michael Penix can still get our season back on track (unfortunately, that afternoon he ended up tearing his ACL).

JJ starts to express concern that the storms that passed through Jamaica could be indicative of the end times and brought a stack of questions to go with it, just in case.

Sometimes, you just gotta take the “good” with the “weird,” being ready to smile and name the glory in it all. And isn’t that what family’s all about anyway? We bring what we have, meet each other where they are, and just keep showing up, praying that we and they and everyone in-between might constantly be shaped by the astounding faithfulness and mercy of the Lord that exists amidst our daily life together as the church.

It’s rich and beautiful.

And all of it starts by having a name.

You remember my name, every single time.

Gustavo Gutiérrez has this wonderfully challenging and often quoted line where he says:

“You say you care about the poor? Then tell me, what are their names?”

He says this because care is not distant and impersonal, but near and intimate and embodied—it’s relational.

• Care joins in the cold.

• Care sits on the curb.

• Care passes the salt shaker.

• Care extends a hug.

• Care lets other’s dirtiness get on our shirt.

• Care meets eye contact with a smile.

• Care offers a listening ear.

• Care washes feet (like one lady did for Ms. Danielle later that day).

• Care comes along for the ride with all its ups and downs.

• Care knows the name of another.

In the Book of Revelation, it is written that the Lord has promised to “give [us] a white stone, with a new name written on the stone that no one knows except the one who receives it” (Revelation 2:17).

I believe this name, in some mystically transcendent kind of way, encapsulates the fullness of our essence—of who we are and the totality of our story.

This name may only be known by our Maker, but we—in a richly compassionate and relationally present manner—are invited to see glimpses of this name, moment by moment, as we walk with those who the world has forgotten.

There’s nothing like it—to witness the outcast come into belonging, in a particular place, with a particular people. To be a part of a Kingdom that has “turned the world upside down” (Acts 17:6). To know that, in this Kingdom, none are overlooked by the Creator, but all are held and known and cherished and invited to stay.

And that’s because…

God remembers our names, every single time.

Want to read more of my reflections on life among the poor??

Check out some of my past articles.

1. Curious why I find life in proximity with the poor so central to living out Jesus’ gospel of the Kingdom? Read my article: So… Want to Live Among the Poor?

2. Interested in another reflection on life in community with the unhoused? Read my article: Lectio Divina and the Unhoused

3. In this piece, I especially highlighted the significance of names. Curious why names are so important, particularly in the Scriptures? Read my article: The Power of Names

With my second son’s recent arrival, I’ve found myself, in the thick of midnight rockings, reminiscing on practices that my parents infused within our household throughout the early years of my life—ones that were clearly and richly formative for me.

Likewise, these moments have allowed me to begin looking ahead with a sense of inspiration, exploring what I might glean from their intentional parenting practices and adopt as a part of my own approach to parenting today.

In no particular order, here are 20 Intentional Parenting Practices that have come to mind, each with which I sit in astounding gratitude.

1. Daily Prayer Cards. Every morning in the car before school, my brother and I would pull out a card from our stack of prayer cards and read them together. We’d pray for our family, our friends, our neighborhood, our school, our church, our government leaders, the nations, those in certain roles of service, and so on.

2. Daily Highs and Lows. It may sound simple, but our family loved going around the table every night at dinner and sharing our highs and lows for the day. It gave us the chance to peek into each other’s worlds, celebrate the good, and care for each other in the hard.

3. Monday Family Meetings. At the beginning of every week, our family of four would circle up in the living room after dinner for a family meeting. We would talk about practicals (like chores and the upcoming week’s schedule) and we would also dig into a family discussion (like family giving, a devotional, or an intentional question) and land the plane with a time of prayer. Such a unifying way to connect and start the week!

4. Weekly Virtues. Throughout the year we would go through a list of 50 of so core character virtues—things like integrity, courage, and kindness. Each would have an animal associated with it, for example Bald Eagles embody devotion because they mate for life, and Dolphins exemplify attentiveness for having such acute hearing.

5. Creative Activities (Dad). Everything was an opportunity for creativity and adventure. If we had food that was going bad in the fridge, let’s do a food fight in the back yard. If it was raining outside, let’s go find a hill and slide down it into the mud. If we came up with a story idea, let’s go sit in Dad’s office and “write a book” together. Imagination was always there to turn something mundane into something exciting.

6. The Prayer Room (Mom). Anyone who’s ever been to my parent’s house knows about Mom’s prayer room. The running joke has always been that if you go in, you’ll leave in tears (…good tears, I might add). As kids, we would walk downstairs for breakfast every morning and find our Mom on her knees leaned up against her bright red couch, praying. It has an effect on a child to see a parent going before God everyday on your behalf, asking for you to have wisdom like Solomon, be a man after Gods heart like David, and encounter the peace that surpasses understanding like Paul. Even before I knew how to pray, I could tell that prayer (at least, my Mom’s version of prayer) was more than empty platitudes and displays of piety.

7. Team Kid (Dad). In elementary school, my Dad and a few other dads saw a gap in kid’s discipleship programming in our church. This was a big era for Tony Dungy’s All Pro Dad content, and these dads (and coaches) wanted to create a fun and intentional space to invest in the lives of 3rd-5th graders. Team Kid was the result. Every Sunday, we’d come together to play games, do character building activities, sing songs, and discuss how different Bible stories applied to our lives.

8. Compassion for the Poor (Mom). I remember my first encounter with an unhoused man. I was in 1st grade and we had just finished eating dinner at Johnny Rockets in Underground Atlanta. There was a man digging for food in a trash can outside and my Mom walked over and gave him our leftovers. Afterwards, when she explained to me why she had given away my uneaten chicken fingers, I cried the whole way home, unable to reconcile a world where some had so much while others went without basic necessities. From then on, whether it was taking meals to the local women’s shelter once a month or driving over to Clarkston to support recently resettled refugees, seeing Jesus in the poor and marginalized became a deeply engrained reality in my soul.

9. Family Giving. Whether it was giving us dollar bills to put in the offering basket and filling up a giveaway coin jar at home, or reviewing various ministries and nonprofits and determining our “giving portfolio” as a family, we were always invited to not only be observers, but participants in our parent’s financial generosity.

10. Knowing our City. Having grown up in small town South Georgia, my parents wanted me and my brother to be “cultured” if we were going to grow up in a big city like Atlanta. They took us everywhere around town: the MLK Center, Coca-Cola Center, the Zoo, the Aquarium, Fernbank (and every other museum you could think of), plays, libraries, Centennial Olympic Park, Underground Atlanta, Braves and Hawks games. If we were going to contribute to our city one day, we needed to know our city.

11. Annual Family Retreat. Every year, our family would do a kind of stay-cation together, going on special outings and adventures, but also having 2-3 intentional sit-downs to review the last year and envision the coming year. We would list everything that had happened, what we learned, how we grew, what was hard, what was beautiful, and where we saw God move. Then, we’d look to the future, setting goals and choosing words and dreaming about all we wanted to do and become together.

12. Making their Friendships a Priority. Kids need to see their parents have friends, and they need to be able to truly get to know their parent’s friends. It creates greater context and support, and offers a broader scope of role models. As a kid, I remember talking to my Dad about his friends at different points and saying things like, “I want to be as friendly as so-and-so” or “So-and-so is really funny, I hope I can make people laugh like him.” Parents with friends will be better parents. Period.

13. Investment in our Local Church. Growing up about 1/10th of a mile from our church’s building, we were heavily involved in all community activities. I used to love walking every floor and hall of the big building just because I loved running into all my friends and teachers and other grown-ups. It felt special watching my Mom preach, or my Dad speak at a Sunday school class, or getting to run the Christmas tree lot together as a family, or help host big community cookouts. For us, the Sunday service was just a small part of it. The church gave us a constant communal context and identity for life to flow out of throughout the week.

14. Coaching Baseball (Dad). Baseball was its own life category in our family. Starting at the age of 4, my Dad was our coach every season for just over 10 years. He was intentional at every level, getting to know the kids and their families, not always drafting the best players but always being attentive to relationships, family needs, and other dynamics. And the wild thing is, our little church league rec team came in 1st place almost every season! (I’m sure there’s a parable in there somewhere)

15. 13th Birthday Trip (Dad). This might have been the most significant “rite of passage” for me as a boy. For years, I knew that turning 13 would come with a big trip, but I couldn’t have predicted how impactful it was going to be. Dad and I would fly out to San Diego for a week, attend a Switchfoot homecoming concert, go to a Padres Game (Petco was my favorite stadium), play tennis on a grass court (another dream of mine), go mountain climbing and biking in the desert, and much, much more. All throughout, Dad set aside time to read devotionals, ask intentional questions, and talk about what it means to be a man of consequence. I will always cherish that trip.

16. Blessing my Emotions (Mom). I’ve always been a big feeler (I get it from my Mom), and as a kid I was always particularly sensitive. At points, that’s made it challenging for me to know how to relate to other boys or men as my emotional experience has always felt a little different. However, at every step of the way, my Mom has been there to give me a back rub, bless my tears, and offer containment for those thoughts and feelings that felt too heavy or misplaced. All children need this, but boys especially need healthy outlets to encounter their emotions without the shame of a false masculinity.

17. Mentoring our Friends. There’s another running joke in our family that mine and my brother’s friends spend more time with our parents than with us. Ever since middle school, our parents were always leading something: discipleship groups for students, mentorship groups for young adults, and now hosting regular wine-and-cheese nights for men and women in their 20s, 30s, and 40s. I’ve always been a bit jealous of my friends, wishing I had a mentor as intentional as my parents were for them, but more than my jealousy there’s always been a deeply embedded pride at my parent’s pursuit of our friends (and others my age) in an effort to offer availability, wisdom, and care to the next generation.

18. Hosting 30+ People in our Home. One of my absolute favorite parts of childhood was always having people outside our biological family living with us. An exchange student from Brazil. A dozen or so different friends from Austria. Our handyman's daughter for a year so he could get his life together. One of my brother’s teammates as his parents went through a nasty divorce. My childhood best friend. A recovering addict who had just started following Jesus. A lady who was being stalked by her abusive ex-husband. Tons of recently graduated college students. When I think about the expansive view of household (Oikos) in the Scriptures, I’m beyond grateful to say my childhood looked far more like that than what is traditionally depicted in the modern nuclear family.

19. Having a Greater Purpose than Us. This may sound harsh, but hear me out. My parents wanted us to know that while we have always been a part of their purpose, we would never be their purpose. After seeing many marriages either crumble after becoming empty-nesters or become detached from the world due to spending 100% of their time and energy on their children, my parents realized that their purpose had to expand beyond just me and my brother, not only for their own sense of meaning, but also to model a life of purposefulness to us. As an adult child, it’s uplifting to look at my parents and know that they are still living their best life today, and we still get to be a part of it.

20. Sharing Social Capital. My parents are what you might call “super-connectors.” They have a way of meeting everyone in a room and quickly finding a meaningful overlap in each other’s lives. You can’t go anywhere on the planet without them “knowing a guy.” Seriously… you could drop them in the middle of Time Square and they’ll bump into a former colleague or a long lost friend. Social capital - even more than financial capital - is the highest indicator for long-term wealth and job security, and the beautiful thing about social capital is it costs nothing to give away. Because of this, my parents have always made every effort to introduce us to the people they meet, let us tag along for conferences and work meetings, and champion us in each circle they find themselves.

There you have it, a quick glance into the scrapbook of my childhood memories.

There are most certainly many lessons and habits I’ve missed and some I’ve likely mis-remembered, but regardless, the message I continue to come away with is this: every moment is an opportunity to parent intentionally. We are never too late to start adding more playfulness, more generosity, more affirmation, more atunement, more hospitality, more depth, more anticipation, more creativity, more purposefulness, and more love into our children’s day-to-day lives, no matter how big or small. Sometimes it takes thinking outside the box, or seeking creative input from other intentional parents.

For me, it’s simply been a joy to start dreaming about and applying (even in small ways) intentional parenting practices with my own two boys today in hopes of laying a foundation for our life together over the next 15-20 years.

Parenting is hard regardless, but I’d rather choose the hard that comes with the greatest opportunity for joy, fulfillment, and connection.

P.S. Need a killer book recommendation? I just finished going through The Intentional Father by Jon Tyson and really, really loved it! Got a lot of my creative juices flowing, even if it won’t be for another decade before I can start applying some of these things! (Also, I’m a big fan of Justin Whitmel Earley’s Habits of the Household too)

*Note: Names have been altered for confidentiality

“Bruh, this… this a hard passage for me, for real. Like, how Jesus gon’ say I got little faith just for worryin’? Like man, I be worried all the time. Worried some dude gon’ pull up on me while I’m sleepin’. Worried some church lady gon’ call the cops on me just for sleepin’ by they building. Worried I ain’t gon’ get enough food, or get sick out in this Atlanta heat. I gotta be missin’ somethin’, don’t I? Don’t Jesus say his burden be lighter than that?”

These words came from Perry, a man likely in his late 40s, as we entered into the third reading and reflection time of our lectionary passage from Luke 12.

Perry is a man who walks with a limp—literally and figuratively. Bouncing between street corners, park benches, and shelters, life hasn’t been easy for him, but one thing you know for sure: he loves engaging in the Scriptures throughout the week as an avid church member, particular via Lectio Divina.

For those unfamiliar, Lectio Divina is an ancient monastic approach to praying through the Scriptures, heavily popularized by Saint Benedict in the 5th and 6th centuries. It is a slow, contemplative avenue to practice silencing one’s body, mind, and spirit to listen to God’s voice while reading through the text multiple times. The “format” can vary in expression, but here is one of the more common approaches to Lectio Divina:

• Read (Lectio): Quiet your soul then read the provided passage slowly, paying attention to any word or phrase that stands out.

• Reflect (Meditatio): Sit with that word or phrase and ask: What might God be saying to you through it?

• Respond (Oratio): Talk to God about what you’re noticing—your thoughts, feelings, or questions.

• Rest (Contemplatio): Simply be still with God, resting in His presence without needing to say or do anything.

For this church community, with some 80-90% of its members experiencing homelessness, Lectio Divina has been a centerpiece in their gatherings for decades. And how could it not be? In a church culture that prides itself on ever-increasing sermon lengths from a single, scholarly voice, Lectio Divina reminds us that God speaks through the whole body, for the whole body. As Paul put it in his letter to the church in Corinth:

“When you come together, each one has a hymn, a lesson, a revelation, a tongue, or an interpretation. Let all things be done for building up.” (1 Corinthians 14:26)

Truly, there’s something profound that happens when we gather around and give ear to the voices of each member of our ecclesial family, and even more so when many of those voices have been perpetually neglected by the broader culture.

We must remember: The witness of these image-bearers is too for the building up of Christ’s bride.

This, as always, challenges us to recall something fundamental about the life of our Savior, that He did not merely come to bring charitable donations to poor people, but He came identifying with them. In so doing, we undoubtedly must acknowledge that the poor have something eternally precious to offer the church, if only we can be present enough to receive it.

As our gathering continues on, more reflections are shared.

Tommy, poking his head up from his sleeping bag, chimes in: “Mannn, it’s just tough, you know. Like, we readin’ this as God-fearin’ folk, but ain’t no other church want to make our worries they worries, like we bad people just for havin’ problems. Dis the only church I’ve ever felt welcomed in.”

Tommy’s comment makes me think of the ancient words of St. Cyprian of Carthage (3rd Century) when he says:

“What arrogance it is, what cruelty, to look upon your fellow human being in misery, and excuse yourself from compassion by blaming his condition on his choices!”

I’m grieved and a bit angry as I listen, but am quickly uplifted when Rodney offers a response, “I feel that way too, dawg, but I also think this just speakin deep to my own heart. God sayin’ I’m valuable to him. More than the birds and the flowers, he keep carin’ for me ‘cause he sees me like a treasure. And he provides for me too. Not always what I want, but always what I need. Hearin’ this, I just feel grateful to God, ya know!”

These are the meditations of the saints—the unseen and unheard sisters and brothers as they present their lessons and songs and revelations of God’s faithfulness from the street corners. The teachings and testimonies they share each week are more profound than most sermons I’ve listened to throughout my life, and definitely more memorable.

I mean, have you ever read Jesus’ words about not worrying for food and clothes with a man wearing his one stained-and-torn outfit and who hasn’t eaten in 2 days? Have you ever contemplated the words of Christ when He offers rest and an easy yoke with a woman who’s been perpetually abused and now sleeps under a bridge?

Witnessing such character that has been born out of suffering and perseverance is a captivation to the mind’s eye. It reminds me of Paul’s words to the Philippian church when he says:

“I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want”. (Phil 4:11-12)

When we only know plenty and have never tasted lack, how truly hard it will be to encounter the secret of being content, and how truly necessary it will be for us to learn from those that carry this mystery deep in their bones.

Eventually, we transition into a time of remembering and receiving the Lord’s Supper—beautifully tied into a sit-down meal just like the early church (albeit their’s likely didn’t include powdered eggs and croissants from Walmart). We receive this good gift from God—this Eucharist—sitting around tables in communion with one another.

As our time of worship slowly moves towards its close, Jeremiah, who has claimed his weekly seat by the juice and coffee table, interjects: “Ay, I got a song request real quick. Can we do that Saint Francis song?”

We all know the prayer, and lifting our voices together to its gripping words only feels fitting.

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace:

where there is hatred, let me sow love;

where there is injury, pardon;

where there is doubt, faith;

where there is despair, hope;

where there is darkness, light;

where there is sadness, joy.

O divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek

to be consoled as to console,

to be understood as to understand,

to be loved as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive,

it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,

and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

Finally, we all circle up and hold hands and say the Lord’s Prayer together, in both English and Spanish as we try to include our Central American siblings in the room.

All in all, it’s been a gift to spend the morning together.

But even then, our time of gathered-ness isn’t over. It’s just in transition. No one is in a rush to leave. No one has anywhere else to go. It’s not like attending a movie, expeditiously exiting the theatre when the credits pop up; it’s more like lingering in a shared space with family.

At that point, even I have to contend with my own sense of urgency and self-importance to make my leave, but thankfully my toddler is in no rush, already organizing some of the men in the room in a line to form a pretend train with the chairs. As you might suspect, many unhoused men and women don’t get to interact with children a whole lot since we as a society have prejudiciously deemed most people without a residence as dangerous. However, in this moment, it’s a gift to watch the kind of joy my son can bring to those enduring so much hardship as he runs around the room and giggles away.

Conversations continue. Stories are exchanged. Occasional asides take place regarding a personal need for the week, like getting a fresh pair of socks or a hand-me-down tent or a drive to the doctor. It’s still messy, don’t get me wrong, but it’s a delight unlike any other, being with those who look like Jesus—listening, and learning, and growing alongside one another.

As a child, I always had a hard time reconciling why we-the-church weren’t giving more to those without homes. Why we weren’t doing enough for them. (And yes, I still do)

But now, as an adult, I have a hard time reconciling why we-the-church don’t find ourselves more often sitting at the feet of the poor, and communing with the poor, and listening attentively as they bear witness to the Kingdom of God in our midst.

It’s simple. It’s hard. It’s glorious.

And it’s exactly where Jesus is speaking.

Want to read more of my reflections on life among the poor??

Check out some of my past articles:

1. We All Have Names: On Knowing (and Being Known by) the Unhoused

2. So… Want to Live Among the Poor?

Just checking in. I’ve obviously been on a bit of a newsletter hiatus the last 5-6 weeks, one that I suspect will continue for a few more months, because… well… newborn life loading, but I figured I’d send something to touch base real quick.

Baby #2

First, as referenced, our sweet boy, Oliver (meaning “Planter of Peace” and “Planter of Olive Trees”, see past post), will be joining us in the next couple of weeks.

We’re excited, likely underprepared, and tremendously grateful to God.

Back in the Fall when we were considering trying to have another child, I was still very hesitant with where my health was at. I wasn’t driving much, I was having far more erratic spells of dizziness and lightheadedness, and in general was just really symptomatic.

But… we (Sam and I) both felt like we kept hearing God say that this baby was to be born in faith—that despite our better reasoning we were supposed to trust that it was time for Levi to have a sibling and for our family to grow.

And while my health is still by no means “in the clear”, I am doing by far the best I have been in over 2 years.

Reflection: Faith is scary. Picturing the other foot dropping is also scary. But, no matter what, new life is a good and beautiful thing. God will never stop providing, even if that provision feels at points like suffering; He remains a truly good Father.

Editing

I call it a “newsletter hiatus” because I haven’t stopped writing. Writing is just looking a little bit different right now.

For starters, I’m in the thick of the editing process, which my super ignorant, first-timer self thought was going to be like a “ship it to an English teacher, they’ll send back a final copy” kinda thing.

Nope.

When I saw my first of 16ish chapters come back with 500+ revision requests, I knew I was going to be pivoting some of my expectations.

It is an exciting time though.

As I’ve shared in the past, I’m working on publishing a book that functions as a very approachable, liturgical guide to the feasts and festivals in the Bible. (Running title remains: Sacred Gatherings)

This coffee-table book will be covered with colors and illustrations that I’m excited to share more of, hopefully sooner than later. (Here’s one my favorites so far… s/o Jenny Kafer!)

Hoping you will be able to get your copy by this time next year, if not sooner!

Other Writing Projects (yes… it’s about Community)

I am still doing some writing (I’m actually about 40k words into a target of 60k words), for what I hope to be my 2nd book in the coming years.

It all revolves around some of the things I love writing about most:

• Physically proximate community

• Nearness to the poor and marginalized

• Our divinely neurobiological design for relationships

• Reflections on the early church

• The importance of place

• Jesus

Here’s a snapshot of one of the pillar frameworks I’m using to anchor a lot of this writing. It’s basically how I’ve been visualizing the layers of our communal identity (something I find a bit more foreign to our pretty individualistic culture). Not much more to add, so I’ll let this be my teaser for now.

Whenever I’m back on my newsletter-game, there’s a pretty good chance I’ll be pulling excerpts from my writing on this.

2025 Books

After a slow start to 2025, I’ve been hitting the books this summer (and by books, I mean audiobooks… minus like 2… I’m no hero). Very pleased by my selection of reads (and re-reads) so far. If you read the titles below, you should be able to see a clear theme between what I’m reading and writing about.

In particular, I just finished Slow Church by yesterday and was so happy I stumbled across it. Don’t be surprised if you see me quoting it in the near future. Highly recommend!

Tisha B’Av

Lastly, if you didn’t know, this coming Sunday is the holiday of Tisha B’Av, considered the saddest day in the Jewish calendar. Leading up to this day is what’s known as the 3 Weeks of Sorrow. In antiquity, it’s a period of fasting, repentance, and lament in which the people of God recall their idolatry, perpetuation of injustice, and the ways in which they ignored the voice of the prophets.

Today, I simply pause at this moment in the biblical calendar and grieve the ways in which we as a church have continued to turn from the Kingdom of God and have harmed our neighbor rather than extended love.

If you’d like to learn more about this holiday, you can find a short description here.

Alright, that’s all I’ve got.

I truly am so excited to get back into my weekly rhythm of writing here later this year (hopefully), so please stick around until then and don’t be a stranger.

A lot of love, grace, and peace to you!

Barrett

“Then the Lord God said, ‘It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a helper fit for him’.” (Genesis 2:18)

For the first time in the thick of creation, Elohim looked upon his craftsmanship and said, “it is not good.” There was a lack in generative goodness, and it could not go unnoticed. This lack needed to be named and addressed.

And its solution? A Helper.

This verse – not to mention this term – can easily be misused or misunderstood.

Oftentimes when we hear the term “helper” we think of a kind of subservient assistant – a lesser-than party made inferior for the purpose of upholding the will of another. How easy it is for our minds to quickly jump to more ignoble qualities as our mouths readily delegate subordinate roles.

This, however, is far from the meaning of the word “helper” here.

Instead, it is the term ʿēzer in Hebrew, that – while used in a variety of relational contexts – often implies that of a rescuer and ally.

As it is, the ʿēzer arrives at the sound of a cry for help, not the demand for it.

Rather than an object to be dominated or coerced, the helper is implored for their care and fortitude. The ʿēzer is like that of a person who champions another person, who seeks partnership with them and who fights for their highest possible good, particularly in moments of crisis and trouble.

It is telling that this word is used to describe God in the Scriptures more than any other person, indicating that such a word is one of praise and strength, rather than inferiority.

When God says it is not good for man to be alone and that He will provide a helper, He is declaring that His creation is better with harmonious variation and equitable distinction.

Yes, it is true that man needs one another, for loneliness is indeed poison to the soul and isolation crushing to the spirit. In man’s moment of separation and need, the Lord fulfilled his very goodness through woman, establishing the foundational building block for every form of help that has ever been given, then or since, that being: relationship.

O Lord who is our ultimate Helper, you have given man a helper to rescue us from the tragedy of disconnection. In a world writhing in loneliness, would you hear our cry for one who is both like and unlike us, that we might know a greater goodness still.

Resource recommendation…

This verse in Genesis is the first of several passages throughout Scripture that are often misused and taken out of context, typically at the expense of how women are treated in the church.

Because of this, here are a couple of books that I’ve appreciated reading in the last couple of years and recommend in regards to the meta-narrative that Scripture and history offers about women.

• The Making of Biblical Womanhood: How the Subjugation of Women Became Gospel Truth by

• Tell Her Story by

Happy reading :)

How can I not?

We are the church. Our collective, ecclesial beginning was in the first century. And, origin stories tell us a lot about who we are and who we are to become.

One of the key things that constantly stands out to me when I think about the early church is it’s inherently familial nature.

Of course, it most certainly had it’s flaws (and was far from monolithic in expression), but at its most primal state, there was an essential relationality that existed in their foundational life together.

That being said, here are 10 characteristics I’ve come to deeply admire about the early church that reveal its clear orientation around relationship (something I believe we could benefit from in the West today!):

1. The church primarily gathered in homes. Homes are where ongoing family life takes place — and church is family. While commercial buildings are often structured around consumption, passivity, and transaction, a household (or oikos) is centered around sharing, collective engagement, and relationship.1

2. Local churches were typically made up of 10-50 people. At a size like this, everyone would have known each other. There would have been no hiding. This has massive implications when considering the importance of interdependence among members, sharing of gifts, relationship dynamics, conflict and repentance, financial stewardship, discipleship, the nature of church growth, etc.2

3. Believers likely started off living within walking distance from one another (a Sabbath-day’s journey of ~1/2 a mile). This kind of physical proximity paired with a devotion to loving one’s neighbor led to a lifestyle that looked far more daily than weekly and far more communal than individualistic. Spiritual disciplines would have been practiced more regularly together than separate.

4. The celebration of the Lord’s Supper was in the context of a weekly sit-down meal (an actual “supper”), not a bite-sized snack. Early believers entered into a prolonged feast together, remembering their Savior’s life, death, resurrection, ascension, and rulership in their lives as they communed together.3

5. The centerpiece of the gathering was the table, not the teaching. That is not to pit one against the other as both carry importance, but to reveal something of the nature of the context for times of gathering. With gathering spaces revolving so heavily around the Agape Feast and the Lord’s Supper, we can see a clear slowness in pace in contrast to our typically efficient, get-in-get-out services.4

6. Gatherings often included time for any in the body to bring a word. From teachers regularly asking interactive questions, to those in the local church bringing a word, song, tongue, or prophetic encouragement, there was space for both the structure of liturgy and the spontaneity of the Spirit among the priesthood of all believers. In other words: the gifts of all were welcome.5

7. Believers largely didn’t view their resources as their own. Through what they called their “common purse”, the early church was able to effectively distribute goods, food, and money to those suffering most. Rather than primarily allocating “church budget” to buildings and salaries like we often see in the West today, the central use of early church funds was spent on caring for the poor and marginalized, along with other missional efforts.6

8. Their local church communities were known not as, but by their presence in physical locations (e.g. ”Phoebe’s house”; “the church in Rome”) rather than by brand names and logos. They weren’t marketing themselves; their lives were the message while tangible relationships were their channel for communication. Your entry point into the Body of Christ was human connection, not a Google Ad, website, or steeple.

9. They lived life in close community (and identification) with the poor, rather than occasionally crossing paths at a distance. They knew they could see the Kingdom of God most clearly in the margins of society, so that’s where they lived and spent their time.7

10. Elders seemed to more organically surface over time, collectively leading the local body rather than placing undue emphasis on a single “Lead Pastor”. While ways of viewing and identifying leaders varied from church to church even in the first century, there was not so stark a clergy-laity divide as we see today, where a few monopolize on the gifts and responsibilities that were always meant to be held and shared by the entire family.8

In reading through these characteristics and considering myriads of other ones, there’s a question I’m left pondering: “Is my/our embodiment of church today a step towards (or away from) the relationality that we see in the early church?”

Or, put in a more constructive way, we might also ask: how might the example of the early church inspire me to walk more communally and less individualistically; more incarnationally and less disembodied; more interdependently and less independently; more proximately and less at a distance; more as an organism and less as an entity?

No matter where each of these characteristics falls on the spectrum between “Descriptive” and “Prescriptive,” I find that they make a compelling case towards the fundamental, cruciform, relational nature for which our life is meant in church community.

For that, I am perennially energized to continue to nurture my ecclesial imagination today.

Lord, draw us closer to one another, to our neighbor, to the poor, to you, and to family life as your church. We want to live as an intimately and redemptively relational people.

“Learning is not child’s play: we cannot learn without pain.” Aristotle

Pain is often an intimate companion in our quest to learn.

Learning brings new information, and when we must fit new information into the decades-old schemas that have formed in us since our youth, there will be a sharpness that comes with our accommodations.

Learning forces us to adapt (if not wholly release) our previously held understanding in the wake of newfound data. And this can be agonizing, for if we know anything about the brain, we know our human propensity to cling onto that which is familiar (even when “untrue”) over that which is unfamiliar (even when “true”). This is because, at a neurobiological level, our brains have a tendency to fire more cortisol (the “stress hormone”) as incoming information increases in novelty and decreases in familiarity. It is not entirely different from a fight-or-flight response at our perception of impending danger.

In other words: learning can be disorienting to those things we’ve always known… and disorientation hurts.

Consider Josiah as an example.

Here is a king who rose to the throne (at the age of eight, no less) in an era in which the Torah had practically been forgotten and lost. One day, his secretary (while visiting the Temple) was handed a scroll that the High Priest had found, and he returned to the king and read it aloud:

“And when the king heard the words of the Book of the Law, he tore his clothes. And the king commanded Hilkiah the priest, and Ahikam the son of Shaphan, and Achbor the son of Micaiah, and Shaphan the secretary, and Asaiah the king’s servant, saying, “Go, inquire of the LORD for me, and for the people, and for all Judah, concerning the words of this book that has been found. For great is the wrath of the LORD that is kindled against us, because our fathers have not obeyed the words of this book, to do according to all that is written concerning us.” (2 Kings 22:11-13)

Oh how distressing this was for the king to learn, for him to rip off his garments before his counsel!

How could he have gone his whole life without hearing these words? How could prior generations not have taught him such things? How could his entire kingdom be living devoid of the knowledge of these great and terrible truths?

The king mourned that which had been true all along, yet of which he had only just been made aware. He and his people had been complicit to injustice and idolatry without even knowing it, and upon his reception of this insight he cried out in overwhelming sadness. To him, such knowledge was nearly unbearable.

But Josiah chose to bear it, for certainly he could. He needed to.

In the words of American philosopher, Eugene Gendlin:

“What is true is already so. Owning up to it doesn’t make it worse. Not being open about it doesn’t make it go away. And because it’s true, it is what is there to be interacted with. Anything untrue isn’t there to be lived. People can stand what is true, for they are already enduring it.”

While Josiah’s heart ached within him, he pressed on — onward and inward — owning the reality of his pervasive generational problem. He knew (as we all must learn, one way or another) that we tend to live at the whim of those things we do not first name, and the king was no longer willing to give such things power over him anymore.

And it was this posture — of courage and contrition, of curiosity and lowliness — that was seen as honorable in the sight of the Lord, for as it was spoken to Josiah:

“‘Because your heart was penitent, and you humbled yourself before the LORD, when you heard how I spoke against this place and against its inhabitants, that they should become a desolation and a curse, and you have torn your clothes and wept before me, I also have heard you.” (2 Kings 22:19)

Yes, in a world — and dare I say in a community of faith — that too often fails to face the corruption of its own story, we do well to find ourselves weeping on the floorboards with King Josiah in holy lamentation. Surely, that is the most appropriate first step (in most instances) when we become aware of brokenness, particularly in our collective story.

And often, this is what the Scriptures mean when speaking of the heart of the prophet (among whom Jeremiah is likely the foremost) — not merely casting cryptic foreshadowings, but rather offering us an astoundingly clear memory of the past, so much so that it might bring us to tears. Indeed, the prophets knew it better than most, that it is in the depth of our capacity to remember that we might find greater vision to look into the future. I love how French poet Paul Valéry once put it:

“Like a man rowing a boat that floats on the tide, we enter the future facing the past.”

Yes, to move forward, we must have the strength to look back — particularly at those things that disturb us most. Indeed, we must look upon the source of our shame should we ever find healing from it.

I will leave you with an example of my own experience with learning.

For me, one central thread of this journey over the last decade has been my entry into the many egregious layers of the church’s story as it pertains to racial oppression.

Not wholly unlike the journey of Josiah, there was a great deal left unspoken in my earlier years of education, with much abdicated in my own middle- and high-school history classes and collegiate discussion groups.

Yet one day, when I stumbled across Lester Scherer’s book Slavery and the Churches in Early America, 1619-1819, and another when a group of international students asked me if racism still existed in America, and another upon my first encounter of being told by an elder that “you can’t be Christian if you aren’t a Conservative,” I began my path of learning and unlearning.

Along the way, there were several extraordinary and terrible things that I found that I knew little to nothing about. Things that have shaped my reality — our reality — and that of millions of people for centuries.

How could this not lead me towards an attempt at faithful remembrance, and prophetic lament, and the painstaking journey of learning about the truer story and reality in which we find ourselves today?

Here are just a few of the many, many layers of our ecclesial history that I found myself grievously learning about (largely for the first time), of which I would argue that all (particularly white American believers) ought to as well:

1. Constantine as an influence on Christian nationalism

2. Publius Lentulus letters and the mass production of “White Jesus”

3. The Doctrine of Discovery

4. European (often “Christian”) genocide of Indigenous peoples across Turtle Island

5. Forced Indigenous boarding schools

6. The creation of Slave Bibles

7. The dualism of slave baptisms

8. Abraham Lincoln and the Dakota 38

9. The mythical Thanksgiving narrative

10. The 13th Amendment and mass incarceration

11. The dismantling of the Freedmen’s Bureau

12. Widespread lynchings

13. The eugenics movement

14. Epigenetics and racial trauma

15. Redlining and ongoing segregation

(Here is a list of books that I’ve found helpful over the years, many of which shed light on the above)

May we each be filled with greater courage to enter into the painful journey of learning.

“Therefore a man shall leave his father and his mother and hold fast to his wife, and they shall become one flesh.” (Genesis 2:24)

In ancient Mesopotamia, this passage makes no sense.

Traditionally, the wife left her household to join that of her husband’s, not the other way around.

In a generally patriarchal society, all revolved around entering into the man’s world and reality – he was the one deemed of greater authority, agency, and value.

Yet, in the contrast of this Edenic picture of the pursuit of marriage, we see an image of sacrifice and lowliness; an active seeking-out as a lover, not the lackadaisical indulgence of a consumer.

To leave one’s parents – ʿāzaḇ, in Hebrew – is to depart from them, even abandon or forsake them at its most extreme, for the sake of binding oneself to another who is worthy of love and affection. It’s to detach and reorient one’s allegiance in the light of divine covenant.

Even in this ancient poem of Genesis, written many centuries prior to the Gospels, do we not taste the foreshadowing notes of another – coming like a Son of Man, a second Adam?

It was Yeshua who left his Father-Mother God, along with the benefits of his mysterious and celestial homeland, to enter into Creation.

He came in pursuit of a wife as well - his Bride - the Church.

He came to cleave to her - become one with her - that in their oneness a new home might emerge.

A new heaven. A new earth.

The Kingdom of God as a dwelling place in which the bridegroom and bride might abide in the shalom of generative fruitfulness and ordered creativity and endless delight.

Our Savior stepped away from his family that He might, in one sense, create a new family, and in another, resorb us back into the family for which we were always intended. Christ established a context in which we-his-bride might live our ecclesial life together.

Yeshua, you were God by nature, yet in your incarnation you did not regard equality with God as something to be grasped. You released a dimension of your family to entwine yourself with us. May we ever marvel at the love you have poured out.

"But they who wait on the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint." (Isaiah 40:31)

The phrase "wait on the Lord" appears dozens of times throughout the Scriptures. It’s often our first call to obedience when listening to Adonai. But too often, we equate waiting as passivity – a kind of inactive lollygagging or idle bystanding.

Waiting can sometimes conjure images of sitting and doing nothing, and frankly, that sounds stir-crazy, or at least unhelpful.

Fortunately, that is not the case here.

Waiting - qāvâ in Hebrew - evokes the image of a strong rope, like that of a cord of three strands not easily broken. It carries the notion of holding fast, intertwining oneself with the One who is our guide — our strength and stronghold.

When we wait, we are attentive and watchful to the gusts of divine movement, preparing ourselves to be swept away by glory while simultaneously anchored amidst chaotic storms.

It is telling that qāvâ is also the root word for tiqvâ, which is the Hebrew term for “hope.”

That’s because when we wait, we anticipate.

We practice a kind of kindling of the imagination, posturing ourselves in obedience and expectancy before a God who is working out the incomprehensible, both in the world and in our individual and communal lives.

Waiting holds a kind of drama and suspense. It’s the rising action that precedes the climax where Adonai again shows up and moves among us.

As we assume such a disposition of waiting, we place our trust in an unshakable weight of glory that we can depend on and a here-and-now kingdom in which we long for with all our hearts. While opposing forces may draw our moment of pause into a simultaneous motion and tension, we are reminded of our bound-ness to a God who is reliable and steadfast.

Indeed, as we abide in Him, He abides in us.

Just as the Lord tells us we are to mount up on wings like eagles, we must recall that there is no soaring prior to first tucking ourselves in the shadow of His wings. What is to come is a guarantee upon our hearts, but it does not come without first waiting.

Our waiting is a continual wrapping of ourselves - around and around - in the steady embrace of an Almighty holder who is ever faithful. Surely, we need only cling to Him, for he has great and good things prepared for.

Indeed, “The LORD is good to those who wait for him, to the soul who seeks him.” (Lamentations 3:25)

Lord, help us wait actively – anticipating your guidance and movement among us as we seek first your kingdom together. We entwine ourselves to you, knowing that your hope is like that of an anchor.

Those who sow in tears shall reap with shouts of joy! He who goes out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy, bringing his sheaves with him. (Psalm 126:5-6)

As I slowly make my way through the Book of Jeremiah — the “weeping prophet” — I am reminded that our tears are not for naught. While they aren’t merely a means to a particular end, they are purposed, functioning again and again as the predecessor to our much-anticipated joy. Indeed, our tears are often the valley before the mountaintop; the darkness of the night prior to the break of dawn.

Weeping then, at least in this particular context of weeping, is a part of our journey deeper into hope, rather than away from it. It’s a part of our bodies’ and souls’ way of naming that place in which we find our collective story, recognizing that we cannot enter new life and merriment without first being pricked by its fragmentation, past and present.

This is where Jeremiah found himself: called by Adonai to prophesy against the injustice and idolatry of a generation before illuminating the awe-striking beauty of God’s Kingdom. As it is written:

See, I have set you this day over nations and over kingdoms,
to pluck up and to break down,
to destroy and to overthrow,
to build and to plant.” (Jeremiah 1:10)

And it was excruciating.

He was a man of abundant hope, yet people dubbed him a pessimist — a cynic. He sought the wellbeing of a nation, but the nation deemed him the antagonist. He was there “to build and to plant,” but the people couldn’t accept him first “plucking up and breaking down.”

Jeremiah simply knew that genuine hope requires change, and such change cannot take root without first tilling the soil of our memory with the sharp edge of truth. Indeed, as it is for us all, we cannot change what we have not first named, for, as trauma therapist Christine Langley-Obaugh popularly put it:

“We repeat what we do not repair.”

Which left Jeremiah in a disheartening predicament: remain anesthetized alongside an unchanging kingdom or persist onward despite the agony.

He courageously chose the latter, and — in sackcloth and ashes — he watched lamentably as his people fell into destruction.

“For the wound of the daughter of my people is my heart wounded;
I mourn, and dismay has taken hold on me.

Is there no balm in Gilead?
Is there no physician there?
Why then has the health of the daughter of my people
not been restored?

Oh that my head were waters,
and my eyes a fountain of tears,
that I might weep day and night
for the slain of the daughter of my people!” (Jeremiah 8:21-9:1)

The weeping prophet wept and wept. Truly, he was devastated. But there was more to it than that. As Brueggemann puts it in his captivating book, The Prophetic Imagination:

“The ministry of grief for Jeremiah is not one of self-pity. Seeing what he saw among his people, it was the only appropriate response. Jeremiah had seen what was there for all to see if only they would look, but the others refused to look, simply denied, and were unable to see.”

Brueggemann would later state that it is only by grief that we can draw a people out of numbness towards their own sin and injustice and trauma, and only by amazement in the glory of God that we can overcome the despair that tends to arise once the depth of our grief has been named.

As it is, Jeremiah’s heartbreak was his ministry — an act of hope-filled worship paradoxically filled with both grief and amazement. He, more than anyone, cried out in recognition of the brokenness of his people, yet he, more than anyone, clung to the vision of a Kingdom of goodness, justice and abundance in which the ways of God reigned paramount. Jeremiah’s sobs were of sadness and overflowing longing and desire.

Amidst all such desolation, his tears were water preserving the seedlings of a future joy that had yet to be fully grasped.

I use the word seedlings intentionally here, because, a couple of weeks ago, I had a dream that felt in some way relevant or symbolic to this message.

In the dream, I was on my knees, knelt down before a small, makeshift garden structured out of pallet wood. As I knelt, I began to weep, with tears dripping from my cheeks. After a few moments, I reached down and picked up one of the many seedlings lined up in several rows in the soil in front of me. I held the seedling up to my eye, and watched as it caught each of my tears as they fell from my face.

My tears had become streams of water given to new (and future) life.

That to say, there is something deeply hopeful and near-prophetic about the tears of lament that we cry before our God, moving His heart and beckoning we-His-people back to the meta-narrative that He has written.

“I have seen your tears: behold, I will heal thee” (2 Kings 20:5), says Adonai, and He will make good on this promise over and over again. Such crying is not a sign of faithlessness; it’s a joining with Christ as he wept before the rising of Lazarus once more.

Such Spirit-filled tears will spring forth the seedlings of our souls in due season, for, as Jeremiah prophesied in hope:

“Blessed is the man who trusts in the LORD,
whose trust is the LORD.

He is like a tree planted by water,
that sends out its roots by the stream,
and does not fear when heat comes,
for its leaves remain green,
and is not anxious in the year of drought,
for it does not cease to bear fruit.” (Jeremiah 17:7-8)

May we each be like those who weep when faced with the barren places of this world, with tears of great grief and great longing. And may we each become like mighty trees planted by streams of water — stewards and witnesses of new life as it springs forth around us. Amen.

In this sequel article (following my initial post on proximate living: So… Want to Be Neighbors?), I explore one of the central characteristics of life in the Kingdom of God, that being incarnational nearness to the poor. Here I offer a brief reflection on the way of Yeshua throughout his life and the life of the early church, one in which they predominantly placed themselves in contexts of suffering. Additionally, I discuss how distance from the marginalized often occurs as our wealth increases, frequently causing an erosion in: our relationships with the poor; our overall experience of compassion towards the poor; and our ecclesial sense of shared mission. In conclusion, my proposal is this: our life in proximate community as the church ought be primarily envisioned in a kind of similar proximity (and identification) with the poor.

*Note: Names that follow have been altered for privacy.

“Ayy, Big B. What y’all got cookin’ up in here tonight?” came a raspy, older gentleman’s voice from behind me.

Standing outside on the front porch, I turn around to find Reggie, one of our friends living on the streets (probably in his 60s), hobbling up the sidewalk towards our bright yellow house.

“You tell me!” I respond. “Make you a plate and pull up a seat.”

Reggie goes inside and grabs himself a bigggg scoop of spaghetti, a typical dish found in the likes of a home that houses some 9 or 10 single guys. A few moments later, he comes back out and joins our eclectic group of addicts, college students, former gang members, hippies, Bible thumpers, and ex-cons. While some are sitting down after a 9-5 workday at a corporate job, others are just ready to dig into their first bite of food in 2-3 days.

We’re all neighbors and roommates here, and while far too messy to be considered some kind of kumbaya moment, you know that — in a wild, spiritually subliminal way — Jesus is right there in the midst of us.

More trickle in and out as the evening progresses. We talk and laugh. Some open up about their stories; others remain too shelled off from a life of unimaginable trauma. A few folks eventually set up shop for the night on the front porch or a living room couch (a storm is coming through later and sleeping in the rain is never fun).

All in all, it’s been a fun summer night, simply being together with friends.

(Well… except for the part where I found AJ passed out naked on the couch the next morning)

Christ Identified with the Poor

Living in community with those experiencing poverty, oppression, and social marginalization is a hard but beautiful journey. Later that year, one of those men would be shot and killed in a bad drug deal. Another would finally graduate with his GED after dropping out of high school some 5-6 years prior (although sadly, I recently saw he was arrested for having a bag of weed on him). Another would continue suffering with addiction and mental illness and not make it through his recovery program. Another would join the leadership team of a local ministry after serving close to 30 years in prison. And Reggie, if he’s still alive, is likely still sleeping on the same park bench today, just as kind and friendly as ever to all who pass him by. The list goes on for miles.

There’s something heavenly about walking intimately close with those enduring various forms of hell on earth, as if it in some way aligns our bodies, souls, and spirits to daily encounter the death of Christ that we might also experience his resurrection power ever present in our lives.

Perhaps it's because Yeshua himself grew up as a part of a poor, ethnically marginalized, and sociopolitically oppressed people. Or maybe because, even in his rise to the rabbinical top, he still chose an intentionally subversive path, selecting misfit followers and primarily associating with the outcasts of society.

As it is, Christ the Messiah came in a manner that countered every presupposition held by the religious, wealthy, and powerful. His incarnation was a manifest display of embodied integrity, for Yeshua not only came to preach a message of justice, mercy, and compassion, but to physically encapsulate such Kingdom values by inundating his life in a context of poverty and oppression.

Unlike most, his interest was not (and still isn’t) in seats of honor, mutually reciprocated invitations, the acquisition of wealth and power, or lofty stages, but rather a carnal association with the destitute and lowly (indeed, the Hebrew word for “blessed” — bāraḵ — even means to kneel and make oneself lowly). And Christ identified with the lowly, so much so that in speaking of the poor, naked, starving, sick, incarcerated, and displaced, He would go on to say:

“Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.” (Matthew 25:40)

In several other instances, Yeshua would also declare that the new Kingdom he was establishing on Earth belonged particularly to such as these, saying:

“Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.” (Luke 6:20)

While our God is not one of partiality or favoritism based on the inherent quality of individual persons, it is clear that He had (and has) a definitive bias in terms of the types of communities with which He primarily affiliates. The late Tim Keller sheds light on this point in his book, Generous Justice, when he writes:

“While clearly Jesus was preaching the good news to all, he showed throughout his ministry the particular interest in the poor and the downtrodden that God has always had. Jesus, in his incarnation, “moved in” with the poor. He lived with, ate with, and associated with the socially ostracized (Matt 9:13).”

It is simply an unescapable reality of the person of Yeshua: his ways are found most clearly on the fringes of society, especially among the poor and oppressed. And not just among the poor, but as the poor.

The Centrality of the Poor in the Early Church

While Christ may have been the firstborn among a new creation and an alternative way of life, those who followed in his footsteps knew that embracing a life of discipleship in Him meant likewise embracing a life intertwined with the poor.

For instance, when Paul began his ministry among the Gentiles, the apostles “asked [him] to remember the poor, the very thing [he] was eager to do” (Galatians 2:10). It was as if to say there wasn’t even a question in his mind — that being among the poor merely came with the territory of following Yeshua.

Indeed, across the life of the early church, we witness a people who not only lived in proximate community with one another, but whose communal life was near-indistinguishably integrated with those most suffering and marginalized in society, sharing all things from belongings and money to meals and time together. As it is, the early church held their entire lives with such open hands that:

“No one claimed that any of his possessions was his own, but they shared everything they had.” (Acts 4:32)

Luke would go on to write that:

“There were no needy persons among them. For from time to time those who owned lands or houses sold them, brought the money from the sales and put it at the apostles’ feet, and it was distributed to anyone as he had need. Joseph, a Levite from Cyprus, whom the apostles called Barnabas (which means Son of Encouragement), sold a field he owned and brought the money and put it at the apostles’ feet.” (Acts 4:34-37)

When such is the standard in God’s new Kingdom economy, we must find ourselves growingly unsettled at anything that appears vastly fragmented from this standard. We must, in near liturgical fashion, find ways of orienting our lives around communal rhythms that uphold such pillars of generosity, hospitality, and relationship that are rooted deep in our ecclesial narrative.

One such rhythm — that fundamentally epitomized this core characteristic of the early church — was their practice of the Agape Feast. While these feasts varied in form across the first several centuries of the church, Agape Feasts (or “love feasts”, Jude 1:12) were communal meals that often took place at homes in the evening, in tandem with (or following) the celebration of the Lord’s Supper, and with the focus on including the hungry, widow, orphan, and sojourner at one’s table. It was a neighborly space designed, yes for general communal fellowship, but also to both ensure care for those in need while cultivating mutual relationships. Such relationships were one of shared kinship, countering the pervasive superiority-inferiority complexes of the class system. At this table of Love, all sat as equals before the God who shows no partiality. Even, in a couple of instances, early believers were challenged for their misuse of these feasts by attempting to segregate during meals, disproportionately allot food, and generally mistreat those viewed as lesser. Simply put: the Lord would have none of it among his just and diverse family.

This disposition towards radical generosity and equitable relationship with the poor continued to echo among much patristic literature as well. For instance, Tertullian (160-240) — in speaking of the funds collected in the church’s common purse — once wrote:

“For they [financial collections] are not taken thence and spent on feasts, and drinking-bouts, and eating-houses, but to support and bury poor people, to supply the wants of boys and girls destitute of means and parents, and of old persons confined now to the house; such, too, as have suffered shipwreck; and if there happen to be any in the mines, or banished to the islands, or shut up in the prisons, for nothing but their fidelity to the cause of God’s Church, they become the nurslings of their confession.”

Ambrose of Milan (340-397), in writing of generosity and the giving away of belongings, would go on to put it this way:

“You are not making a gift of your possession to the poor person. You are handing over to him what is his.”

John Chrysostom (347-407) would articulate it similarly:

“Not to enable the poor to share in our goods is to steal from them and deprive them of life. The goods we possess are not ours but theirs.”

The message was clear: the world may seek to divide us along various lines (of class, race, politics, etc.), but the Kingdom of God is grounded on relational connection and restored equity among the poor and marginalized. We are made to identify with the least of these as Christ did, and to ensure that the poor have all they need (and more) to live.

Our Default towards Class-Based Segregation

Ever since the birth of the Church, this theme of nearness to the poor has always been central to the Gospel message, yet — at every step along the way — there has likewise been the allure of mammon and influence, autonomy and possession, comfort and convenience to distort our view. No matter the lucidity of Christ’s teachings, it remains a difficult one, for shame and distractions and entitlement and avoidance are abundant among the powerful and privileged of society. We cannot cease to recall Yeshua’s undying words, that:

“The gate is narrow and the way is hard that leads to life, and those who find it are few.” (Matthew 7:14)

As history would tell (and repeatedly so) for centuries to come, large portions of the church would maintain their distance from the poor (even when boasting of their acts of charity) while only remnants would preserve an intimate identification with the poor. Such a trend (unsurprisingly) remains true in America today.

According to one Washington post article, there is a direct, positive correlation between a household’s increase in wealth and their increase in geographical distance from the poor. As author Carol Morello puts it:

“Rising income inequality has led to a growing number of Americans clustering in neighborhoods in which most residents are like them, either similarly affluent or similarly low-income, according to a new [Pew Research Center] study detailing the increasing isolation of the richest and the poorest.”

While the motives will vary widely as per a household’s particular draw to a certain neighborhood and community, it is clear that Americans by and large direct their individualistic autonomy (as briefly referenced in my previous article) towards a context that tends to maximize perceived amenities, convenience, and safety while avoiding perceived suffering and difficulty.

This makes sense on a neurobiological level, as humans are wired to seek familiarity and avoid uncertainty. From a brain-function perspective, we are drawn to people who are like us because they require less cognitive effort to understand and predict. In the world of social psychology, this phenomenon is supported by the "similarity-attraction effect", which shows that people tend to prefer interactions with others who share similar traits, beliefs, and backgrounds. It’s more neurologically efficient, as processing familiar social cues engages the medial prefrontal cortex (mPFC), a region of the brain associated with understanding others’ mental states, especially those deemed similar or in-group. In other words, when we see ourselves in another, this region activates more strongly, allowing for (and drawing us towards) smoother interpersonal interactions. (Source)

In contrast, encountering people who are different—especially across racial, cultural, or socioeconomic lines—can activate the amygdala, a region involved in threat detection and emotional reactivity. Studies using fMRI have shown that even brief exposure to unfamiliar faces (particularly from different racial groups) can trigger amygdala activation, suggesting an implicit bias response rooted largely in the brain’s learned association between unfamiliarity and risk. This process is often unconsciously prejudicial and can be influenced by early life exposure, media narratives, and cultural context. The neurotransmitter cortisol, released during stress, may rise during these unfamiliar encounters, increasing discomfort and avoidance behaviors. (Source)

All of this to say: when we (particularly those of us who are either influential, wealthy, or a part of majority culture) do not intentionally and consistently surround ourselves with the poor, marginalized, and oppressed, our brains (perhaps as a part of our fleshly tendency?) will provide every neurological justification possible to maintain a more segregated and homogenous lifestyle, determining the alternative as too unsafe and different for genuine consideration.

Put another way: we simply do not want to do anything that our instincts suggest will lead towards something that is, at minimum, undesirable, but at worst, suffering-inducing.

A Word on Suffering

Of course, it makes sense that — if our brains tell us something might lead to suffering — we will want to avoid it. We don’t want to suffer because, well.. suffering is painful.

Which brings us to a painful reality: the Scriptures are filled with the reminder that obedient discipleship will bring about suffering throughout this life.

Yeshua shares with his followers that:

“In this world you will have trouble” (John 16:33)

Paul tells Timothy that:

“All who desire to live a godly life in Christ Jesus will be persecuted” (2 Timothy 3:12)

Peter reminds several church communities in Asia Minor of their impending hardship by telling them:

“Do not be surprised at the fiery trial when it comes upon you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you. But rejoice insofar as you share Christ’s sufferings” (1 Peter 4:12-13)

There is no getting around it. Suffering hurts, yet it is our portion.

We don’t rejoice that suffering itself happens — we aren’t some kind of divinely ordained masochists — but we are invited to rejoice in the midst of it (James 1:2-4), recalling that the church often sees some of its greatest growth in moments of suffering. We hold onto the fact that Adonai, in His wildly redemptive and upside-down manner, will through suffering deepen our relationships with Him and one another in such a way that would have never happened had we not endured hardship at all. (I cannot recommend Curt Thompson’s latest book enough here: The Deepest Place)

Truthfully, suffering refines, substantiates, and bolsters relationships, and when we go through difficult things in community, such hardship — as agonizing as it may be — produces a shared experience aligning ourselves and our stories together. Painful experiences expose our vulnerability, and vulnerability offers a group of people the opportunity to be known by one another, establish a foundation of belonging and commitment, grieve and lament together, embody empathy, and give and receive care.

Interestingly, there is even some research that reveals how going through a crisis alongside others can lead to the release of greater amounts of oxytocin. Known as the “love hormone,” oxytocin is a neurotransmitter involved in social bonding that plays a central role in building long-term emotional attachment between people (Source). In other words, relationships committed to “love and good works” (Hebrews 10:24) only grow stronger as they endure the sharp sting of affliction together, growing increasingly anchored in the eternal hope of God’s Kingdom.

Perhaps this is why Paul was able to tell the church in Rome that:

“We rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us. (Romans 5:3-5)

While we of course do not seek out suffering for the sake of suffering, Christ and the early church no doubt chose to exist predominantly in spaces where suffering was most prevalent. They knew good and well that the affliction and messiness of marginalized contexts would inevitably impose greater difficulty on their own lives, but still they opted for it. Indeed, how could they not? For truly they knew one of the secrets of the Kingdom of God: that there is a greater reward of intimacy and hope that comes with knowing the poor.

The Reward of Knowing the Poor

There is a kind of transcendent gift that comes with living life in perennial nearness to the suffering — a particularly deepened knowledge that springs forth of the person of Yeshua. Pertaining to such knowledge, Saint Francis of Assisi (12th Century) said it beautifully:

"When we visit the poor and the sick, we gain more than we give. The poor are our teachers. They show us the face of Christ.”

Such a paradigm counters the subtle but pervasive Savior complex that can so easily materialize in our hearts when we solely approach the margins of society as the givers and problem-solvers, rather than as mutual friends and peers in pursuit of Yeshua. It is most certainly true: we have much to learn from the poor — from the widow and orphan, the immigrant and the outcast, from those in chains and those without homes.

“What exactly might we learn?” you may ask. Indeed, some of the most important lessons in all of life.

The poor, in an embodied way:

• Teach us tangibly that we are all lowly before our God

• Give us perspective of the true importance (or lack thereof) of everything we do

• Expose us to our idolatry of material things and our addiction to fleshly coping mechanisms

• Shine a light on our hidden vulnerabilities as they live their life in chronic vulnerability

• Open our eyes to what day-to-day, loyal, and devoted relationships look like

• Show us that great joy in small things is better than small joy in great things

• Cultivate greater compassion, gratitude, and mercy in our hearts

• Demonstrate courage and resilience in the presence of suffering, lack, and danger

• Exhort us to live first from our hearts, not from our wallets

• Remind us that we ultimately have no control in this life

• Reveal our desperate dependence on God

These and much, much more are the innumerable layers of wisdom extended to us when we not only strive to “be Jesus” to the poor, but also aspire to “see Jesus” in the poor (no book does this better than Gregory Boyle’s Tattoos on the Heart). Athanasius of Alexandria (4th century) once put it this way:

"Christ embraced poverty and suffering, not because He lacked power, but to teach us that wisdom is born not in ease, but in humility and the cross.”

As we continue on in our ecclesial pursuit to live as a local, cruciform community, there is but little wisdom that can compare to that which flows through the suffering of Christ in and through the fringes of his creation.

The Poor as a Concept Rather than a Relationship

To much devastation, however, this reward has often been exchanged for a diluted alternative — beautiful displays of magnanimity with extensive donation portfolios, yet with an absence (or even disregard) for meaningful relationship with the poor. That’s not to dismiss the heartfelt generosity that is often driving such funds (for how truly important such generosity can be), but to name that giving money is vastly more convenient than giving our life to the messiness of another person. We can discuss root problems and strategic solutions (with immense social support) from pulpits and stages, but how much greater resistance do we feel in occupying our time with sitting on street corners or underneath bridges. Simply consider how many nonprofits would become growingly unnecessary (even obsolete) should we-the-church but plant our communal lives as neighbors in the margins.

Yet clearly, there is a gap in this kind of lifestyle, for there is a reason Mother Theresa had to put it so bluntly when she said:

“Today it is very fashionable to talk about the poor. Unfortunately, it is very unfashionable to talk with them.”

It most certainly has become fashionable to speak of such topics among those who share in similar affluence and power, but far less so to simply know and be known by the poor themselves.

Similarly, Gustavo Gutierrez, priest and founder of the Liberation Theology movement in Latin America, offered his challenge to the church when saying:

“You say you care about the poor? Then tell me, what are their names?”

The reality is, there is too often a chasm between our sympathy and our tangible lives. Yet there’s truly no way around it: we have to know and walk with the poor (at some level) to be able to truly understand and care for them. Without doing so, our brains can quickly compartmentalize them into theoretical concepts rather than flesh-and-blood image bearers. We can check boxes off lists and boast of inspiring statistics (that oftentimes are truly inspiring), but how much more does the Lord want ourselves — our “selves” — as vessels of human relationships rather than mere medium to channel money!

For such a countercultural way of life to take root in so segregated of a society, others (and ourselves) will need tangible examples — encounters that help move us from what International Justice Mission (IJM) Founder Gary Haugen calls “compassion impermanence” to “compassion permanence” (See his book, The Good News About Injustice). Indeed, if Brueggemann is right, that “abundance breeds amnesia,” then we-the-church need to be so rooted in our compassion and connection with the poor that no amount of money or power could sway us.

A Ministry to the Rich

Because of this, oftentimes one of our greatest ministries among the wealthy and powerful is actually choosing to live more of our lives in contexts of poverty and suffering. This is, of course, not an endorsement to exploit the stories of the marginalized for the sake of teaching our upperclass friends, so much as it is practically embodying a distinct alternative to the status quo of society.

On this topic, I again love the words of Tertullian (160-240) as he points out the peculiarity of the early church — a kind of differentiating quality of which the rest of the world (particularly their oppressors) had begun to take notice:

“Our care for the derelict and our active love have become our distinctive sign before the enemy... They say, ‘See how they love one another... and how they are ready to die for each other.’”

A few centuries later, the adversarial Emperor Julian would similarly describe the Christians in his nation (who he ironically referred to as “Atheists”) in this way:

“Atheism [i.e. the Christian faith] has been specially advanced through the loving service rendered to strangers, and through their care for the burial of the dead. It is a scandal that there is not a single Jew who is a beggar, and that the godless Galileans care not only for their own poor but for ours as well; while those who belong to us look in vain for the help that we should render them.”

Those of affluence, even at a distance, are always watching. They are prepared for eloquent orations and political upheaval and attempts on the throne. But what they never expect (for few people ever do), is the witnessing of a man laying down all that he has and is for the sake of another — not to mention those deemed of no import by the regimes of this world.

This, perhaps, is our strongest protest of all. Our most compelling testimony. Our greatest act of evangelism. It is an unexpected invitation into something lesser, and yet far more abundant. Indeed, embodied depictions of the Kingdom of God here on Earth have a keen way of evoking self-reflection that rhetoric alone can seldom manifest. The latter is largely cognitive; but the prior, that is a message that can flow down into the depths of a man’s soul.

Which draws out my core proposition of this piece: living in proximity with the poor.

Proximate Community in Proximity with the Poor

It is here that we now see Part 1 of my thesis for proximate living as a church community intersecting with Part 2, which is a focus on living in close community with the poor.

As it is, life in the Kingdom of God is primarily meant to be found immersed in the margins of society, but it is likewise to be found in the context of tight-knit community, not isolation. Certainly, our love for others is, at some level, an outflow of our oneness as the local church bound together in Christ.

Just as the praxis of the church would be in lack should it embrace a life of close relational community devoid of any relationship with the poor, so too would our praxis of tending to the margins of society be lacking if done disconnected from a faithful union of believers. Both are central to our design — our purpose — our telos. We are designed to live in community and purposed to care for the poor, as we are likewise designed to live as embodiments of resilience and hope amidst suffering and purposed to give and receive within the Body of Christ. The two are simply and inextricably linked. They are not meant to be separated, for our ecclesiology and missiology have always been intended to go hand-in-hand rather than siloed.

So it is here that I put it most plainly: as we seek to live in physical proximity with our spiritual community, might we also consider what it looks like to live in proximity with the poor and marginalized as well.

Ideas for Embodied Proximity to the Poor

While far from exhaustive, here are just a few of the infinitely many ideas to hopefully help expand our imaginations for what life lived in proximity with the poor and marginalized might look like practically:

1. Perhaps the most obvious… living as an intentionally-proximate church community in an overlooked, low-income neighborhood, simply being a good neighbor and having friends that are experiencing poverty or marginalization

2. Forming healthy 3rd places in your neighborhood that stewards accessible and dignified community for the poor and marginalized (ex: coffee shop, grocery store, garden, park, athletic facility, etc.)

3. Regularly sitting down for meals with friends and neighbors living on the streets

4. Volunteering with mentorship and after-school programs

5. Fostering (and potentially adopting) children living in at-risk circumstances

6. Hosting asylum seekers and refugees in need of temporary housing as they adapt to a new country

7. Opening up your living room couch (or at least your front porch) to a friend living on the streets, when needed

8. Regularly visiting those who are incarcerated

9. Centering your political engagement around casting votes that will best serve — not yourself — but the most poor, vulnerable, marginalized, and oppressed

10. Having regular Agape Feasts, and including the poor and marginalized in your church gatherings, holiday celebrations, Shabbat meals, block parties and neighborhood cookouts

11. Being a regular presence among ministries offering shelter, food, clothing, workforce development, job creation, tutoring, healthcare, legal advocacy, and other supportive and relational touch-points

12. Cultivating an overall disposition towards the poor that seeks to 1) learn from and 2) encounter the person of Jesus in them, and in general being humble and open to learn from cultures that may be very different than yours

13. Having a more robust understanding around the conditions that led to the poverty, marginalization, and/or oppression experienced by an individual or group of people

14. And, if nothing else, as Andy Stanley so wisely put it, simply “do for one what you wish you could do for everyone”

Final Thought

In closing, as with most things I write, I am not so much taking a definitive stance on the particular neighborhood in which a household ought to live or the type of community of which a believer ought be a part, so much as I am hopefully exposing 1) the explicit deficit of middle- and upper-class believers intentionally choosing to live an integrated life with and among the poor and marginalized, and 2) how such a lack of neighborhood- and relational- proximity has largely created a chasm between Christians and those sub-communities of people with whom Christ predominantly spent His time. Of course there is always a discernment process with the direction in which the Lord is leading each of us to engage and identify with the poor, but my proposal is (at least, in part) a nudge towards establishing a default of seeking discernment in marginalized contexts, when possible.

Lastly, I would be surprised if certain resistances or hesitations didn’t come up while reading. Allow me, in a couple of bullet points, to simply propose a counter message to a few of the false dichotomies that I believe often try to function as barriers-to-entry in our life among the poor:

• You can have poor friends and also have rich friends

• You can have gatherings with your rich friends that include your poor friends (and vice versa)

• You can work a 6+ figure job and still live in a poor neighborhood

• You can connect with heavenly lavishness (as seen, for instance, in the feasts & festivals) while walking in the simplicity and frugality of day-to-day discipleship

• You can live a physically, emotionally, and relationally healthy life that is also a deeply sacrificial life

• You can find comfort with the Comforter and suffer alongside the Suffering Servant

• You can live an abundantly generous and hospitable life and still establish boundaries

• You can care about your family’s safety and live in proximity to suffering

None of these are quick-and-easy tensions to sort out, and addressing each in-depth would likely double or triple the length of this post. So for now, I will simply say that I am truly thankful we serve and follow a wise, merciful, patient, and kind Maker who is an ever-present guide to us as we seek first His Kingdom here on Earth.

O Lord, whose incarnate life was found among the poor and destitute, might your compassionate spirit fill us with a deep longing to seek you and join you in the margins of society.

Extra Resources

Here are just a couple of books that initially come to mind that you may find helpful as you consider what positive, relational proximity looks like for your community as you seek greater nearness to the poor:

• Practicing the King’s Economy

• Tattoos on the Heart

• School(s) for Conversion: 12 Marks of a New Monasticism

• Grace Can Lead Us Home

• The Good News About Injustice

• Toxic Charity

• The Irresistible Revolution

• When Helping Hurts

“A good name is to be chosen rather than great riches, loving favor rather than silver and gold.” (Proverbs 22:1)

There is a value that comes with having a “good name.”

It is a wealth of paramount magnitude, far greater than any jewel or medal or luxury of this world.

It holds an inherent worth, untouchable by those temporal things that impose decay.

As it is, a name – shem in Hebrew – is fundamental to what we are called, while also extending far beyond the mere letters and phonemes that make up the sounds that draw our attention.

Truly, names encompass identity. They can act as blessings and curses spoken over the foundation of our lives, summing the substance of our character. In Scripture, they often represent who a person is or will become, their inherited lot from their family and what they will one day be known for.

Names hold ancestry and posterity, honor and shame, wholeness and rupture.

Additionally, in Hebrew, shem has a connection to the related word neshemah, which means breath. In other words, just as we inhale and exhale the air around us, our name is both an internal self-validation of our personhood as well as an external emanation of who we are among others. Names fill us up and go forth from us into the world.

Put another way: we are the embodiment of our name and our name is the embodiment of ourselves – our self.

It’s of no surprise then that the God of the Universe has a name of such a self-proclaiming nature that He should be called “I am,” or “I am who I am.” Indeed, the essence of Adonai is simply and gloriously put on display at the mere mention of His name.

Likewise, this same God has put a name in each of us, one that (perhaps similarly) captures our very fullness — neither reducible nor to be added to. As it is written, the Lord has promised to “give [us] a white stone, with a new name written on the stone that no one knows except the one who receives it” (Revelations 2:17).

As we walk with a God who’s name is perfectly self-attesting and self-revealing, we are gently invited to learn of and become the totality of our truest name and selves, with the knowledge that our preeminent Creator has already inscribed our wholly comprised name into the eternal rocks of his Kingdom.

Father, would you guide each of our steps as we seek to walk in a manner reflective of the name you have placed in each of us, fully aware of our identity and likeness in you.

Final thought…

There are few things more touching and precious and weighty than the joy of asking Adonai to provide a name for your child.

As Samantha and I prepare to welcome our second son into the world in August, it’s been a gift to both playfully and prayerfully ponder the kind of identity we are called to speak over his life, while entrusting him to a God who already has a far greater name in store for him.

P.S. Here’s a friendly heads-up that — in all likelihood — my long sequel post to So… Want to be Neighbors? is going to be coming next Tuesday (and forewarning, it’s actually a tad bit longer). It builds on my running thesis around proximate living, this time focused on proximity to the poor and marginalized. I hope you have the chance to read it and (as always) would love your feedback if you do!