One thing about me: I LOVE celebrating women in theology and Biblical studies. I love when women who have wrestled and put in the work share wise words with the world. Last week three incredible women released books that you absolutely need on your shelf.

Meet Monica, author of Fashioned by Faith: Spiritual disciplines for deepening your relationship with God. Monica is an expert communicator with a deep love for her readers. That love shines through on every page of this delightfully practical book. One thing I love about Monica is she is passionate about equipping women with hermeneutical tools and exegetical skills. She shows her readers how to replace the reductionistic “holy spirit and me” mindset (hyper individualism meets anti-intellectualism), with context, community, and camaraderie. Fashioned by Faith perfect for readers who desire depth.

Next up: Pastor Pricelis Perreaux- Dominguez’s False Peace: How to Reject the Lie of Sameness, Embrace Difference, and Embody True Unity. Most important, I think, is the way that Pastor Pri begins her book by modeling lament as a hope-shaped practice. She doesn’t just name the problem. She invites us to come together in a posture of prayer. It’s clear that healing and wholeness is part of her purpose for writing. I join her in that lament, and I join her in the stubborn hope that healing is possible, not through sameness, but through diversity.

When Pri writes about the idolatry of our theology, she shows how too often we dehumanize others by reducing them to their belief. As a chaplain, I see it all the time. Too many people would rather cling to their belief at the expense of someone else instead of using their theology to promote healing and wholeness. Idolatry always has a cost and that cost is always embodied. The cost of “beliefism”(her word) is sacrificing the faith others to preserve our own. Instead, we must prioritize solidarity, sacrifice for others, and practice theological humility that leads to holy discomfort.

And the last book that you absolutely need on your bookshelf is ’s A Woman’s Place Is in the Story: Seeing Women in the Biblical Narrative. This isn’t some fluffy book about women in the Bible. Not only does Glahn’s work feature up-to-date exegetical scholarship, she shows how paying attention (and not paying attention) to women in scripture impacts our interpretation. Most important, I think, is the way she shows readers how to read the Bible like a story— like sacred literature. By keeping the story connected and by paying attention to patterns, we can more faithfully interact with the text, honor the women in scripture, and encounter a God who affirms women.

In Decentering David I spent a great deal of energy on Abigail’s story and how it connects to the larger narrative of Samuel, so I was especially curious to see how Glahn treated this section. Spoiler alert, it’s top-notch scholarship. Through Abigail, she demonstrates how paying attention to women helps the text come alive. It also helps us ask better questions and center God in scripture— instead than human heroes.

Glahn concludes by encouraging readers to read scripture in large chunks rather than small bites. She also encourages folks to seek out trauma-trained interpreters. As someone who ministers in a hospital and is trained in trauma, I was absolutely thrilled to see this recommended in a biblical studies resource and would like to shout it from the rooftops.

In the world of theological education, I am but a lowly GTA. I have no sway over the syllabus or the required reading. But if I did, I’d add Monica’s book to courses on discipleship and spiritual formation. I’d add Pri’s book to courses on ecclesiology and practical theology. And I’d add Glahn’s book to courses on hermeneutics and biblical theology— not just because they’re seminary-trained women but because their work contributes meaningfully and their perspectives matter.

It’s easy to “affirm women in theology” in an abstract sense.

It’s another to do it in concrete and specific ways:

• Buy our books. Hype them up. Choose them for small group studies, and use them for sermon prep.

• Add our books to the syllabus.

• Help us find our readers through engagement. We know its cringy. Yes, we’re mortified. But commenting, reposting, and sharing helps our readers find us!

• Review our books on Goodreads and amazon (reviews make SUCH a big difference).

• Look around the decision-making table and notice when we’re missing, silent, or experiencing harm— then, do something about it.

• Donate to seminary scholarship funds for women.

• Pass the mic, pay us for our expertise, and join us in cultivating healing & wholeness for the whole church.

Last but not least, here is the shameless preorder plug for Interwoven Discipleship: How the Trinity Redefines Power, Belonging, and Christian Community. Writing a book is hard. Birthing a book into the world is arguably harder lol.

Things that are keeping me sane this fall:

• Aromatherapy. If you need me, I’ll be sniffing Sacred Mountain on the inside of my N95.

• Emotional support pickles. Ever since came to visit, I’ve been on a Grillo’s kick. And ever since shared her brine hack, I’ve been itching to get to the farmers market and snag some green beans.

• Nature. Is it still too hellish and humid outside to hike for real? Yes. The air is smoggalicious and gross and my asthma can’t take it. But I can enjoy my favorite lil waterfall down by the mill and daydream about ‘ber months with dark crispy mornings and hot coffee.

• Noah Kahan on repeat. Yup. You read that right. We’re not avoiding our feelings— we’re feeling them. Over and over and over. Right now, the likelihood for a Staying Still tattoo is basically 99.7%. If you’re interested in a post about Noah Kahan and trauma-informed spiritual formation, feel free to ethically bully me into it.

Be well, beloveds <3

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It is my hope that in sharing my friend feels less alone in his experience. But I also hope that other ministers who share in similar experiences would feel seen and seek support. I don’t have an answer or a solution, but I do think it’s important that we bear witness to the suffering, and bear one another’s burdens with care.

I am a pastor and I am leaving. If I told my people, they wouldn’t understand. Or worse, it would simply wound them and leave them confused. They won’t know why I left other than the usual platitudes and niceties. So, thank you, dear anonymous reader, for listening to this wounded soul. Thank you, Liz, for our friendship. If you think you know me, you don’t. But perhaps you know me already in the face of the pastor next door.

I came here years ago full of passion, excitement, and joy. Every letter and email I’d sign “with Joy” and it was true. For over a decade I’d been preparing for this role through education, internships, and sitting under wise mentors to guide me. I thought I was ready. I thought the joy I felt in the gospel was contagious. I thought if I shared and showed how exciting the church could be that others would follow.

I was so wrong.

We have a beautiful immigrant ministry. It was one of the things that brought me here. I saw folks come to Christ who only knew Christianity as a world religion. I witnessed the literal miracle of an angel telling a young man to come here at this time to meet Jesus. He didn’t know who Jesus was or why he was supposed to meet him. He never saw that person again. I remember battling with a demon when he came to Christ. He wants to be a missionary. I cry when I think of him. Angels, exorcisms, and miracles. Surely this was God at work.

I still believe God was and is at work.

I still believe in the supernatural.

But it wasn’t the supernatural that defeated me.

It was the nice, white, Christian in the pews.

So many times, I’d invite the nice, white Christians in the pews to get to know our international friends. Some did. We learned how to make homemade tamales in the kitchen as four languages criss crossed the table. We celebrated and had cake when her green card got approved. There was the time we had falafels. As our taxpayer dollars bombed her homeland, for a moment we felt like we were all in Bethlehem in old times filled with spice, laughter, and joy. It was a beautiful evening for all who were there. Were the white elders who ruled and governed our church there? Of course not.

Instead, I would hear things like this: “I wish that all them immigrants were gone.” My heart broke when he said those words. When I tried to get our elders to intervene, it was brushed off. When the parable of the Samaritan came up in the lectionary–folks shook their heads as I quoted Moses, Jesus, and the early church. “Such a liberal sermon. You were quite the donkey today, pastor.” Yes, the Letter of Mathetes to Diognetus in the 2^nd century is simply liberal propaganda. FYI: as an anabaptist, I no longer vote, not exactly a democrat.

When I spoke with passion that in Christ there is neither Jew, nor Gentile, male nor female–when I asked us to imagine the kingdom John saw with folks from every tribe, tongue, and nation. “Pastor, please don’t talk about race.” “Pastor, just so you know, I’m not a racist. It sounds like you think folks are racist in this church.” Madam, I am racist and will be fighting it until my dying day.

When I preached on the rich man and Lazarus, included a beautiful painting from a local gallery, and lifted up examples of St. Francis, St. Lawrence, and Dorothy Day to inspire us to follow Christ. “Pastor, please don’t talk about the poor.”

When a transgender person wanted to join, they begrudgingly voted yes, saying, “mental illness shouldn’t disqualify you from membership.” I didn’t show them my favorite Halloween outfit in full drag. I didn’t tell them how many hours and years that I’d researched doctors, surgeons, and hormone therapy— and how I finally didn’t go through with it because I feared losing all I loved.

When I invited our immigrant members to share why it would matter to see their own flags alongside the red, white, and blue— or simply have none at all, for Christ’s kingdom is not of this world. When I walked them through Scripture, tradition, and the confessions— led book studies and shared testimonies, they responded: “This is America. The flag has always been there.” They didn’t care for the photograph from the 1930s showing otherwise.

When I led a new expression of faith that regularly packed the church to capacity, everyone said, “that was nice.” When I said, “We could do that every Sunday,” they asked if they’d have to give up their building. I replied, “You’d need to be willing to share.” They said, “We have enough money to last until we die.” Yes. That is true.

When the roof needed fixing, the hallways painted and recarpeted, the kitchen, dining hall, and parlor redecorated— there was always money. Yet when a child needed money for a mission trip, there was endless hemming and hawing— “Do we have enough?”

When a homeless woman sought help “We’re not in the charity business.”

When a mother faced deportation if she couldn’t pay legal fees? “That’s not our responsibility.”

My knees started to ache praying on the hard linoleum floor of that government office as the minutes passed into hour–as the television screens played on a constant loop images of brown, black, and Latina bodies thrown to the ground, cuffed, and deported. But, “You shall love the foreigner in your midst as the native born” (Leviticus 19:34) was too liberal. “Give to those who ask of you” (Matthew 5:42) is irresponsible. “Sell all you have and give to the poor,” )Matthew 19:21, Mark 10:21, and Luke 18:22). “Stop talking about money.”

“They shared all they had in common,” (Acts 4:32-35) “Are you a socialist now?”

I want to know Christ, and Christ crucified, and somehow to attain the resurrection of the dead. The resurrection has consequences for how we live now. But I’m not married with children— how could I know what it takes to be a man and provide?

I remember visiting a young Arab neighbor in prison. He asked me why I was there. I told him how I always enjoyed seeing him at our potluck dinners and that I loved him because Jesus loved him too. He told me he didn’t believe in God anymore. His face was broken in, he was shaking and weeping uncontrollably. The guards threatened him with sodomy. But who are they going to believe? My church brings the police cookies and thanks them for keeping our city safe.

I vomited for ninety days in a row–about five or six times on Sunday mornings.

But I’d get up off the floor of the bathroom, put on my church clothes, and gargle with Pepto Bismol so I could keep proclaiming good news to the poor, release to the captive, liberty to the oppressed, and sight to the blind. I did this all with a giant red, white, and blue flag beside the pulpit. It was about ten times closer to the pulpit than the cross. But they didn’t want to take the flag away, and they certainly didn’t want to embrace the cross. “Jesus did that for us so we didn’t have to”, they’d say. I tried to quote the Gospels and reply, “and Jesus invited us to take up our cross and follow him. The cross is for us.”

The vomiting continued.

When I woke up in the hospital I knew. I knew before the diagnosis came back, before they restored blood flow to my heart, before they showed me pictures of all the little ulcers and they said, “Take it easy on the coffee, pastor;” I knew I had to leave.

I haven’t told them yet. I never will.

For half of this decade, I tried to tell them in words they could hear.

Maybe they did. Maybe they didn’t. God knows. But I’m not sticking around to find out.

I am a pastor and I’m already gone.

Ministry is always personal. There are always people with bodies and communities experiencing different ways of being in the world. Those of us who seek justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with God will have our hearts broken when we choose solidarity with sufferers.

Living out our theology includes living justly in community. I’m proud of my friend for devoting his life to the gospel, rejecting white Christian nationalism, and allowing himself to experience the dissonance.

I hate that he experienced so much of that pain alone.

<3

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First things first! Check out this cover if you haven’t seen her yet! The artist did a fantastic job depicting the subtitle through the cover art. When I look at this, I see power as the triangle, belonging as the circle, and Christian community as the square. I’m not sure if that’s what they were going for, but that’s what it means to me. :)

Next: I’m thrilled to share that expert scholar, professor, and theologian Dr. Amy Brown Hughes authored the forward. Her words provide such a lovely entry point for the book. She also shared that my book felt like “If Rachel Held Evans was a Swifty” and that felt like the highest of high praise.

Check out more of her incredible work featured in On Classical Trinitarianism, Trinity Without Hierarchy, Gregory of Nyssa on the Resurrected Life, and Christian Women in the Patristic World.

I’m also thrilled to share several of Interwoven Discipleship’s early endorsers including:

, , Derwin Gray, Amy Peeler, Marlena Graves, Sam Won, Ingrid Faro, , , and

I’m grateful for the enthusiastic support from expert OT/NT Bible scholars, seasoned theologians, pastors, professors, and chaplains. This is a book for the whole church— men and women. In the weeks and months ahead, I look forward to sharing encouraging words about the book from these folks, and more!

My besties & also read early and have been two of my main emotional support people throughout the whole writing process. In the words of my literary agent, , writing is a team sport. Having a team of emotional support people is my number one tip for a healthy writing life.

Now friends, here is where I need your help.

I’m a tiny platform person, so in order for this book to find her readers, I need y’all to take 2 minutes to:

• preorder

• mark Interwoven Discipleship as “want to read” on goodreads

• follow my author profile on Amazon

• subscribe, comment and repost here on substack

• like, comment, and share on Instagram to boost engagement and visibility

• Subscribe now

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These actions signal to publishers, book sellers, and the fickle algorithm gods that this gem of a book is worth reading.

Book Reviewers: If you are a book reviewer or you’re interested in reading early and partnering together on Substack for the release, message me, shoot me an email, or connect with my publicist here so we can make sure you’re approved for Netgalley access.

Again, sharing reviews and chapter excerpts in a place like this makes a huge difference and help this book find her readers

Podcasters! This section is for you! If your podcast discusses topics such as:

• theology

• the trinity

• discipleship

• women in ministry

• women in seminary

• hospital chaplaincy

• belovedness and belonging

• disability, caregiving, and chronic illness

• theology and culture

• Christian social issues (and more!)

let’s partner together!

If you are a podcast listener, feel free to tag some of your favorite podcasts below so that we can coordinate conversations that YOU want hear! What questions do you have? What would it be helpful to share? Help me help you.

Reach out to my team here to coordinate interviews

Lastly, Interwoven Discipleship is the perfect choice for congregations, seminary classrooms, church leadership training cohorts, book clubs, and Bible study groups.

I’m booking speaking engagements for 2027-2028 so if you’re looking for a guest preacher, lecturer, or chapel speaker, let’s connect!

This book is already making its way onto syllabi in seminary courses on systematic theology, discipleship, spiritual formation, practical theology, and trinitarianism. Yay! One of the best ways to support this book is to add it to your assigned reading for spring 2027 and make sure it’s in your institution’s library/ bookstore!

Additionally, profs can request early access here (or here). Desk copies will be available after publication.

For the next several months this book will be my whole personality (sorry, not sorry), but I hope we can have some FUN as we welcome it into the world together!

Other updates:

I spent some time this earlier this month in Chicago with my Northern Seminary cohort as we pondered theology of the Body together (this photo technically features two DMin cohorts). The time we spend together are always some of my favorite weeks of the year!

and I are putting the finishing touches on Decentering David for Brazos, and we’re looking forward to turning in our manuscript at the end of the summer. We’re each finishing up our last chapter and will spend the rest of the summer editing, rearranging, and polishing. Keep your eyes peeled for updates on that front in 2027!

For listeners, over the summer we’re reading Katabasis. Keep your eyes peeled for an episode dropping in July featuring as we journey together through hell.

Finally, I’m excited to share that I’ll be presenting at the ETS annual meeting for the very first time! My presentation, Defending the Faith without Defensiveness, features my interdisciplinary work that connects the seminary classroom to hospital chaplaincy. I’m excited to share about how embodiment and relational trust form a lived apologetic (particularly in places where Christian authority isn’t automatically assumed and where Christians aren’t in power). Good news for SBL friends, I’m presenting on Thursday, so if you’re arriving early, I hope we get to connect!

My weekend plans include poolside grading, chaotic kid wrangling, and teaching fourth & fifth graders on Sunday.

As always, thanks for being here and being a part of this work. It means the world to me.

Be well, beloveds.

Spoiler alert, I’m always studying my students. And for the last few weeks as I graded dozens of position papers for my trinitarianism classes I can’t help but notice how many students feel stuck when it comes to imagining God beyond the sharp confines of maleness. There’s a prevalent pattern of stuckness. This is important because imagining God that is much bigger than anthropomorphized notions of gender, sex, or identity isn’t a wackadoodle liberal approach ;). It’s the historical Christian conviction. While God the Father and God the Son are distinctly manly ways of relating, He is not a word that speaks well of the Trinity.

The triune God is not male because God is much more.

The first time I ever wrote a seminary paper examining maternal imagery in the psalms my very accomplished very beloved very old professor shared that this was the first time that he’s ever read a paper like that. Work that reveals God’s maternal heart is important because the more it shows up on the page, the more it can correct harmful teaching and encourage the church. Several years I wrote a mother’s day post about how Eve often takes on the role of Mother of All the Living. But Elizabeth’s work is a gentle reminder that mothering all the living is work that actually belongs to the Divine. Celebrating God’s maternal imagery makes space for God’s “more-ness” to remain front and center.

God loves all of us like a mother, and that is good news.

Meet Elizabeth Berget. Her book nurtures readers away from notions that attempt to keep God in a box, mooch off of divine authority, and keep women small. Her stunningly thoughtful book is imaginative, hopeful, and inspiring. Elizabeth is funny, down to earth, and so very wise. I hope this work encourages you to experience the love of the Father, Son, and Spirit— one mother of us all.

Below I hope you enjoy a sneak peak from chapter one from Love Like a Mother from

I stood in the predawn light of our bathroom with one hand slung around my husband’s waist and the other gingerly holding a freshly used pregnancy test. The three-minute tilt-a-whirl of waiting for results had finally come to a stop, and I now found myself considering the bacterial ramifications of saving the pregnancy test in a Ziploc bag as a memento for posterity.

I was going to have a baby.

Minutes earlier, I had hobbled my very full bladder into the bathroom and ripped open the box I’d so carefully placed on the counter the night before. I had crossed and uncrossed my legs as I squinted once more at the tiny printed instructions on how and when and where to urinate. Never one to play fast and loose with the rules, I’d stopped just short of using a level to ensure that the back of our toilet was actually a flat surface, per the guidance given.

After a deep breath, I’d gone for it. I had counted my Mississippis, started my phone’s timer, and then joined my bleary-eyed husband in the hallway. While we waited, I worked to slow my breathing in an attempt to convince my anxious body that I wasn’t actually standing at the dizzying edge of a steep precipice. When the timer rang out, we’d stood in the bathroom and hugged after a bewildered first and then delighted second look at those two pink lines, and I fell head over heels off the edge into something between overwhelmed and overjoyed.

I wasn’t exactly surprised by the pregnancy; we’d waited five years into our marriage to try. The truth was, I’d felt ready for kids for a little over a year (though, at the time, I would not have known what “ready for kids” was if it had punched me in my well- rested face). But what did surprise me was how quickly the mantle of motherhood settled into my bones— or maybe just into my head, which at that point felt like it was audibly pounding. I had decided, out of an abundance of caution, to give up caffeine entirely, so the headache that consumed me as I journeyed into motherhood was the very first drop in what would become a cascading waterfall of sacrifice and love for my kids.

That instinct to protect the life within overtook me quickly and fiercely.

Outwardly, I may have complained about being bereft of so much of what makes this life worth living: soft, unpasteurized Brie on crostini, a glass of red wine on a Thursday night while watching The Office, napping on my stomach at the beach. Yet on some ancient, internal level, I knew that I would happily give up these things forever if it meant my baby stayed safe.

And that is just what mothers do. When those two lines appear on the test, they add up to more than just an addition to the family. In that moment, |+| equals a new life, a new identity. Moms-to-be intuitively begin to check for signs of spotting with each visit to the bathroom; they force down prenatal horse pills and count every flutter and kick. Their lives begin to revolve around the effort to create a life that is happy and healthy for the baby within. In short, their wombs become cultivators of compassion.

And God is no stranger to this kind of compassion.

The Wombed Compassion of God

It is tricky to picture God with a womb, isn’t it? It’s easier for us to imagine a

God who looks like Zeus, complete with bulging biceps and a white beard. But Christian tradition teaches us that this image stems more from Renaissance art than it does from the pages of Scripture. The consensus that God has no gender reflects broadly accepted teaching among most corners of Christendom, from Richard Rohr to John Piper. Piper himself, who once controversially stated that God gave Christianity a

“masculine feel,” nonetheless dispelled the image of a Zeus- like God when he said, “God is not male. . . . From eternity, God has not had a body—a physical body— and therefore, he doesn’t have male features: facial hair, musculature, male genitals, no Y chromosome, no male hormones. . . . ‘Male’ is a biological word, and God is not a biological being.”^[1] This matters because considering God a male diminishes God, who exists above and beyond human categorizations.

But in Exodus 19, no one would have blamed the newly freed Israelites for picturing a dominant, masculine deity, like those of some of their neighboring cultures.

We read that they stood like ants at the base of a mountain that was covered with dark clouds and violently shaking, waiting to formally meet this God who had parted the seas and turned the Nile bloody. We read, “All the people who were in the camp trembled” when God descended on the mountain in raging fire and billowing smoke and thundered the law down from the summit (Exod. 19:16). But fifteen chapters after these first impressions, it’s almost as if God pauses, having gotten ahead of himself, and provides an overdue introduction to his new people. In Exodus 34:6 we find God’s very first self- description of his character in the Bible, and what we read, given the context, is surprisingly comforting and unexpectedly maternal: “The Lord, the Lord, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness” (NIV).

The first self-referencing descriptor God uses is compassionate, which in Hebrew carries a lot more intensity than it does in English. The word is rakhum, and it has its roots in the Hebrew word for womb (rekhem), which indicates that the compassion of God, the rakhum of God, is a womb- born, deeply emotional love that time and again moves God to act on behalf of his children. The word conveys the urgency that a mother feels when her baby cries— an instinctive, reflective response that she feels in her body to soothe her baby’s distress.

We read of God’s rakhum for the Israelites when they were enslaved in Egypt. God heard their cries and was deeply moved, urged by his compassion to the incredible acts that led to their liberation. Later, in Psalm 51:1, it was God’s rakhum compassion that King David appealed to when he prayed for forgiveness after wronging Bathsheba: Have mercy on me, O God, according to your unfailing love; according to your great compassion blot out my transgressions. (NIV)

It was rakhum that compelled God to respond to the desperate cries of his exiled children later in the Old Testament, saying, “Can a woman forget her nursing child or show no compassion for the child of her womb? Even these might forget, yet I will not forget you” (Isa. 49:15). With these words, the prophet Isaiah was essentially asserting, “Can a woman forget to ‘womb’ the son of her womb?”^[2] Perhaps the most stark example of the meaning of rakhum comes in the account of Solomon and the baby. You have probably heard the story; it’s a memorable one. Two women from the same household each had a baby within days of one another. One of the babies tragically died, and an allegation was made that the mother of the deceased baby had swapped the babies in the night, claiming the living baby as her own. Solomon pondered this accusation and declared that the baby should be cut in two so that each mother could take a half.

While the lying mother agreed to Solomon’s ruling, the true mother of the living baby was deeply moved out of her rakhum. Pastor and author Chad Bird writes, “The Hebrew [in 1 Kings 3:26] is something like ‘her wombs warmed,’ that is, ‘her compassions grew hot within her.’ This mother, who had borne this child in her womb, ‘wombed’ him once more. Far from being cold- hearted, like the lying mother in this story, the true mother was warm- wombed toward him. So much so, in fact, that as she told Solomon, she would rather the false mother have the child than that he should be cut in two. Such womb- like compassion is gripping and unforgettable.”³

This is rakhum. And if God chose this wombed word to begin his spoken self- revelation, then perhaps it is there that we should begin the search for an answer to the question: Does God love us like a mother?

[1] John Piper, “The Frank and Manly Mr. Ryle,” Desiring God, January 31, 2012,

https://www.desiringgod.org/messages/the-frank-and-manly-mr-ryle-the-value-of-a-masculine-ministry; John Piper, “God Is Not Male,” Desiring God, March 10, 2014, https://www.desiringgod.org/interviews/god-is-not-male.

[2] Chad Bird notes that “Isaiah, a master wordsmith, is saying, ‘Can a woman forget to “womb” the son of her womb?’ He could have said ‘love’ or ‘be gracious to’ or ‘show mercy to’ but he chose the ‘womb verb’

to echo the other Hebrew noun for womb or belly, בֶּטֶן (beten),” (@birdchadlouis), “Womb-Like Compassion in Hebrew,” X (formerly Twitter), November 11, 2023,

. ³ Bird, “Womb-Like Compassion in Hebrew.”

is a speaker and author of Love Like a Mother: How the Sacred Work of Motherhood Reveals the Maternal Heart of God. Her work has appeared in Christianity Today, Coffee + Crumbs, Mothering Spirit, and other online spaces where mothers gather to find meaning in the mundane.

She shares her thoughts in her Substack newsletter, Back of the Flock, where she explores the image of God in the everyday work of motherhood. Berget has lived in Africa and Asia but now resides in Minneapolis, Minnesota, with her husband, three kids, and one mischievous dog. And yes, she’d love to hold your baby.

Elizabeth’s book enters the world headfirst on May 5th. If you haven’t yet, go ahead and preorder this beautiful book here. Be sure you’re following her in all the places and celebrating her work. Birthing a book like this into the world is no small thing.

Continue the conversation below: How do you see a mothering God at work in the world?

Be well, beloveds.

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Two years ago I attended the Festival of Faith and Writing as a seminary student with my beloved Dr. G. I was there to soak in gorgeous writing and immerse myself in poetry and prose. But I was also there to study the industry. I had homework from my professor and homework from my literary agent. The only problem? I felt like a fish out of water. At the time I was an agented aspiring author. I knew I wanted to take my time and get closer to finishing seminary before taking my proposal on submission, but I really didn’t know the inner workings of the publishing industry.

The thing that makes Calvin so special is that the festival is a haven for writers and authors of all kinds. It’s not just a Christian conference; it’s an interfaith gathering of wordy weirdos. And yes, everyone whose anyone in faith-based publishing is here too. Agents, publishers, marketers, publicists, editors, and executives. Everyone’s here.

So why did I return this year? Truthfully, it wasn’t just business. Yes, I got to meet with my teams at NavPress and Brazos— but that was a happy bonus. I came because I needed to be close to my safe people. I needed to spend time in person with my emotional support co-author, my friends, and my writing group. I wasn’t here to put on a show. I came to Calvin to be around people that I could safely unmask around free of judgement.

, , , , me, &

Over the years I’ve learned to recognize what masking does to my body as an autistic woman. The performance takes a physical toll. It hurts. So, I decided to let myself be myself around my safe people. I dropped the mask. And being able to do that in community nourished me emotionally and spiritually. At one point, my dear friend jested about my “Liz-isms.” My stims and quirks that I typically hide or silence in public (if I can help it). And I realized that being myself in public isn’t so scary when my primary circle is safe. There were times we sat together in silence, times that I lost my words mid-sentence— but my friends found them for me. For autistic people, low support doesn’t mean no support. But what a gift to feel supported. Amen?

I was sharing a bit with Dr.G’s students in the airport about why I chose to come back, and why Calvin is so special. And the reason is because writers need friends.

Let’s talk about it.

I truthfully do not know a single author who has released a book recently that wasn’t accompanied by an intense amount of burnout. Birthing a book into the world takes a major toll.

See, the point of going to places like the Festival of Faith and Writing isn’t to brush elbows with potential endorsers or brown nose publishers. It’s to be a friend and meet friends. It’s to widen the circle and help more folks feel safe enough to feel fully human. It’s to cheer one another on without strings.

It’s no secret that a whole bunch of Christian authors built massive brands on the backs of others. They used the algorithm for personal gain and said it was for God. They build a following and lost their prophetic voice in the process. But we can do things differently.

Why do writers need a support system? Because this whole industry is fickle. Things shift and change. But most importantly because accountability and friendship is much more important than networking and business relationships.

, , me, and

So, here’s what I’ve learned over the years navigating the industry as a newbie:

Don’t pay for friends

Do writers deserve to get paid for their skill and expertise? YES. Especially when a gendered pay gap for women writers is glaring. Still, I have been very hesitant to “join” groups that charge a fee for my belonging and promise friendship. Maybe it’s my millennial MLM trauma. There’s something so slimy about going to a party and feeling pressured to buy something. Similarly, I struggle with the idea of paying money to a quasi-public figure and hoping for friendship.

There’s a felt need there. Writers need support in the writing process. One of the things I respect most about my co-author, Kate, is the way that she made space for authors, professors, academics, and creatives to do co-working together— free of charge. Writing can be lonely. Friends help. :) It’s not rocket science. If we want to make this industry healthier for future writers, we need to look for creative ways to make space, practice hospitality, and love our readers well by first loving one another well. Often as writers we write from a place of pain, and hope that our readers might relate. But we love our readers best by writing from a place of emotional health and wholeness. Writing to heal and writing to publish aren’t always the same thing. Recognizing the difference and committing to heal in community is one way that we can leave our mark on the industry for future readers and writers.

Find cheerleaders not competitors

Speaking of leaving our mark, nothing kills creativity quite like competition. Nothing poisons possibility more than a scarcity mentality. Find friends who are committed to your flourishing. Reject competition, jealousy, and envy. Name them when they show up and release them. Instead of measuring people by book deals and dollars, look for safe friends.

It’s no secret that this year has been a beast for our family. My close friends and my writer group have been some of my biggest sources of encouragement while my husband spend over four months looking for work. But one of my favorite moments at the festival was when my husband called to share that he got a new job FINALLY (YAY!!!) and I got to celebrate with the people who have been my source of strength. I joked that since I was with when we found out about the terrible horrible no good very bad news, and I was with Beth AGAIN when we got the GOOD news, that her presence felt like a God-wink, bookending that period with a sense of peace & providence. There were also a few IVP higher ups that randomly joined in our spontaneous celebration. That was a lovely reminder for me that publishing people aren’t literary gatekeepers, they’re humans looking for human connection too. They love a good celebration— a good reason to party.

My husband starts his new job on Monday and I’m so proud of him. :)

It’s been a challenging season, but I’m grateful to move forward.

Practice literary citizenship

Lastly, I suggest trading capitalistic concepts like networking (gross) for literary citizenship, a phrase my agent loves. Be the kind of reader and writer that you too want to experience. Hype others up from a place of authenticity. Champion work you believe in. Be a safe friend. Make space for grace. Practice empathy.

I knew going in that writing books would be hard work. I could not imagine going through all of the steps without people that I could vent to, cry to, inquire of, and wonder with. I feel a sense of responsibility to pay it forward. My agent’s substack is appropriately named Writing is a Team Sport, but there are no opponents in this game. It’s flag football and the scoreboard is off. There’s more giggling than tackling. We celebrate the face paint and matching shirts. Penalties are replaced with grace. We’re all looking forward to the postgame snacks.

Our readers don’t want to see authors as winners and losers— they want to read beautiful words. They want to champion our stories, not pit us against one another. We shouldn’t do that to one another either.

Who knows, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s my inner enneagram nine talking. I’m not great at sports metaphors which is why I wrote a super serious theology book that talks about friendship bracelets, millennial movies, and the beach. That said, I’m still down for matching shirts. Who is in?

Updates:

So, this week in book writing news I’ve begun the hauntingly humiliating task of requesting endorsements for book one. Isn’t that wild? I’m *floored* by the responses I’ve gotten so far and I’m excited to hear what my colleagues think!

Next week is my last week at the hospital before taking a short break over the summer to finish the David book and take care of the kids in between paragraphs. I anticipate a fair amount of poolside editing in my future. I look forward to returning to my patients and our incredible team in the fall. 😊

I also expect to spend most of May on the phone with DME suppliers and getting our new insurance squared away. Talk about the BIGGEST relief.

This week on the we’re talking Quicksilver by Callie Hart. Hop over for our takes on the theological importance of literary worldbuilding, what happens when people misuse power for personal gain, and what Kingfisher’s relationship with the quicksilver can teach us about longsuffering (and more!)

If you find yourself navigating the peculiar world of publishing, what questions remain?

How are you writing from a place of healing and wholeness?

How are you processing pain on the page?

How are you loving your readers with your words and your work?

How are you championing others without strings?

Feel free to keep the conversation going in the comments. <3

Know I’m cheering you on and inviting you in.

Be well, beloveds.

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This January I travelled to Chicagoland for doctoral seminars with my beloved Northern Seminary cohort and our fearless leader, . I presented about evocative objects and memory in pastoral ministry. We nerded out over delicious books and indulged in delicious local cuisine (deep dish pizza). Our time together was glorious… sort of. I wanted it to be. But that same week we learned that my husband (who is our family’s primary source of income) lost his job. I spent my time in Chicago nailing down logistics in between lectures and delegating tasks during lunch.

When I returned home to Atlanta later that week, my disabled daughter required urgent spinal cord detethering surgery just a few days later. I spent the following week caring for her at the hospital while chipping away at book edits in between vital checks, PT/OT visits, and discharge. Truthfully, the book edits kept me sane. But her last day in the hospital was the last day that our family had access to health insurance.

This would be a big deal for any family, but with four medically complex kids (one rehabbing from major surgery), ensuring that the kids have access to the supplies and care that they need has required creativity, community support, and sacrifice. Catheters, AFOS, insulin, and inhalers, for example, are all covered under insurance, but without it the cost is crushing. We’re still trying to appeal a Peach Care denial months later. And because we aren’t currently insured, my kids are no longer eligible for the grant funds that we’ve used in the past to pay for prescriptions and specialist visits. Things are getting tight around here. We have had to delay care, barter with DME suppliers, and cancel therapy appointments. These invisible stressors have weighed heavily, especially in the context of the changing economy, increased political volatility, and ICE terror. It has now been three months and counting of expert level emotional juggling. We’re hopeful, but my husband is still looking for work.

And in the same breath, this season has been weirdly precious and beautiful. We’ve grown closer as a family. Our daughter is healing well from surgery and the kids are healthy. Amidst uncertainty, we’ve cared for one another well. Strange peace pervades our house. The kids have remained largely unphased, a kindness.

Yet I’m disappointed that this season feels less than celebratory. I wish I could celebrate fun milestones related to my studies, writing, and my work. I feel like that joy has been stolen, and my bandwidth to create and engage has been so limited. My own health has not been great either and that’s also impacted my emotional availability.

All of that to say, it feels weird to come on here and share that preorders for my first book are LIVE. SO WEIRD. My first book has a gorgeous cover, and the pub date is now public! But now I feel added pressure for this book to perform well, and it feels disingenuous not to name that. Maybe other authors might relate?

Writing has never been my “main thing.” Professionally, I’m a chaplain and a theologian. I work part time at a hospital (Emory) and part time at a seminary (DTS). According to my first grader I “help people die” (I really wish she’d clarify that I “help *when* people die,” but close enough). I also love teaching and supporting seminary students as they draw meaningful connections between their theological coursework and their ministry context. I integrated my lived experience with the work that I do and put it in book form. Tada?

I wrote these words because I truly believe they can help the church.

I wrote these words because future pastors consistently struggle to connect the dots between belief and practice in concrete ways.

I wrote these words because the discipleship crisis in the church in no secret.

I wrote these words because I believe that connecting good doctrine to our discipleship can help the church bear good fruit.

And also, I can’t help but notice that these words that I wrote can potentially help my family get back on firmer footing. That’s real. The best way to support our family right now is to support this book.

Turn your words into an action. Don’t just ask for an autographed arc— be willing to pay full price and read my own words in my own voice (even if you might not agree).

I know. Wild. Who does she think she is?

I’m at a point where I can’t do a ton of extra work for free. And I can’t overextend myself more than I already am… But I can put energy into this thing that I worked really hard on in the hopes that it might help the church and my family. Maybe? Worth a shot. Again, it feels silly to hide that. Because yes, I am a public facing chaplain and a theologian, but I’m also a woman— a wife and a mother— pinching pennies and stretching dollars just like everyone else.

I’ll say it again: If you support the work of women in theology and vocational pastoral ministry, consider supporting this woman in theology and vocational pastoral ministry. Support this book with a preorder.

Consider sharing this post, interacting with my stuff on socials (IG and Threads), marking the book as “want to read” on Goodreads, and join me on this publishing journey so that my book can get in the hands of the readers and leaders who will benefit from it.

Engagement feeds a notoriously fickle algorithm. Every single share, repost, comment, and preorder helps debut authors like me get the word out about our work.

The official launch date is November 10^th and you’ll see more info about the book closer to release. We’ll announce an official launch group with preorder bonuses closer to time. I’ll be super present on socials. We’ll do a proper marketing push. (Consider this a rogue unsanctioned pre push). All of that to say, if you do pre-order super early, hang on to the order number. I promise we’ll make it special.

Who is this book for? This book is:

• for theologically curious Christians who are looking for better language to think about discipleship

• for folks who are deconstructing spiritual abuse and reconstructing gentle discipleship + trauma-informed faith practices

• for leaders and lay folks alike

• a resource that bridges the church with the academy and seeks to make good theology accessible.

• a book that will provide pastors, professors, academics, and culturally conscious Christians with hope & encouragement.

Ultimately, Interwoven Discipleship is a theology book designed to serve the whole church.

This book is special because I welcome a wide variety of voices to the conversation. This work includes wisdom from the early church, medieval mystics, the historic Black church, classical theologians, disability theologians, indigenous theologians, womanist theologians, liberation theologians, and many more. As we build a Biblical theology of discipleship, we’re inviting everyone to the table. This work features wisdom from my heroes, my mentors, and my friends.

But this book has a spicy side too. For example, I name the connection between hierarchical heresies and the sexual abuse crisis in complementarian churches. I suggest an approach to discipleship where safety & siblinghood reign supreme. In this work, discipleship is less about the things we do for God, and more about participating in the life of God, together. We talk about how flawed views of God harm God’s beloved, and how to be people who choose welcome, solidarity, and mutuality.

This is a book that’s designed to bring the church together and champion healing & wholeness.

So, here’s a super official blurb from amazon.

(Are you nervous? I’m SO nervous 😊)

What if our discipleship mirrored what God is actually like?

In a culture shaped by individualism, performance, and power moves, Interwoven Discipleship invites us back to the relational heart of God. Chaplain and theologian Liz Daye reimagines discipleship through the shared life of the Trinity, calling believers to move beyond hierarchy that harms and rediscover the beauty of belonging to God’s family.

Drawing on Christian theology, pastoral care, and lived experience, Daye offers a new framework that begins with the love of Father, Son, and Spirit―an eternal communion shaped by shalom. Ultimately, Daye suggests that the truth of the Triune God can bring healing and wholeness to the church.

In Interwoven Discipleship, readers will:

· Reimagine spiritual growth through the Holy Trinity, exchanging hierarchy and the things we do for God for shared belonging in God’s family and participation in the life of God

· Cultivate communities of inclusion, reciprocity, and mutual care― where every person, no matter their age or ability level, is recognized as essential to the body of Christ

· Recover a vision of spiritual formation shaped by love and interdependence

Rooted in the dynamic life of the Triune God, Interwoven Discipleship calls the church to abandon isolation and competition and to become what it was always meant to be: a family of shared life, restored relationships, and flourishing faith.

Over the next several months I’ll begin the grueling task of requesting endorsements from peers and collogues that I admire. Believe me, I’m mortified in advance. And I have no idea if my book will receive a stamp of approval from folks like Preston Sprinkle or other outspoken male allies. But the early feedback I’ve received has been life giving, and I hope others find it helpful. If you’re a pal with a podcast or a platform you like to share, I’d love to explore how we can partner together in the fall.

I’m open to conversations on:

• Theology

• The Trinity

• Disability theology (because I’m actually autistic)

• Women in the church, theology, and pastoral ministry

• Weird stuff in the Bible

• Chaplaincy, end of life care, ethics, terminal illness, and grief

• Advocacy, interfaith work, antiracism, and immigration

• parenting and caregiving

• and anything at the intersection of politics, theology, & pop culture.

If you’re a church leader planning small groups, sermons, conferences, and retreats for 2027, I hope you’ll consider a message that points readers toward the nature, character, and priorities of the Triune God.

If you’re a seminary professor looking to enhance your 2027 syllabi, I hope this book helps your students think theologically about discipleship in concrete specific ways (that heal rather than harm).

This spring I’ll be focused mainly on chaplaining, researching, and doctoral work. I’m also headed to the Festival of Faith & Writing and looking forward to connecting with friends, fellow faith writers, and readers. Over the summer & I will be putting the finishing touches on Decentering David for Brazos (coming fall 2027).

But this fall I’ll shift into full launch mode for Interwoven Discipleship with NavPress. We’ll birth this book into the world and it’ll be magnificent. You in?

As the old saying goes, the horrors persist but so do I. <3

Take care, y’all.

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Trauma is the lasting impact of an adverse experience (or experiences) that exceed a person’s capacity to cope or feel safe. Trauma is a justice issue because it is often part of larger patterns, not random — produced and perpetuated by social, political, and economic structures that make some bodies more vulnerable to harm and some lives less protected. Even if the trauma itself isn’t systemic in nature, access to mental health support to heal from the trauma is always a justice issue. All that to say, my pastoral work must respond to these realities for my interventions to be effective. The question then becomes: how do spiritual health professionals offer care that honors both the body and the spirit in a world where spiritual harm is carried in the body?

I work in a medium sized community hospital where I care for patients from all over the state. Many of our patients experience homelessness, domestic violence, sexual abuse, and other forms of individual/systematic oppression while also dealing with a significant medical situation. There’s not just medical trauma, there’s compounded trauma. My job isn’t to only attend to a person’s spirit, but the spirituality of the whole person.

See, in seminary we learned all the right word combinations and Bible verses to provide comfort and hope. We practiced connecting our chaplaincy philosophy with our practice. We learned when to phone a friend (refer) and how to perform assessments. But in my clinical pastoral education (CPE), something clicked that was an important brain-shift for me. When someone is living in powerlessness—through abuse, injustice, or oppression—spiritual care cannot remain in the realm of ideas. Healing requires restoring safety and agency in real, concrete ways. In other words: the pastoral response to powerlessness always requires an incarnational intervention—An intellectual or philosophical response is never enough.

Let’s talk about it.

Abuse and Oppression Are Embodied Experiences

Experiencing abuse and oppression don’t just shape a person’s beliefs — they imprint themselves on the body. Survivors of sexual abuse don’t just think they were overpowered by a predator— their nervous system remembers the feeling of actually being overpowered. The body was restrained, threatened, or controlled. And a similar embodied reality is true for people navigating systemic oppression such as racism, patriarchy, xenophobia, and poverty. This is true for migrants in the Dilley Texas Detention Center and for disabled people who experience cruelty in institutions. People who live under systemic and systematic oppression aren’t imagining harm, they’re responding to a particular reality. The survivor learned, at a physiological level, that resistance to their oppressor is either dangerous or impossible.

Survivors of spiritual abuse didn’t imagine pastors with power weaponizing their own faith against them— they felt it because it actually happened. And in the same way, when Black communities protest racism after yet another person is killed by police, they’re not “being dramatic” or “making it political” — they’re responding to a generational pattern of real bodily danger that has taught them, over and over, that their safety can be taken from them without warning. This is why it’s unhelpful to tell a survivor of trauma something like “sin is the problem and Jesus is the answer!”

Because the injury is embodied, the remedy must also be embodied. Communities who have endured generational trauma have always known that liberation must be experienced, not merely expressed. This is one reasons why the Historic Black Church resonates so deeply with the Exodus story. Here, God doesn’t offer abstract inspirational encouragement that is disconnected from realty. In the Exodus story, God judges the empire, rescues the people, and frees them from their oppressors. In the Black church Jesus doesn’t just die for humanity’s sins and rescue bodies from eternal conscious torment. Rather, Jesus’ resurrection rescues people who experience hell on earth from hopelessness and promises to make all things new.

Embodied Trauma Requires Embodied Healing

Ultimately, we cannot daydream our way out of a survival response that was never cognitive to begin with. We need a response that’s rooted in something real. When someone has lived through abuse, their body has been trained — involuntarily — to respond to threat in ways that bypass conscious thought. The nervous system learns patterns of vigilance, collapse, appeasement, or freezing long before the thinking mind has time to interpret what’s happening. These patterns are not beliefs; they are reflexes. They are not theological misunderstandings; they are survival adaptations.

Psychologically, according to Carl Rogers, people cannot be argued or instructed into healing; they must experience conditions of safety, congruence, and unconditional positive regard before change becomes possible. Rogers insisted that growth emerges from an environment that honors the person’s lived reality (not one that corrects or overrides it). Abuse, oppression, and injustice disrupt that environment at the deepest level, so healing must begin in the depths. Surface level phrases (like “God works all things for good!) are rarely helpful because instructing a survivor to “just trust,” “just forgive,” or “just believe” is aimed at the wrong part of the person. These types of phrases speak to the brain when the injury lives in the body. These commands tell the survivor to override a complicated system that was shaped by real danger, real coercion, and real harm. It’s treating a broken bone with a motivational speech and labeling it “faith” (while wondering why it doesn’t work).

Spiritually, Jung understood that trauma lodges itself in the unconscious, shaping instinctive reactions long before the ego can interpret them. He suggested that healing requires reintegrating what has been split off rather than suppressing it. Embodied healing honors that holistic integration by allowing the body’s truth to come into relationship with the person’s conscious life, instead of forcing the body to conform to an idea of how it “should” feel. Reintegration is, in a sense, self-hospitality. A homecoming of sorts. It’s opening the door to the parts of yourself that were previously banished, broken, or hidden away.

Theologically, for healing to occur, the body needs new experiences of safety, agency, and choice — not just new ideas. This is the work of the Holy Spirit. For those of us who are part of the Christian faith, that means our theology needs to be incarnational, communal, and connected to the whole community. Words aren’t enough. We need to be actively cultivating justice in our neighborhoods to promote safety and flourishing.

Powerlessness is Encoded in Procedural Memory, not Narrative Memory

Procedural memory stores automatic, body‑based responses shaped by experience, while narrative memory stores the conscious, verbal story of what happened. Trauma is often stored in procedural memory because the body encodes the danger through automatic survival responses long before the mind can begin to form a coherent story. This is why trauma survivors often experience strong body‑based reactions. Trauma lives in the pre-language parts of the brain. The amygdala fires before the cortex can interpret. The body reacts before the mind can reason. This is why the survivor’s muscles, breath, and posture might automatically respond as if a threat is present. A philosophical or even theological insight can’t override a procedural memory. But over time, new physical experiences of agency can do that. I’ve shared before that as chaplains we maintain a very strong connection between the imago dei and a person’s agency. We honor one another as the image of God by encouraging agency and empowering others. Agency is the antidote to powerlessness.

In scripture, God consistently meets the most vulnerable in their bodies — feeding the hungry, healing the sick, touching the untouchable, and restoring those who were socially or physically cast out. Scripture shows Jesus with people, not merely speaking at them. The character of God is revealed through embodied solidarity, not disembodied instruction.

Intellectual or theological explanations can offer meaning and sound teaching is important, but they cannot discharge survival energy, restore a sense of agency, or repair the body’s internal alarm system. Only embodied experiences can do that. Our theology needs to work with our bodies because theology is a whole human thing, not just a brain thing. When the body is harmed, and trauma then resides in the body, then healing must be embodied too— anything less fails to meet the sufferer where the wound actually exists.

Oppression Disrupts Agency, and Agency is Enacted Physically

Agency is not an abstract concept. It’s an action. Actions such as standing up, setting a boundary, moving away, taking up space, using one’s voice, advocating for another, choosing one’s posture, and regaining control over breath are physical acts. Oppression works by limiting or constraining these (and other) actions. Healing and justice involve coming alongside one another to restore agency. Survivors need to feel themselves standing, breathing freely, setting boundaries, being believed, being respected, and being in safe relationships where their “no” is honored. Similarly, oppression teaches the body to move through the world on alert. In addition to freedom from the actual threat (ICE, White Supremacy, etc.) oppressed people need embodied experiences of safety and choice to heal. These are physical experiences that slowly allow the nervous system to recognize safety again and experience it in community.

If embodied justice still sounds too “theoretical”, here’s what it looks like in real time. A Palestinian Christian family of church planters in Birzeit is currently navigating the aftermath of violence and injustice. In response, advocate Mindy Summers has been coordinating a mass effort to fund raise for their medical bills, legal fees, and property damage. You can read more of their story and donate to the effort here. The best response to The Jaddalah Emeid family’s unjust suffering is not “I’ll pray for you.” Embodied justice means that our prayers take the form of something physical so that folks can experience the goodness of God in the land of the living. Advocacy inspires us to act. In the succinct words of Bob Goff “love does.” Love inspires action.

In the end, justice is never just an idea — it’s something people must be able to feel in their bodies and receive like a sacrament. When we help restore a person’s agency, we help restore dignity for the oppressed. And when we act in ways that let people breathe again, stand again, and hope again, we participate in the very work God has always been doing: lavish liberative love. The kingdom of God is both now and not yet— spiritual and physical. For individuals and communities who have endured unimaginable suffering, the nervous system requires experiential evidence, not intellectual arguments to begin to experience healing and wholeness. A person’s body needs to feel that they can move, say no, leave, and defend themselves. These are not spiritual metaphors. They are physiological recalibrations. No amount of cognitive reframing can substitute for the moment a survivor’s body discovers, “I am not powerless anymore.” Better yet, “I am not alone anymore.”

Hope and wholeness go hand in hand.

Philosophy Can Name the Problem, But Only Embodiment Can Resolves It

Intellectual understanding is valuable — it provides us with valuable language, meaning, and coherence. But it doesn’t discharge survival energy, restore agency, or repair the body’s sense of safety. A holistic response to abuse, injustice, and oppression requires interventions that involve the whole body because we are not fragmented creatures. Reclaiming physical boundaries, relearning safe connection, and experiencing one’s own strength are interventions that actually shift the nervous system out of survival mode and into empowerment. This is because healing involves experiencing power, not just understanding it.

In my friend new book Cathedrals of Connection he shares how small moments of sacred connection can make or break how we understand ourselves and others. In Matt’s framework, making space for sacred moments matter. Words are one thing, but according to him, experiences are moments with the power to create— to resurrect. Understanding is important. But it’s just as important that we are willing to choose presence, openness, and proximity.

In RF Kuang’s novel Katabasis, she playfully reimagines Dante Alighieri’s multilayered hell. In one kind of funny chapter, she depicts eternal torment as an academic library filled with know-it-alls. She notes the hypocritical disconnect between people who think they can accurately argue ethical concepts without ever actually living them out. Today, in fact, there are many Christians who write about justice issues but have no concept of what it looks like to actually embody justice like Jesus. This is one of the reasons I’m always quick to recommend ’ scholarship. His book, The Justice of Jesus, is rooted in actual justice work.

This intersection of lived experience and just living is a place where our theology shines through our works, not just our words. Why? Because what we think about God will always impact how we interact with the world around us. For example, I’m a trinitarian scholar. So, I’m quick to remind others that The Trinity is not a hierarchy of power hoarders. The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit share power within the Trinity, and with the church. The Triune God is not abusive, oppressive, or exploitative. God, who loves justice, equips and empowers believers to cultivate healing and wholeness throughout creation. Through Jesus’ resurrection all are empowered to live as liberated resurrection people— empowered people who empower others.

Praise God.

Empowerment is always experiential, and it’s an important part of life in God’s family. Integrating a trauma informed approach theologically looks like empowering others to do the inner work of healing, so that we can all be agents of healing in the world. And when we participate in that kind of shared life‑giving power, we bear witness to a God whose very nature restores agency rather than erasing it or explaining it away.

The Christian story is an embodied story — and so Christian healing must be embodied too.

Takeaways to remember:

• We cannot persuade someone out of a survival response with logic and arguments (or even good theology)— we must first help their body experience safety. The first step in the process is cultivating spaces that promote physical and emotional safety.

• Empowering others is an action that promotes spiritual healing in the physical world. Empowerment is not theoretical; it is physiological.

• If our theology does not move our heads and into our hands and feet for the flourishing of others, it has not yet fully reached our hearts.

Feel free to keep the conversation going below. What questions remain? What challenges you? What frees you? What still feels uncomfy? How can I help?

Writing updates:

Update 1: My manuscript for book one is officially DONE and end route to production! YAY! This work is a years long labor of love. Interwoven Discipleship explores how the Trinity redefines power, belonging, and Christian community. This book is for thoughtful theologically curious Christians. It’s for folks who are looking for language to make sense of our current cultural moment and reimagine discipleship in a healthier and more inclusive way. I can’t wait to share more updates about the release timeline and book launch. The NavPress team has been so lovely to work with.

Be sure to follow here for more!

Update 2: and I are hard at work writing Decentering David for Brazos (coming 2027). Putting Evangelicalism’s most beloved giant in his proper place is a tall order, but we’re up for the task. If you need us, we’re over here painting our smooth stones and bedazzling our armor (and also being very serious Bible scholars, promise).

On the we’ve been sharing our big feelings about bad Christian art (Kate wrote more about it here), and I’d be remiss if I didn’t point you in the direction of some good Christian art too. Last week I was able to join a really special group of scholars at the Lanier Theological Library in Houston to explore the relationship between art and women in the Bible. If you’re not already, be sure to follow the ’s incredible work. The Visual Museum (led by and Cohick) is a part of the . shared a behind the scenes summary of our time together here. I’m already looking forward to next year’s gathering. Here are just a few pics with some of my favorite friends in the whole wide world ( , , , and ).

Looking ahead: Our next IRSB book is A Vow in Vengeance by Jaclyn Rodriguez. If you’re hunting for your next fantastical fiction read, join our weird book club of pastors, theologians, and spiritual thinkers. Our community enjoys drawing meaningful connections between popular literature + Christian culture, theology, and spiritual formation. Come for the dragons, stay for the laughs.

Last thing, I’m looking forward to attending the Calvin Festival of Faith and Writing in April. If you’ll be there too, let’s connect!

That’s all I’ve got for now.

Be well, friends.

—Liz

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“One, two, three four, tell me that you love me more”

Sometimes I can’t help but chuckle at some of the strange ways we measure time, distance, and data. As a southerner chick-fil-as and churches both constitute units of measurement. For example, our suburban house is three chick-fil-as from our home church. There are three churches in between the library and my children’s school. As a mom of a type 1 diabetic, we jest that our family measures time in juice boxes. For example, I know that after 20 minutes or so of playtime at the pool, blood sugars will begin to teeter, and my kid will need to chug 15 grams of fast acting carbs to prevent a dangerous low and continue playing with minimal interruption.

We measure to make sense of our surroundings. We measure to keep our people safe. We measure to mark what matters. We measure to find rhythm in the chaos. We measure to remember. We measure to prepare. We measure because love pays attention. The way we measure things always reveals what we value, and when the church adopted the metrics of culture, these choices quietly reshaped how the church imagines faithfulness, discipleship, and God’s priorities.

One thing about being a member of a Baptist church is that we measure everything. From butts in seats to sewage water usage, from budgets to welcome cards, we feel encouraged when we see quantitative increases and discouraged during deficits. But while the fruit of our discipleship should be noticeable, it might not necessarily be measurable. God leads and we follow, but distance and speed aren’t reliable units of measurement in the Christian life. While Paul regularly relies on racing metaphors to illustrate focus, determination, and forward momentum in the Christian life, stretching the metaphor beyond it’s intended limits might cause us to think that the Christian life is a solo quest, a competition, or contextualized by linear progress. We need multiple metaphors to talk to one another so that we have fuller pictures. Paul also employes the imagery of safe sanctuaries, citizenship, family, and fellowship. He often refers to believers as co-workers, not competitors and fosters a sense of collaboration, shared mission, and mutual encouragement.

During the Enlightenment, the Church absorbed the tools of the age—systematization, logic, and quantification. Scholars diagramed doctrines. Priests measured morality. Church leaders charted salvation. Theologians dissected the divine. But in doing so, we traded mystery for mechanism, marvel for metrics, and perhaps most tragically, mercy for merit. Mystery was a weirdly shaped counterweight. Marvel interrupted analysis. Wonder bore prophetic witness. Mercy shatters our perceptions of fairness and replaces it with grace that is just. It’s the math God gets wrong on purpose.

There are examples in scripture where God instructs people to count things as a way to encourage faith (Gen 15:5), participate in God’s work of ordering & organization (Numbers 1:1-3), or even to set spiritual rhythms into motion (Leviticus 23:15–16). But there are also examples where unauthorized counting revealed a lack of faith or even a full on God-complex (2 Samuel 24:1–10). In Mesopotamian and Egyptian cultures, counting was tied to regal power, taxation, and military strength. Kings counted people and resources to assert control— often in contrast to the biblical theme of trusting divine provision. In the Epic of Gilgamesh, the hero seeks immortality and tries to measure his strength against the gods. His inevitable failure reflects the futility of attempting to quantify the unquantifiable. The Book of Jubilees emphasizes how seasons, cycles of time, and sacred numbers reinforce that counting must sync up with divine rhythms rather than fall into lockstep with human ambition.

The truth is God weighs more often than God counts. And in the ancient world currency was weighed more than it was counted. This system relied on both trust and precision. God’s attributes— love, mercy, wisdom, justice—are described as infinite, not because they defy logic, but because they transcend human systems of valuation. God’s economy is relational, not transactional. It’s built on liberal generosity, and justice, not accumulation. Capitalism says: “If you can’t count it, it doesn’t count.” God says: “What counts most cannot be counted.” To live in God’s economy is to embrace Mystery over mastery, Presence over performance, Enough over excess. When we try to measure what only God can give, we risk contorting grace into a commodity.

Instead of counting the things we accumulate, God is much more concerned with finding what’s been lost. The God who is three-in-one leaves the ninety-nine for the one and nourishes the masses with a leftover lunch. Jesus declares that the kingdom of heaven is like a farmer digging in the dirt, a woman pounding yeast into dough, and adventure-seekers fishing for pearls. The kingdom of heaven requires patience, participation, and risk. The kingdom of heaven is not like the fully formed tree, the bun hot out of the oven, or the polished pearls— Jesus’ parables pair work with willpower. He appeals to them without presenting surefire formulas. He doesn’t talk in transactions, but in terms of transformation.

He doesn’t say, “alright, you’re done being field workers, now you need to preach three times a week, baptize twenty bodies, and hit your tithing goal.” He dignifies their vocation by resisting the urge to exploit it. Instead of counting one another, keeping score, or attempting to quantify our impact, God wants us to put our energy toward welcoming one another, making space, and resist the urge to rank and assign value based on cultural standards. The Holy Spirit doesn’t rearrange us according to our productivity. Discipleship is where the reliance on God’s provision meets our commitment to the farmwork. Discipleship is where God says that the work of women is essential to God’s kingdom. Discipleship doesn’t have a scarcity mindset. Dependence and participation are declarations of faith. The triune God isn’t trapped by tallies, totals, trackers, or even time. God’s love doesn’t add up, but God’s mercy overflows. God doesn’t keep score, but God always keeps promises.

How Capitalism Compromised the Integrity of the American Church

Why does it seem that the modern American church is uniquely susceptible to the influence of capitalism? The truth is, American Christianity has been tangled up with free market from the very beginning. When the American church broke from the state church in England, American churches lost their access to government funding— and with it, their insulation from market forces. To survive, they had to compete, innovate, and sell. The church in America didn’t grow in a vacuum— it developed alongside a capitalist economy.

As the U.S. expanded westward, built industries, and commodified labor, churches often mirrored cultural values. Prosperity was seen as a sign of divine favor. Hard work and individualism were spiritualized. Wealth accumulation was rarely challenged, especially when it benefited the institution. Certain strands of American Protestantism emphasized personal salvation and individual responsibility. This dovetailed neatly with capitalist ideals. The

“Protestant work ethic” linked labor and virtue. The rise of prosperity gospel theology taught that faithfulness resulted in financial security. Churches often relied on wealthy patrons, reinforcing a theology that failed to adequately critique inequality, exploitation, and the idolatry of the American Dream.

Because churches, particularly in the south, relied on their slave owning congregants and clergy to fund the church, many cloaked their white supremacy in biblical language to defend dehumanization. Historians like Edward Baptist note how chattel slavery was central to the rise of American Capitalism. Similarly, in the Antigreed Gospel Malcom Foley argues that the American church has long been complicit in a system of racial capitalism, where the desire to accumulate wealth has historically driven the creation of racial categories, the justification of chattel slavery, and the perpetuation of economic exploitation.[1]

The widely acclaimed trinitarian theology of slaveholder theologian Jonathan Edwards suggests that “It is common when speaking of the Divine happiness to say that God is infinitely happy in the enjoyment of Himself, in perfectly beholding and infinitely loving, and rejoicing in, His own essence and perfection.”[2] Jonathan Edwards’s chipper theology of a “happy God” collides with a savior who suffers and chooses solidarity with the enslaved. While Edwards sells his congregants on over the top divine joy— “God is the highest good of the reasonable creature... the enjoyment of him is our proper happiness”[3]— he does so while penning sermons on the backs of receipts for enslaved people he purchased.

The dissonance here should jar us. Edward built a whole theological framework about God’s beauty, while refusing to address the abomination in his own heart. He crafted inspirational prose imagining God’s limitless delight, seemingly oblivious to the fact that God cares deeply about how we treat one another. It’s not a stretch to suggest that Edwards’ missiology and dominionistic eschatology were both qualitatively exploitative as they were built on a foundation of worm theology and an anthropology that resisted the image of God in all people.

Predatory gospels rely on a God who smiles upon on our ministerial and financial successes but silence those who speak out, ruffle feathers, and undermine their supremacy. Like Edwards, they prioritize ecclesial authority and religious stability over confronting the moral and ethical crises.[4] Distorted portraits of God become theological permission slips for exploitation, allowing us to baptize greed and dehumanize image-bearers while cloaking distorted theology in the language of divine delight.

Measuring isn’t always sinister, but measuring does introduce comparison. Counting quantifies difference. Assigning value ranks worth. Valuation enables buying and selling. Commodification invites ownership and extraction. Exchange breeds desire. Desire distorts into greed. Greed justifies taking— by purchase, by force, or by neglect. When Jesus tells his disciples to “be on guard against all kinds of greed” that begins with resisting the urge to assign value, charge a fee, and measure worth on our own terms.

Patristic Scholar Amy Brown Hughes recently observed that for Gregory of Nyssa, “there’s no prevarication: it’s God’s vision of abolition and justice or evil.” Zero in between. It seems to me as though Edwards would have benefited from interacting with Cappadocian theology directly rather than relying on reformation era interpretations to influence his personal ethics. See, evil is interconnected too. Greed connects racism to ableism. Dehumanization fuels sexism and misogyny. Sinful systems satiate one another, prop each other up, and protect one another’s interests. And we have to be willing to name when these systems have clothed themselves in religious garb to cover up cruelty while touting personal piety, weaponizing God, and targeting threats to the status quo. Make no mistake, none of that makes God grin.

American Christianity didn’t just borrow from capitalistic culture— it was corrupted by it. In a 1967 Speech by MLK Jr to the Southern Christian leadership Conference in Atlanta, his statement “Capitalism forgets that life is social. And the kingdom of brotherhood (siblinghood) is found neither in the thesis of communism nor the antithesis of capitalism, but in a higher synthesis.”[5] speaks directly to the ethical and spiritual foundation of his vision for the Beloved Community. This speech is one of King’s most visionary and radical, precisely because he wasn’t trying to persuade outsiders— he was challenging insiders to deepen their moral and ethical commitments in their faith communities.

Meanwhile, the religiosity of white evangelicalism absorbed technologies and ideologies that promised economic growth and blessed them. The result? Sanitized spirituality presented capitalism as politically neutral, sidestepping moral accountability by avoiding “controversial” topics like racism, poverty, or systemic injustice. By allegedly depoliticizing faith and removing justice from the gospel, capitalism and feel-good Christianity created a vacuum of sorts—one that Christian nationalism was eager to fill. When capitalism co-opted faith for profit, and churches traded their prophetic authority for quiet comfort, faith communities rolled out the red carpet for Christian Nationalism— a greedy and idolatrous entangling of God and country. Here, gluttony and greed are spiritual siblings with voraciously disordered appetites for consumption and accumulation under the guise of the American dream.

In our extra American gospel, the poor are blamed rather than blessed. We trash their tents, erase their encampments, and deport them to modern day for profit concentration camps. Instead of comforting sufferers, we coach them to manifest better outcomes and direct them to take their tears elsewhere. We vote away their access to lifesaving healthcare while wearing pro-life merchandise. We decorate the backdrop of our motivational speeches with crosses clawed by Eagles and smothered in American Flags. We replace cruciform life with callous entitlement. Jesus weeps.

Reconciliation begins when American churches stop asking, “How much can we grow?” and start asking, “Whom have we forgotten?” This is the work of discipleship. Repentance from greed includes letting go of our empires of excess and choosing to be people who share power, wealth, and encouragement. Instead of discipleship that, like consumer culture is fast, frictionless, and functional,[6] we need to remember the prophetic witness of the agriculturalists, the breadsmiths, and shell collectors.

When our discipleship makes space for slow growth, dependence on the divine, and tempered faithfulness to permeate the life of the church, the living God gets all of our worship, not just the parts that fit into our church’s business plan. Encouraging one another as siblings toward the heart and things of the Triune God means that instead of justifying the malleability of our metrics, we recognize when we need to relinquish idols that we’ve preserved for too long.

The Ethical Implications of Capitalistic Christianity

Idolatry always comes with a high cost. It always exploits others and leaves us in debt. For example, right now there’s currently a record number of people in ICE detention (upwards of 73,000 as of about four days ago). The Trump administration is currently planning to expand detention capacity, refurbishing warehouses and industrial spaces into concentration camps. “More detentions = More revenue. More custody = Guaranteed payments. Longer detention = Higher profit.” According to We Choose Welcome. “Human confinement is a lucrative business model.” The inhumane conditions of these facilities are well documented, where detainees have described torture, unsanitary conditions, and spoiled/ infested food. The Christian ethical position is clear: any system that profits from human suffering is an affront to the God who became flesh.

The Dilley, TX detention facility currently holding five-year-old Liam from Minneapolis (who’s immediate release was ordered by a federal judge earlier today) is owned by Target Hospitality (no, not that Target). Notably, they recently entered a five‑year lease and services contract with CoreCivic. This agreement is projected to generate more than $246 million in revenue for Target Hospitality alone. Vanguard, BlackRock, and State Street—three firms most consumers recognize from their retirement accounts and index funds—collectively hold a significant share of CoreCivic, with Vanguard alone typically controlling around 10% of all outstanding shares and BlackRock and State Street each holding several percent more through their broad‑market index products. Together, these household‑name asset managers make up well over 20% of the company’s institutional ownership. Liam’s detention is part of a revenue stream, and that revenue stream is supported by investment structures most of us participate in without realizing it.

This isn’t about blaming individuals for owning index funds. It’s about recognizing how easily human suffering can become embedded in ordinary financial systems—and asking whether we’re willing to examine, question, or divest from practices that conflict with our values when people’s dignity is at stake.

Philoxenia > Xenophobia

Where xenophobia urges us to protect what is ours, Scripture calls the church to philoxenia—the costly, creative love of the stranger that reflects God’s own character. Romans 12:13 succinctly communicates the full range of this concept. “Share with the Lord’s people who are in need. Practice hospitality.” Paul isn’t instructing the Roman Christians to only practice hospitality to “the Lord’s people.” That greek word philoxenia refers to actively loving and welcoming those who are unfamiliar or outside your immediate circle— including strangers and foreigners, not just fellow believers. Furthermore, the word structure pairs together the concepts of philos (‘friend,’ ‘dear,’ ‘loving’) and xenos (‘foreign,’ ‘stranger’) which essentially means “friend of strangers.”

This looks like sharing with the Lord’s people who are in need and also “showing hospitality to strangers as if they are already dear friends.” Eugene Peterson’s own transliteration invites readers to be “inventive” in hospitality. Inventive hospitality looks like the example of French pastor André Trocmé & his wife Magda who led their Huguenot village to shelter thousands of Jews fleeing Nazi persecution. Their community rescued the lives of thousands by practicing inventive hospitality— hiding Jews their homes, farms, and schoolhouses. Polish Catholic Irena Sendler led similar efforts to smuggle Jewish children out of the Warsaw ghetto underneath the noses of the Nazi regime. Her faith fueled creative hospitality saved over two thousand lives showing how functionally, philoxenia is how the scripture inspires believers to counter xenophobia.

Back in the US, dozens of Catholic and protestant churches who call the border towns of El Paso and MCAllen, TX home regularly convert sanctuaries into shelters, partner with nongovernment organizations for medical & legal aid, and offer trauma-informed pastoral care. And across the country, right now inventive hospitality looks like networks of neighbors coming together creatively to keep their communities safe from ICE terrorization.

Inventive hospitality is the intersection where spiritual and physical needs converge. This is the heart behind the passages in Matthew 25— distinguishing willingness from unwillingness, because compassion and care aren’t currency.

Discipleship in God’s economy looks like philoxenia—loving strangers as neighbors and neighbors as kin.

May we practice creative hospitality as a full-bodied expression of our faith.

Be well, beloveds.

If this resonated, consider engaging with this post and continuing the conversation.

Full disclosure, most of this began as a section for my book on the Trinity, but due to length, we had to kill a few darlings. Interwoven Discipleship: How the Trinity Redefines Power, Belonging, and Christian Community is a different kind of theology book, and I’m so excited for you to read these words later this year.

If you’re curious about how our thoughts about God impact our discipleship, follow along for book related updates and other fun projects I’m working on.

[1] Malcolm Foley, The Anti-Greed Gospel: Why the Love of Money Is the Root of Racism and How the Church Can Create a New Way Forward (Grand Rapids, MI: Brazos Press, 2025), xv–xviii

[2] Jonathan Edwards, Writings on the Trinity, Grace, and Faith, ed. Sang Hyun Lee, vol. 21 of The Works of Jonathan Edwards (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2003), 109

[3] Jonathan Edwards, The Works of Jonathan Edwards, Volume 17: Sermons and Discourses, 1730–1733, ed. Mark Valeri (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1999), 437

[4] When abolitionists criticized ministers for owning slaves, Edwards reportedly responded that they were: “Only to make disturbances and raise uneasiness among people against their minister, to the great wounding of religion.” Jonathan Edwards, Letter on Slavery, c. 1741, in Princeton & Slavery Project, courtesy of the Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library, Yale University

[5] Martin Luther King Jr., Where Do We Go From Here?, speech at the 11th Annual Convention of the

Southern Christian Leadership Conference, August 16, 1967

[6] John Dyer, People of the Screen: How Evangelicals Created the Digital Bible and How It Shapes Their Reading of Scripture (New York: Oxford University Press, 2023), 5

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Let’s talk about trust.

In a week filled with dueling narratives and emotionally charged exchanges, it’s been revealing to watch how people decide— in real time—who they trust and why.

Trust is confident reliance on someone’s character or reliability. In Scripture, it’s wholehearted dependence on God’s faithfulness, guidance, and care.

But in an age of AI manipulation and propaganda—an age where Christians are being coached to doubt what they see with their own eyes— it’s worth asking how misplaced trust can slowly train us to distrust our own consciences, and exploring how that impacts our discipleship, spiritual formation, and commitments to our most vulnerable neighbors.

Propaganda is communication that is crafted to manipulate beliefs or behaviors by presenting selective, emotionally charged information that reinforces a predetermined narrative. It works by bypassing critical thinking and shaping how people interpret reality before they even realize it’s happening. Propaganda rarely feels like manipulation; it often feels like loyalty, faithfulness, or “standing firm in the faith.” That’s what makes it so effective. People in high‑control religious groups are especially vulnerable because these environments restrict outside information and cultivate unquestioning trust in leaders who claim divine authority. A double whammy of deception.

In these circles, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding” often gets twisted into an expectation that Christians must outsource our discernment and intellectual agency to a particular group of elders, pastors, or denominational gatekeepers. But when we relinquish our discernment to the wrong people, we end up doubting the Spirit’s work in our own bodies. When we let folks on facebook, foxnews, and famous Christians do our thinking for us, we don’t just lose clarity — we willingly surrender our own agency, conscience, and the ability to recognize the voice of Jesus.

The problem today is that many of us have already decided who to trust before we’ve even begun to think—outsourcing our discernment to powerful Christians whose motives are often far from pure. Many of these are leaders who seek to gain clout and profit by offering malformed spiritual care and shaping consciences in ways that serve their brand rather than the Body of Christ.

Women of Welcome did excellent work this week highlighting how algorithmic differences shape what we see. This matters because algorithms don’t just curate our information preferences; they curate emotion — outrage, fear, reassurance — and those emotions shape our sense of what’s true. But the deeper question remains: when competing narratives are all vying for Christian affirmation, how do we discern truth from lies?

Trust the community

When you’re faced with a crisis and trying to discern how to respond, go to the source—or as close to the source as you can get. Trust the people who are actually connected to the communities experiencing harm. Much of this work happens offline because keeping immigrant communities safe is the first priority right now.

When Renee Good was murdered by ICE, listen to her wife who sat beside her in the car while she was denied life saving aid. Listen to the legal observers who witnessed her death. When five year old Liam was abducted and trafficked by ICE, we trust the leaders from his school and the legal observers because they have nothing to gain by telling the truth— unlike public figures like JD Vance who benefit from controlling the narrative. Proximity produces clarity where distance distorts. The people living the reality of ICE terror don’t have the luxury of abstraction. Too often, in seeking to be objective, we inadvertently wind up objectifying those we should be humanizing. When deciding who to trust, prioritize the people on the ground, the actual community members whose lives are at stake. Unsure where to start? Consider listening to Minneapolis residents including , and Minesota’s own . In Chicago, trust faith leaders on the ground. In Atlanta, prioritize the people who are actively partnering in vulnerable communities.

Trust long-term commitment

Keeping up with the news cycle is exhausting. Relying on voices who only ever respond to breaking news to capitalize on momentum won’t result in meaningful change long-term. Value the voices who have been committed to immigration spaces, who won’t move on to the next thing the second cultural attention shifts. In addition to Women of Welcome, sister organization We Choose Welcome works with World Relief, The Table, The NAE, The National Immigration Forum, and more to support refugees, create resources, and educate Christian communities. Trust the people who show up when no one is watching, because sustained presence is what actually protects and transforms communities.

Now here’s where things get tricky.

What about social media? What about my favorite Christian content creator, author, or internet pastor? The thing is: Parasocial trust feels like real trust. The danger is that parasocial intimacy feels like spiritual authority, even when it’s just branding.

Influencers make content choices shaped by their brand — and those choices have real life consequences for the people who follow them in virtual spaces.

• How Vague Virtue‑Signaling Maintaining the Status Quo

Some of your favorite internet personalities drop cryptic hints that they’re “grieved and paying attention,” but never name anything specific. This is a self-protective instinct. This practice teaches followers that silence is synonymous with spiritual maturity, when that’s not always the case. In the words of Desmond Tutu “Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim.” That ambiguity signals that maintaining the status quo is acceptable — and it leaves the most vulnerable unprotected. The algorithm rewards this behavior.

• When Empire‑Aligned Messaging Reinforces Harm

Other accounts stay in lockstep with the empire. Take influencer pastor Josh Howerton. He’s chosen to capitalize on Christians eager to soothe their consciences and reinforce the racism they refuse to repent from. He relies on us versus them language to peddle a political narrative using Christian language. But the pastoral result is that his followers feel justified in their prejudice rather than challenged toward repentance, reconciliation, justice, and wholeness.

• How Both‑Sides Branding Appears Thoughtful While Protecting Power & Profit

Some influencers try to appease everyone; they posture as thoughtful and engaged while still selling you something, ultimately siding with the empire. Because they’re disconnected from the communities experiencing the most harm, their “balance” becomes a spiritual sedative that keeps their followers passive in their consumption. “This is so sad! I can see both sides! OH btw, we’re having a sale.” Gustavo Gutiérrez reminds the church that “the gospel is not neutral. It takes sides. It takes the side of the poor.”

• Why Stoking Outrage Instead of Doing the Work is Unhelpful for the Long Haul

Another crew of more progressive leaning Christian influencers profit from stoking anger. Hear me reader: If your favorite Christian account always has the bandwidth to comment on every emotionally charged issue, that’s a sign they’re not doing the real work offline, in their community. As a hospital Chaplain, I’m keenly aware of the effects that ministry has on my brain and body. Heavy days in the real world leave me depleted for online banter. Constant agitation without cruciform formation, doesn’t promote healing and wholeness. Rage isn’t a place we stay. It fuels action, but long term it’s not sustainable. Rage without direction devolves into despair. Ask, who benefits from you staying mad (because it’s not you).

• Cruciform Credibility — Forming People in the Way of Jesus

When deciding who to trust, listen to community members and to people willing to follow Jesus without cowering to empire. Look for Christians whose character is cruciform, whose love isn’t self‑serving, and who are willing to lose followers to speak truth to power. , , , , and come to mind. (Feel free to share who else comes to mind in the comments)

These are the voices that form people toward courageous compassion, and costly solidarity. Their lament is honest and hope filled. They point followers back to the real life real world.

Truth and Trust

Truth and trust should be companions. They go hand in hand, and they move together in love. They should promote mercy. They should bend towards justice that promotes shalom, flourishing, and wholeness. Truth filled trust that leads us loveward is the kind of trust Scripture calls us to. And scripture calls us to place that kind of trust in a God who is wholly Trustworthy. Instead of being discipled by algorithms, empire, or the loudest voices online, we can choose to follow the truth of the Triune God towards solidarity with sufferers, because Jesus is here.

And in a moment when so many forces are vying for our allegiance, the ability to steward our trust is its own act of resistance, and it’s a confession of where our hope rests.

I’ll be honest, 2026 has been bananas and we’re not even a whole month in. I started off the year by joining my doctoral cohort in Chicago for class with . I spent the next week in the hospital with my teenager as she recovered from major surgery.

While caring for my kiddo I welcomed over 70 new trinitarianism students to the spring semester and worked on edits for my forthcoming book with NavPress Interwoven Discipleship: How the Trinity Redefines Power, Belonging, and Christian Community. (AND I think we have a COVER!!!)

After returning home, I worked on a couple chapters for Decentering David, and the more I research, the more I’m convinced that this book matters so much.

I also spent this week combing through the first round of edits for my chapter in the Taylor Swift Theology Academic Volume while readying our hospital for the winter storm.

If you’re new here, hi. I’m Liz. I’m a hospital chaplain, theologian, and author. I minister in a hospital, I work in a seminary, and I write at the intersection of theology and culture. I have a Masters in Chaplaincy and I’m working on my doctorate in Theology for Ministry. I believe that theology should always serve the church. I’m passionate about cultivating strong connections between the academy and ministry in the real world. The way we follow Jesus should look like Jesus, and the way we love our neighbor should show the love of God to the world. As I write this, I’m reading that someone else was murdered by ICE in Minneapolis. My heart is broken by the unchecked violence of the empire. And the way that too many Christians are rushing to explain away, justify, and feign normalcy breaks my heart too. None of this is normal. None of this is ok.

Inhale: God is close.

Exhale: We belong to each other.

Lord be with us in the ache of it all.

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Vocationally, I’m a hospital chaplain. I spend my time caring for my patients and their families. I respond to codes and crises. I handle the logistics of dying and death. My job in the broadest sense is to be a professional space maker. In moments of trauma, heightened emotion, and chaos, my job involves making space for spiritual healing and wholeness to exist mid-suffering. This work is an art, not a science. But by recognizing that all humans have a spiritual need for healing and wholeness, our work includes making space for folks to experience emotional safety, cultivate an environment that promotes spiritual health, and steward heavy moments with care. Our job is to respond to subtle shifts in the air, pay attention to nonverbal cues, and look for creative ways to provide care.

In an interfaith setting, this means that even though I am a Christian chaplain, I work from an ethical trauma-informed framework. As a professional space maker, my goal is to prioritize my patient’s agency over my own and put them before myself. In a sense, I control the parameters and the focus of our encounters so that we can make spiritual healing and wholeness a priority within that space. I do not ever seek to control the careseeker. I’m there to empower them to use their own agency in a safe space, even if our space is surrounded by chaos and uncertainty.

This is important because chaplains are faith leaders who are operating in an environment where the Christians aren’t in charge. Unlike church based ministry, seminary work, or parachurch ministry, Christian chaplains work with folks of other faith in good faith. We are not surrogate pastors— we are ambassadors of our traditions in our communities. We represent the faith. This means that our work isn’t only pastoral, its clinical too. Instead of only relying on a particular set of Christian interventions, we integrate evidence-based practices into our work to address the needs of all our patients without compromising their agency.

This is significant because evangelicalism has a particularly low view of agency, particularly as it relates to salvation. Agency is a person’s capacity to make meaningful, self‑directed choices and to act on them without coercion, within conditions that respect their dignity, autonomy, and moral worth. A hyper‑Calvinist might argue that human agency is ultimately illusory because God’s sovereign decree determines every choice and action.

Consequently, this framework would imply that patient autonomy carries little moral weight, since every decision is seen as predetermined rather than meaningfully chosen. Not only does this line of thinking diminish the patient’s own power, but it also makes space for abusers who feel entitled to override patient preferences under the guise of a predetermined moral order. Generally speaking, abusers seek to constrain, distort, or outright erasing a person’s ability to make meaningful choices, while the loss of agency in turn makes someone more vulnerable to further manipulation and control. This is antithetical to healing and wholeness.

Similarly, purity culture often collapses a woman’s agency into the authority of the men around her, using scripture out of context to justify control rather than mutuality. When the Bible is weaponized this way, it reinforces systems where women’s choices, bodies, and moral authority are treated as extensions of someone else rather than expressions of their own God‑given dignity. When one automatically assumes that a person’s agency is inherently bad or “less than” this dynamic creates an ethical hazard and causes harm. When people of faith encourage decision‑making that silences image bearers, justifies coercion, and erodes the trust that is essential for safe, respectful care, those faith practices create an environment for the patient that is ethically and spiritually unsafe.

To assert the idea that “my agency is better than yours” is to claim a moral authority that eclipses the other person’s humanity, reducing them from a participant in their own life to an object to be managed (rather than a person to commune with).

This is why chaplains working from an ethical framework prioritize the agency of others. When we participate in ethical consults on complicated cases our conceptualization of human dignity is directly connected to the agency of the patient— never severed. Human dignity is a really big deal. And as a Christian interfaith chaplain, unlearning thought patterns rooted in control and learning how to truly honor and trust the agency of others has been formative for me as a care provider. When I care for patients of other faiths I never stop being a Christian, but I root my clinical work in my faith, and I integrate faith-based interventions with science. As an interfaith chaplain, my work is interdisciplinary, integrating wisdom from psychology, neuroscience, philosophy, and ethics with my own tradition. Learning to honor agency in a hospital setting has left me wondering what it might look like to implement this framework in my writing, my teaching, and my advocacy work.

See, in this paradigm doctrinal agreement and dogmatic affirmation isn’t the standard. Disagreement can and does coexist. But I like to think of it this way: A family can gather for a potluck, and every plate will look a little different. The goal isn’t to get everyone to eat the same thing, it’s to ensure that everyone is fed and everyone has a seat.

Through asking “how do I learn to trust the agency of others,” even when we don’t share agreement, I’ve had to confront my own deeply ingrained distrust and my impulse to control so that I can truly love my patients and provide quality care. And in practice I’ve come to realize that those tensions often turn out to be more like discovering, “Oh, I didn’t know they’re vegetarian,” or “I didn’t realize they don’t like green bean casserole”—they’re small surprises that don’t threaten the shared meal itself but rather invite me to adjust how I show up at the table, and impact how I prepare a meal in the future.

In other words, discomfort/disagreement isn’t necessarily a crisis of truth; it’s an invitation to broaden my imagination about what spiritual care, respect, and shared space can look like. Some might liken my work to planting seeds, which is true in a sense. But I prefer to think of my work more like hosting a shared meal. Eat what you need to eat, come back for more if you’re hungry. There’s always a seat for you. There’s always space for you to receive nourishment. This table promotes healing and wholeness. Would you like more pie?

So, what does this look like outside of chaplaincy? How can space making influence our spiritual formation and translate to different contexts?

If you’re interested, try these on:

· Practice spacious presence in the Christian life. By slowing the pace of interactions, listening without rushing to interpret, and creating environments where people feel safe naming their own experiences before receiving guidance, we can make space for others to meaningfully pursue healing and wholeness.

· Embed agency‑honoring practices in pastoral care by framing conversations around the care seeker’s values, letting them set the direction, and resisting the impulse to resolve tension prematurely. I know this might feel prickly to some. It might even read like an abdication of Christian values. I promise it’s not. In western Christian culture we make a lot of space for arguing and defending. We make space for the authority of our viewpoint and our words. I suggest we lean into the fruit of the Holy Spirit while relying on the Holy Spirit to prioritize others. I suggest we make space for the Holy Spirit to work on the Spirit’s own terms. True healing requires honestly. If the other person feels like they need to parrot particular words or appease my spiritual authority, then I’m not making space for them to engage honestly (or safely). I’m prioritizing my own comfort and emotional safety at the expense of theirs.

· Cultivate collaborative leadership in community ministries. By sharing power, inviting diverse voices into decision‑making, and designing programs that empower participants rather than centering the minister’s authority, we create an environment that feels less suffocating, and more like a sanctuary.

Space making is the pastoral art of noticing and naming. It pauses and expands. It’s poetry that subverts and surrounds. Honoring the inherent dignity of others begins with honoring the agency of others. This looks like making space for people to choose without coercion, respond without pressure, and participate fully in their own lives. We cannot love our neighbors without first honoring our neighbors. We also cannot love ourselves without honoring our own inner life. In the words of Paul, “love one another with mutual affection; outdo one another in showing honor.” (Romans 12:10)

This is my challenge to you: outdo one another in showing honor.

Be blessed, friends.

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As the end of the semester approaches for seminary students, the weight of the remaining workload looms large. At Dallas Theological Seminary, the week before Thanksgiving is lovingly dubbed “reading week.” It’s a final push to prepare those last few papers, projects, and presentations. Truthfully, all of your profs are at Bible conferences this week. Nevertheless, at this point in the semester students are equal parts stressed and spent. After all, November and December is a demanding season for mega church residents, ministry interns, and rural pastors juggling their obligations as students with the expectations of their outside lives.

Cue the lures of Generative AI. Temptation includes the desire to appease in short‑term urges for enjoyment that threatens long‑term goals. It is the lure of ease over integrity. In the seminary classroom AI has become a new temptation by offering efficiency without the soul‑forming struggle of genuine theological engagement. Temptation is not merely about resisting sinful desire but also about testing the heart’s allegiance — whether to God or to lesser goods.

Apps like ChatGPT entered the scene while I was earning my masters in chaplaincy. As we began discussing the ethics of AI in the seminary classroom and how it’s usage might impact spiritual formation we discussed how to steward these tools for good. We also cautioned one another against over-dependence on apps like these. But even as theology professors like John Dyer attempted to shepherd our class toward good stewardship of these tools while emphasizing the importance of human engagement, the sad reality is that many of my peers had already fallen prey to its prowess.

This shiny new tool increased productivity, maximized time management, and dulled the sharp growing edges seminarians face. Dyer’s expertise at the intersection of technology and theology gave added credibility to his prophetic warning. Yet still, many chose to depend on the algorithm rather than the Holy Spirit. The temptation common to the student body (1 Cor 10:13) was overreliance on a theologically tricky tool that fashioned papers but failed in forming Spirit-led pastor-theologians.

I experienced the alluring shift in real time. Instead of color-coding lecture notes, there was now a fancy shmancy notetaking app for zoom meetings and lectures. I watched ChatGPT slowly replace LOGOS on the screens of my peers in lectures. I listened as seasoned seminarians shared with their spiritual formation groups “don’t stress over that paper— AI can help you!” We used to say, “God can help you.”

When I took my first graduate level Trinitarianism course, I was grateful to have a professor gifted in distilling complex topics. At the time, this course held the reputation for being one of the most difficult courses to pass at DTS, and my peers with other professors barely kept their necks above water with all of the extra credit work that they were piling on to their already massive workload. Compounded stress led many of them to resort to AI because the topic was niche, challenging, and frustrating for many.

Now that I TA and grade for that same trinitarianism course (as well as other courses in the theological studies dept), I’m acutely aware of the temptations and struggles that students today face in the theological classroom. I’m also aware of the struggle that many of our aging faculty face with the never-ending barrage of new technology. It can be humiliating for a professor who is world renowned for his translation expertise to struggle sending & receiving emails. And many simply do not know how to spot the AI usage of their students. When theology students knowingly exploit these vulnerabilities, that points to spiritual malformation that impacts integrity.

DTS situates AI usage within its broader policies on academic honesty and community covenant. In other words, AI use must align with DTS’s values of truthfulness, respect, and theological seriousness. At Northern Seminary, where I am currently a doctoral student, Beth Jones’ syllabus states that “Plagiarism is the act of passing off as one’s own the words or ideas of someone else without providing proper acknowledgement or documentation… If you use AI, you must cite that use, and using AI generated words as your own is plagiarism.” The work of writing papers is a way of doing theology in community. But instead of becoming acquainted with the shepherding voices of Athanasius and Gregory of Nyssa, we choose the robot’s cliff notes— work stolen from other authors— and pass off these ideas as our own in our papers and pulpits. Uncited AI isn’t innovation or inspiration— it’s refusing to join the ongoing-age old conversation while simultaneously hogging the mic.

In Papakostas’ article on AI in religious education, he openly wonders, “Can AI facilitate spiritual growth, or does it inevitably constitute a barrier between students and religious experiences?” [i] In my experience, the barrier it erects is actually heartbreaking. Instead of drawing students into the slow, embodied work of engaging theologically— arguing with Augustine, bickering with Barth, rolling our eyeballs at grumpy old Luther— AI offers a shortcut. It maximizes efficiency but minimizes sacred encounter. Artificial intelligence replaces the friction that forms us with a sterile smoothness— robbing students of the resistance training that builds theological acumen. All mass, but no actual muscle.

So how do we reclaim our humanity in the theological classroom?

1— Cultivate human relationships. This seems simple, but with more students choosing distance learning and asynchronous options, human connection with profs and peers alike is increasingly limited. Professors have an opportunity here. Profs can look for creative ways to foster that human connection in the classroom and beyond. At this point, much of the information taught in the theological classroom is accessible and available. The purpose of the classroom is to draw meaningful connections between that information and the real world through human interaction.

Prioritizing student engagement and open discussion can help those moments be more meaningful to students. Or in other words, using that classroom time to connect the what to the how and the why. Instead of discipling students to consume and regurgitate lecture content, we can teach them how to dialogue well. We can practice disagreeing with kindness. Students can practice inquiring with charity. Future human pastors can practice being human pastor-theologians in human bodies within a community of human learners.

2— Resist the temptation to bypass our own human limitations. Name them instead.

This one is for the students in the trenches wondering how the hell they’re going to finish 12 papers, deliver 2 sermons, and pass an oral exam before Christmas. And then your kid gets sick. And then you wind up in a nasty wreck. And then and then and then all of the and thens pile up and then all of the holiday cheer has your stomach in knots with eggnog-flavored worry. Take a deep breath.

Now, some of this stress can be aided by plopping your syllabi next to your calendar while you still have time. Plan out exactly when you’re going to do what you do so that you get it all done. Give your work space to breathe. Dedicate a certain amount of time for an outline or a book review. Give yourself a deadline before the actual deadline. Include buffers for migraines, sick days, and family emergencies. Avoid procrastination like the plague, unless your name is Joash Thomas and you’re a procrastination unicorn with a dog named Georgia. Not all of us are God’s favorites. 😉

Why? Because if you see that deadline approach, I’d much rather you email and request an extension and DO THE ACTUAL WORK than recruit your language model of choice to be your theological stand-in. Thinking theologically is a human task, not a robot one. If you are a human theologian writing a human paper about the uniquely human task of theological engagement, I’d rather see your humanity on the page than the flawless mask of a text bot covering for a theologian without an actual soul. The idea that the theological work could be separated from the theologian is a Nestorian error in digital disguise.

Teachers, why do we cultivate human connection in the classroom? So that when our students remind us that they are human, we get to respond in ways that honor their human limits and disciple them toward human choices. Yes, the theological classroom is rigorous and demanding but ensuring that our learning environments aren’t toxic is a key step in pairing high-pressure academic excellence with grace. We should want our students to feel safe enough to ask for help and encouragement on such an arduous journey.

3— Be a human on the page

Lastly, when I confront a student about their AI usage, it’s never an empty or flippant accusation. It always makes me sad. See, I’m not running papers through AI detectors or conspiring against you. I don’t need to. Beloved, it stands out like a sore thumb against your peers who turned in human work. Yet, I want you to succeed. I want you to be a well-formed pastor-theologian. So, I’ll let you in on a little secret that hopefully frees you to be a human on the page: I’m not looking for a perfect paper. I’m not looking for correct answers. I’m not looking for you to agree with the professor’s view or align with the seminary. I’m looking for personal engagement with the material, thoughtful reflection, and meaningful connections to your vocation and ministry. I’m looking for charitable interaction with opposing views and I’m looking for moments of friction, frustration, and healthy theological fruit.

When the robot writes your paper, I can tell because the robot doesn’t know how to do those things well. How could it? I don’t need to run the paper through an AI detector or accuse you of plagiarism. Beloved, your robot simply didn’t follow the directions you fed it— because it can’t. I need you to be a human on the page because the robot doesn’t know how. And no matter how many times you prompt the damn thing to “sound more human, no em dashes, and stop saying words like profound” the robot’s surface level critical engagement will always lack your unique perspective. I want to hear your voice on the page. That’s what I’m looking for.

Please, make mistakes, take risks, and let your unanswered questions linger. This is all a part of a theologians journey.

I don’t expect theology students to abstain from AI usage any time soon. Ultimately, the question is whether seminarians will entrust their hearts to God or yield to lesser goods like AI’s easy answers. But I’ll tell you this: I fell in love with academic theology before AI made things super weird. Sonderegger’s invitation to pursue academic study as intellectual worship led me into an untamed wilderness, an altar— a sacred space where I encountered God more deeply. This world is where I found my voice, and it feels like home. It’s a precious place.

This week, the Bible nerds of the world are converging in Boston, and I’ve got all the FOMO in the world. But if you would have asked me as a baby seminarian if I dared to imagine myself in a place like that, I would have said “I don’t belong there.” Yet the human process of writing and making mistakes and persevering with the Holy Spirit and taking my time and asking for grace reminds me that gatherings like ETS/SBL aren’t ballrooms packed with perfect theologians— These gatherings are assemblies of very human life-long learners united together to share in the work of supporting the church through the academy.

For the students currently battling reading week paralysis, this is your invitation to be human. Yes, follow the rubric, use good logic, and keep your Turabian handbook close. Do excellent work. Choose quality sources. Search your doc for periscope before you turn it in. IYKYK. But don’t be afraid to be brave on the page.

As we enter an era of more and more robot theologians regurgitating recycled answers in seminary assignments and sermons, I challenge you to be uniquely you (professionally, of course).

Do the work. Take your time. Make mistakes. Take risks. Ask for help.

I’ll be cheering you on every step of the way.

PS: if you’ve got a paper due Saturday, don’t wait til the last minute. I’m rooting for you.

extra resources:

For more related thoughts on AI in publishing, check out ’s recent piece Ethical AI for Authors: Dos and Don’ts.

For more info on a healthy theology of AI, check out this lecture: Biblical Framework for Understanding and Using AI - John Dyer from Dallas Theological Seminary

—>Feel free to keep the conversation going below and share additional resources about the relationship between AI + ethics, theology, and culture.

[i] Papakostas, Christos. 2025. “Artificial Intelligence in Religious Education: Ethical, Pedagogical, and Theological Perspectives” Religions 16, no. 5: 563

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Empathy is the ability to understand and share another person’s feelings. Clinically, empathy involves recognizing emotional cues, accurately interpreting others’ mental states, and responding with appropriate concern, support, and sensitivity. Jesus consistently responds to human suffering with deep empathy— he weeps with mourners at Lazarus’s tomb and touches the leper with compassion. He breaks social barriers to join sufferers. Jesus’ actions reveal a heart attuned to pain and a will to restore dignity through shared belonging. This is the gospel, after all.

The incarnation is God’s ultimate act of empathy and solidarity— entering human flesh to feel our pain, bear our burdens, and journey alongside us. As Christians, a high view of empathy is codified into our creeds and woven into the fabric of our faith. Questions about suffering and God belong together, and those questions are connected through empathy that we steward, share, and make sacred.

Sympathy is the one-sided action of feeling for someone that is separated from the experience. Empathy, on the other hand, is something that’s shared together. No separation.

Today, there are attempts to make an enemy out of empathy by labelling it toxic (Allie Beth Stuckey) and even suicidal (Dale Partridge). Notably, the empathy they’re targeting is specific to women. Allie Beth Stuckey defines toxic empathy as a form of compassion that prioritizes emotional affirmation over truth, often leading people to endorse harmful ideas or behaviors. She argues that when empathy is detached from moral clarity, it becomes a tool for manipulation— especially in political and cultural debates. Allie’s work, however, is focused on mobilizing western evangelical women politically in a way that is palatable for the white, wealthy, and well off. Obviously, anything that challenges their comfortability is considered a direct threat.

But when we begin to categorize and rank empathy, we’ve actually done something even more insidious. We’ve bought into the hoax of selective empathy. Selective empathy is the tendency to extend emotional understanding and concern only to certain individuals or groups— typically those who are familiar, similar, or socially favored— while ignoring or minimizing the suffering of others. It reflects a biased emotional response, shaped by personal, cultural, or ideological filters, and often leads to moral inconsistency, exploitation (think inspiration porn), and social injustice.

Selective empathy rejects solidarity with outsiders and uses the Bible to justify that separation. Selective empathy’s sole motive is to retain power so that it can trade empathy like currency that is earned and bestowed rather than given freely.

Allie uses the story of King Saul’s disobedience as an example of toxic empathy. But as a seminary grad who’s scholarly work focusses on the book of Samuel, the reality is that Saul wasn’t exemplifying any empathy at all. Saul was using people to avoid responsibility for his disobedience. He wanted to appear empathetic— but he wasn’t actually. See, empathy is much more about solidarity and mutuality than arbiting sympathy by another name.

Importantly, scripture has much more to say about selective empathy then Dale and Allie’s toxic and suicidal propositions. And because the authors of scripture recognize that we tend to withhold empathy much more that share it liberally, a high view of scripture should inspire us to respond to suffering with emphatic compassion instead of twenty questions. We should steward our power (like our vote) for the flourishing of our most marginalized neighbors rather than favoring the status quo that perpetuates harm. Selective empathy withholds justice and ignores ongoing harm while prioritizing competing values and ideals. Truthfully, selective empathy isn’t empathetic at all— it’s just self-serving. We push back against it by refusing to cater to vipers dressed in selective empaths clothing.

The Bible actually gives us countless examples warning against selective empathy:

For example, following David’s abuse of power against Bathsheba, Nathan tells David a parable about a rich man who steals a poor man’s only lamb to feed a guest. David, enraged by the injustice, declares the man deserves death— only for Nathan to reveal, “You are the man!” This exposes David’s selective empathy: he condemns injustice in theory but fails to see his own abuse of power against Uriah and Bathsheba. God’s prophet reveals David’s wickedness.

In Matthew 23:23 Jesus rebukes the Pharisees for tithing meticulously while neglecting “justice, mercy, and faithfulness.” He exposes their selective moral concern— obsessing over ritual while ignoring the weightier matters of the law that affect how people relate to one another.

In Luke 10:25-37 while responding to a question about loving one’s neighbor, Jesus tells a story where religious leaders go out of their way to avoid a wounded man left for dead, while a Samaritan— socially despised outsider— shows him compassion. The parable critiques selective empathy based on social or religious identity and redefines neighborly love as action, not affiliation. See selective empathy is about who we’re willing to give our time, attention, and are care to— not just our dollars and cents.

And later in Luke, when a woman dares to anoints Jesus and is subsequently scolded and mocked by his disciples, Jesus goes out of his way to combat their disdain and honor her. He advocates for her flourishing and wellbeing, and his buddies still don’t get it.

So what does all this empathy-speak this look like for our churches and ministries:

Ministries that prioritize giving to an organization over joining others in love actually practice sympathy and selective empathy. When ministries focus more on financial contributions than on relational presence, they risk practicing sympathy— feeling for others from a distance that reinforces a sense of separation—rather than empathy, which requires entering into others’ lives with love, humility, and bearing one another’s burdens. Jesus didn’t outsource compassion—he touched the leper, wept with mourners, and walked with the poor.

Ministries that mirror his example prioritize presence over performance, and relationship over reputation. Selective empathy occurs most in evangelicalism when congregants are trained to extend compassion only through institutional filters or to those deemed “worthy,” while ignoring situations that might actually disrupt our routines, challenge our rigid worldviews, and impact our comfortability.

Giving to the church often doesn’t disrupt us at all. It makes us feel good. We pat ourselves on the back for our generosity. We delight in our sparkling reputations and “commitment to truth.” And we never even have to interact with those receiving our benevolence— unless its for a heartfelt thank you, of course.

But generosity that reinforces separation rather than inviting us to commune resists the pattern of reciprocity at work in God’s own inner life. To be human is to give and receive, to share, and to recognize our interconnectedness. We belong to one another. It is our shared humanity that propels our empathy. Empathy isn’t about exercising power over others; it’s about refusing to use power against others to score political points.

It’s no secret that our communities are currently experiencing widespread large-scale suffering as a result of the government shutdown, SNAP cuts, and continued economic uncertainty. We know families are stressed and pocketbooks are stretched thin. And we know that when there are additional monetary stressors, instances of domestic violence, child abuse, and substance abuse skyrocket. Our current cultural moment demands a trauma-informed response that’s willing to acknowledge the current scale of suffering. Christian influencers peddling toxic empathy make money off of the clicks and likes that keep their audience trapped in the scroll. We need believers who are willing to put their entertainment down long enough to show up for their communities (without posting for credit). Instead of feeding the algorithm, we need to feed the hungry. We need to protect our neighbors from the violence of ICE. Instead of focusing on capitalism and control, we need to care for our neighbors with love, dignity, and respect.

Willingness/ Unwillingness

I don’t expect these words to change hearts or minds that are intent on looking for ways out of loving their neighbors. But I do hope that we can recognize that the real threat here isn’t our willingness to care too much, but our unfortunate unwillingness to care far too little.

This is why Jesus says, when it’s all said and done, when the Prince of Peace judges the world for its injustices, humanity is sifted by our willingness and unwillingness to see suffering and respond with compassion. (Matt 25)

The Christian faith is messy, risky, and weird. This life is all about solidarity in suffering, taking care of one another, and allowing empathy to move us toward compassion.

I’ll leave you with Paul’s words to the Corinthian churches: “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God. For just as we share abundantly in the sufferings of Christ, so also our comfort abounds through Christ.”

That word for “comfort” shares linguistic and theological roots with the title for the Holy Spirit, Paraclete. This Greek word describes an advocate who comes alongside. God not only soothes our emotional pain but joins us to strengthen, guide, and restore.

Our understanding of empathy is directly connected to our understanding of the divine response to see suffering and respond with compassion.

God’s empathy for a suffering world isn’t toxic, suicidal, or selective.

God’s empathy is incarnational, compassionate, and willing to be misunderstood.

Liz

*Art: Parable of the Good Samaritan by Bertram Poole

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Where are the boundaries?

Where are the limits of our theological imagination?

What is true?

In healthy faith communities, discerning heresy from orthodoxy doesn’t just preserve doctrine— it cultivates healing and restores wholeness in the body of Christ. That’s why it’s essential to anchor our communities in truth, embrace mystery, and worship the God who transcends certainty and doubt alike.

What is orthodoxy?

Simply put, orthodoxy refers to true belief. The Greek etymology connects the concepts of truth (orthos) and belief (doxa). You might notice that orthodoxy shares some linguistic roots with doxology— worshipful prayers that praise God. Anciently, patristics combatted heresy by adjusting the doxologies— the worship— in their churches to correct doctrinal error.

For example, Athanasius responded to Arius’ heretical teaching about Jesus by giving the church true words for their worship rooted in scripture. Arian heresy was undermining Christian hope. That’s a pretty major concern. Basil did the same thing. He noticed how the people in his care were worshipping the Father and Son, but diminishing the Holy Spirit (heresy), so he responded by using their corporate doxology as a vehicle to reorient them toward orthodoxy in worship. “Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit” affirmed that there is no hierarchy in the Trinity. All are equally worthy of all worship, and glory.

As a certified nerd, the doctrine of perichoresis is my hyperfixation topic. Now, don’t let that weird little word intimidate you. Perichoresis is a doctrine that describes how the Triune God is an interconnected whole. Importantly, the earliest usage of perichoresis was related to *practical issues* that church leaders were addressing in their own faith communities. Leaders were looking for new language about God because their understanding of salvation was on the line.

When we’re talking about the foundations of the faith, orthodoxy refers to timeless truths about the Triune God (and Christology within that conversation). These true beliefs, are true beliefs about God. The creeds— such as the Apostles creed and the Nicene creed— help us remember those truths through story, liturgical worship, and communal recitation.

Orthodoxy (true belief) and orthopraxy (true practice) also go hand in hand. Indeed, the Truth of the Triune God should inform every aspect of our worship and way of life. This is one of the reasons why naming heresy is so important.

Heresy isn’t just bad because its wrong, it’s bad because it harms others and ourselves.

Every line in the Nicene creed is connected to a Truth about the Triune God that intentionally refutes Trinitarian and Christological heresy. Why? Because how the church was living and worshipping was impacting the whole community. The belief needed to be corrected so that the worship and way of life could change for the better.

Instead of behavior modification, pithy acronyms, and inspirational sermons, these ancient pastors were removing poison from the source so that they could nourish their communities with truth, not just dull their appetites with feel good faith.

What is heresy?

Heresy refers to teaching about God that isn’t true.

In ancient Roman culture, hairesis didn’t have a negative connotation. It described an ideological choice to live differently. But for the early church it became more specific. Heresies were deliberate teachings about God that weren’t true —teachings that harmed the health & wholeness of a faith community. Instead of the faithful remnant we see throughout ancient Israel’s story, heretics were church spinoffs that became their own sects. The sect separated from the rest of the body. Unlike the prophets of old, heretics negatively impacted the whole.

Notably, in scripture, heresy and false teaching are closely related, but they aren’t the same thing. For example, when 1 and 2 Timothy discuss pseudodidaskalia— false teaching— those instances refer to teachings that contradict truth affirmed elsewhere in scripture. Do these false teachings need to be corrected? Yes. But heresy on the other hand, describes choices that have divided a person or community so far from the truth of the Triune God, that they have formed a sect of belief that is no longer compatible with one holy catholic apostolic faith.

This distinction is important and helps us to avoid mincing words and tip toeing into false equivalency fallacy territory. Heresy primarily refers to teaching about the incarnation, the physical death and resurrection of Jesus, and the perichoretic nature of the Trinity. Heresy is the line in the sand— and that line is specifically reserved for naming things that are untrue about God.

Historically, the church has warped this terribly. Over the centuries, heresy became a way to warn insiders against unfamiliar outsiders, scapegoat dissenters, and silence opposition. Heretic was the biblical name you called someone when you wanted to feel morally superior. Weaponizing the usage of heresy meant that instead of naming the harm caused by heresy, the church was now harming through heresy by eliminating rivals, consolidating power, and enforcing conformity.

But this was never the original intent. Naming heresy was always supposed to point people back to the Truth— not exile them, excommunicate them, or burn them at the stake.

Yet today it seemingly doesn’t matter what congregants believe about the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit as long as you look the part and don’t question people in power… or as long as the political affiliation matches.

According to white Jesus, the heretics are the lesbians and liberals with blue hair and nose rings. They’re families that play sports on Sundays, celebrate Halloween, and forget to tithe regularly. Heretics are anyone disloyal to Trumpian ideology. And anyone who names the rapidly alarming consolidation of conservative Christian power in US politics is labelled a heretic of the state.

I can feel Queen Mary oozing with jealousy from here.

So how do we reclaim these words and use them rightly?

· We use the language as originally intended by the early church and patristics.

Heresy and Orthodoxy refer to teaching about God. Period. Anything else is pedantic negotiation to add and subtract from the list. Disagreements will remain across denominations. But orthodoxy contains the fibers that weave us all together— even when very real agreements are here for the long haul. Orthodoxy keeps us connected as kin, even when people who claim to love right teaching, wield versions of it like a weapon.

Orthodoxy doesn’t get us to agree on every little thing, nor does it turn us into single minded clones devoid of diversity. Orthodoxy frees us to celebrate truth together, even before we have all the other disagreements settled. Orthodoxy helps us move and breathe by faith— regardless of agreement.

· We worship the one true Triune God.

Glory to God the Father, and God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit. We recite the words of the Apostles creed. We remember the story of the resurrection. We share in the life of God for the sake of our neighbors. We grow together in mutuality and love. True worship puts us in right relationship with God and one another. It reminds us of our responsibility to the church and humanity— to promote flourishing, healing, and wholeness.

· We remember that we belong to something so much bigger than ourselves.

Evangelicalism is tiny in the grand scheme of things. Protestantism is technically a toddler compared to the long life of the church. But the one holy catholic apostolic church is ancient— yet alive. She is a living breathing entity. When today’s church breaks my heart, I remember that my baptism connects me to my local community, and a family of believers than spans time and space. I remember that I belong to something so much bigger— we all do.

Ecumenism helps us refocus our attention from white American Christianity toward a good gospel that is global. Praise God.

In the spirit of Ecumenicism, — coming together across denominational differences to worship our Creator— I’d love to share two new resources that both do a lovely job bringing the church together in such challenging times:

’ Why I am a Protestant is encouraging, accessible, and refreshingly hopeful. She calls for unity without uniformity and situates Protestantism within the broader scope of the historic church. Dr. Jones is a gifted theologian and a gracious teacher.

And my buddy wrote The Justice of Jesus while we were both finishing seminary. Joash argues that justice is central to the life of the church. Drawing from his global theological roots he promotes an ecclesiology that unites the church around the teaching of Jesus, for the sake of our marginalized and oppressed neighbors.

With their powers combined, these works do a fabulous job illustrating why we need orthodoxy and orthopraxy to connect through doxology for the good of our communities. They even share a pub birthday. :)

And next fall, my book Interwoven Discipleship with NavPress will give y’all another tool in your toolbox for connecting those dots, accessing good language, and focusing on the Truth of the Triune God in all things.

Interwoven Discipleship invites readers to reimagine what it means to be disciples by returning to the heart of the Triune God. Rooted in Scripture and shaped by real-life ministry, I argue that discipleship isn’t about performance or personal perfection— it’s about participating in the life of Father, Son, and Spirit. Drawing from perichoresis— the doctrine that gives us language for space making, interdependence, and mutuality in the Trinity— I explore how the Trinity helps us reimagine power, belonging, and Christian community. This blueprint for discipleship promotes healing, restoration, and wholeness for the church.

I wrote this book for curious, thoughtful Christians who want their theology to connect meaningfully with the way they love their neighbors. It is for readers who are tired of shallow surface level answers and culture-war distractions. I wrote it for believers who want to understand their faith more deeply. Specifically, this book is for people want to connect orthodox doctrine about God to their discipleship, and to live out a faith in a way that is both intellectually honest and compassionately engaged with the world’s suffering.

These are my goals in my work as a chaplain, and my writing. If you’re new here, hi, I’m Liz. I’m a chaplain and a theologian. I work in a hospital and a seminary. I have a masters in chaplaincy from Dallas Theological Seminary and am doing doctoral work in theology at Northern Seminary. I’m a caregiver, a mom, and an autistic woman. I write and teach at the intersection of the Bible, faith, and culture. Anecdotally, I loveeeee crunchy leaves, banned books, and leaning into my own weirdness.

And y’all, I can’t wait to get this book in your hands. :)

To make sure that you stay up to date on all things launch related, paying attention here and on IG/threads. Subscribing here and engaging across platforms is one of the best ways that you can help get this work in the hands of readers next year.

For now, let’s keep the conversation going below.

What questions remain?

What stands out?

If you found this helpful and hopeful, let me know what other tools like this you’d like to see. Cheering you on in healing and wholeness.

— Liz

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My first leap into advocacy began roughly ten years ago. Like any parent confronting a shocking diagnosis for their child, I wondered what I could have done differently? I asked if my actions caused this pain that my child was experiencing. I tried to figure out how I could make it go away. Some of these initial questions were rooted in internalized ableism, and I’ve grown in grace for myself as I’ve journeyed through this diagnosis with my child.

Spina bifida is a congenital neural tube defect where the spine and spinal cord don’t form properly during early fetal development. It ranges in severity from mild (spina bifida occulta) to more serious forms like myelomeningocele. Lipomyelomeningocele is a rare subtype of spina bifida characterized by a fatty tumor (lipoma) that extends from under the skin through a defect in the spine to the spinal cord.

This mass tethers the spinal cord, preventing it from moving freely, which can lead to progressive neurological issues. Symptoms may include leg weakness, bladder/bowel dysfunction, and orthopedic deformities like foot abnormalities or scoliosis. This was the diagnosis my child received at age three. We missed it at her birth.

Why did this happen?

Guilt weighed heavily on my heart not just because the news was a shock but because my child was in physical pain. And while it didn’t make a ton of difference if I knew for sure whether my prenatal dose of folic acid was indeed the culprit, I soon realized that the answer also impacted the kind of care that my kid needed access to. My child has undergone many serious surgeries and hospitalizations over the years. She requires closely supervised specialist care, therapy, and relies on DME that keeps her alive. The healthcare system wasn’t built with needs like hers in mind, but leaning into advocacy helped me realize that my voice could make meaningful change in her life. This is how I came to recognize that Spina Bifida isn’t just a random birth defect, its closely related to exposure from chemical weapons of war.

In 1997 the VA officially began to recognize spina bifida in children as a birth defect associated with parental exposure to agent orange in Vietnam. Texas political candidate Mason Herring might come to mind. He has shared publicly that his father’s agent orange exposure in Vietnam contributed to his condition. ProPublica analyzed VA data and found that veterans exposed to Agent Orange had a 33% higher chance of having children with birth defects. Recent research has only begun to study the connection between agent orange exposure and third generation descendants. Studies in 2023 suggested that there is a strong correlation but more data is needed to establish causality. 2025 research now acknowledges growing concerns about third-generation health impacts.

My dad served honorably in Vietnam. He survived a dangerous helicopter crash, mourned his friends, and experienced the violence of war firsthand. He was exposed to agent orange. My daughter fits in that third generation category that scientists are barely beginning to research.

Why does this matter?

On Oct 10^th 2023, the Bipartisan Bill to Strengthen VA Spina Bifida Program was signed into law. Introduced by Senators Maggie Hassan (D-NH) and Mike Braun (R-IN), this law enhances the VA Spina Bifida Program to better support children of Vietnam veterans diagnosed with spina bifida due to Agent Orange exposure. It addresses gaps in enrollment and access to benefits. These bills are how families of vets get access to healthcare.

Roughly a year later, H.R.9977 – Victims of Agent Orange Relief Act of 2024 was introduced. We’ve been working really hard for this one. Sponsored by Rep. Barbara Lee (D-CA), this bill seeks to provide comprehensive support to victims of Agent Orange exposure, including descendants. It includes provisions for health care, compensation, and research into birth defects like spina bifida. This bill has not yet passed. It includes provisions for children like my daughter to have access to healthcare.

A few months earlier, a proposed bill— the Molly R. Loomis Research for Descendants of Toxic Exposed Veterans Act— would allocate $15 million to study birth defects and disabilities in children and grandchildren of veterans exposed to Agent Orange and other toxic chemicals. This bill also has not passed yet. Now with the passage of Trumps Big Beautiful Bill, his administration’s low view of science and research, and the government shut down— all of this is more uncertain than ever.

Recognizing the generational effects of war isn’t just about answer questions like “Why did this happen?” But it grants children access to lifesaving healthcare that they wouldn’t need otherwise.

As a disability theologian and a chaplain, I value the sanctity of all human life. My daughter is fearfully and wonderfully made, bearing God’s image. And also, this diagnosis that causes her so much ongoing pain— that has stolen so much from her, is likely a consequence of war. And when we forget that, when we ignore cause and effect, or even just strong correlation— when we defund research and distrust science, we miss what we should have been reckoning with all along.

Y’all know that Mephibosheth is one of my favorite people in the Bible. I can’t shut up about him. One of the reasons is, like my daughter, his disability is the direct result of violence. He is a casualty of war. After Saul and Jonathan died at Mount Gilboa, the family fled. Mephibosheth’s disabling injury was sustained while fleeing from chaos and violence.

Who else does this remind you of? Hopefully, the children of Gaza come to mind. I’m keenly aware that the twenty living hostages were finally released by Hamas this week. Praise God. And I’m keenly aware that the official death toll in Gaza as of mid-2025, is between 56,000 to 70,000 deaths. I’m keenly aware that the real number is much much higher with Palestinians continuing to experience starvation, oppression, and cruelty at the hands of the IDF. Some folks justify the injustice as an unsavory means to an end. They point to the horror of Hamas (and yes, the terrorist organization is indeed evil).

But we need the courage to call this loss of life what it is— taxpayer funded child sacrifice.

In the Torah, child sacrifice is condemned as the ultimate violation of divine justice—an act of idolatry that profanes God’s name (Leviticus 18:21; Leviticus 20:2–5; Deuteronomy 12:31; Deuteronomy 18:10). It is the offering of innocent life to false gods, often under the guise of religious devotion or national security. This was supposed to be one of the distinguishing characteristics that made God’s people different from the Canaanites or the Ugarits, for example. But just because the god demanding to be appeased by ritual fire is named War and Retribution instead of Malech, Baal, or Ashera doesn’t mean we can’t call the thing what it is.

Today, we must ask: What does child sacrifice look like in our time?

It looks like the theological justification of violence against children, especially when Christians— driven by extremist eschatology, dominionistic power structures, and Christian nationalist fervor—side with state sanctioned violence in the name of creative prophecy or divine favor. Woah woah woah, Liz. That’s quite the jump there. That language is uncomfortable. Good.

When the suffering of Palestinian children is dismissed, minimized, or spiritualized to uphold a geopolitical narrative, we are no longer defending faith— we are defending idolatry. Regardless, the willingness to trade the life of Palestinian children to placate corrupt politicians using hostages for political gain represents a complete inversion of divine justice. Child sacrifice also includes sentencing future generations to the injustice of being born with a body that the bombs didn’t destroy, but disabled, nonetheless.

Notably, Medical workers at Al-Shifa Medical Complex in Gaza are already reporting a sharp increase in serious congenital disabilities in newborns. Dr. Muhammad Abu Salmiya shared video evidence of infants born with severe deformities, linking the rise to toxic fallout from Israeli military operations to congenital complications. The population of disabled people in Gaza has also increased dramatically due to the excessive use of force.

Photo credit to Dr. Muhammad Abu Salmiya.

This combined with newborns now affected by conditions previously unseen in the region adds to the complexity of care that this population now needs to simply survive. In this context, disability isn’t just an anthropological issue— it’s a justice issue. Between famine and the continued occupation, it feels like a lie to call this conflict a tiny two year war. Tensions have been escalating for decades— the aftereffects will impact generations. Indeed there is a global trend connecting congenital disabilities to war zones. For example, post-war research in Fallujah found a 17-fold increase in congenital disability and a 12-fold increase in childhood cancers since 2004, linked to toxic war remnants.

Harvard researcher Theresa Betancourt puts it this way: “To end the march of violence from one generation to the next, health care professionals must recognize not only the immediate effects of trauma but also (plan for) its long-term implications. At the health system level, this means not only strengthening primary care systems but also building trauma-informed mental health services.”

This is why I began advocating for children with spina bifida. My first phone call to my rep Lucy McBath was because I wanted my daughter to have access to healthcare because these bills for veterans made space for her. Without legislation, she wasn’t eligible for Medicaid, Katie Becket, or other programs. Then I got to know my next-door neighbor. Over meeting for tea and sharing meals, I learned that they were refugees of the Syrian war. I began advocating for asylum seekers, refugees, and immigrants not because I was watching the news too much or doomscrolling. I loved my neighbor— my friend— and the things that grieved her heart began to grieve mine too. This is why I advocate for displaced people, particularly the children suffering from violence and war all over the world— including Gaza.

In the Bible one of the titles that Jesus ascribes to the Holy Spirit is Paraclete which means advocate, or one who comes alongside. That’s what advocacy is. We’re people who come alongside one another and care enough to bear one another’s burdens. Our job isn’t to speak for sufferers, but to hold their microphone steady so that decision makers can hear their stories straight from them. This way they can make informed decisions, address gaps in enrollment and access to benefits, and remember that the people lawmakers represent are not numbers displayed by facts and figures— but people with names and bodies who live and breathe.

This Spina Bifida Awareness Month, I hope that you’ll consider the complexity of disability, not just the sanitized inspiration porn on one extreme of the spectrum or the tragedy of disability on the other, but recognize that the human experience is tangled and intertwined— twisted and tethered. Everything is interconnected, and once we open our eyes to injustice in one place, it becomes harder and harder to pick and choose. Selective justice is still injustice, after all.

Choosing to come alongside one another looks like saying, your needs matter, your story is important, and If I can lighten this load, I will regardless of whether or not I fully agree or have all of the information. No caveats, just compassion and care. It’s committing to journey together even when conversations are complicated. We can find moments of joy and be honest about ongoing struggles. We can call idolatry and injustice by name. We can join one another in solidarity and mutuality to promote flourishing for all.

I recognize that some of these topics are sensitive. There is a lot of nuance needed. But it is possible to celebrate the diversity of disability throughout creation and have disability pride and also interact honestly with justice issues that impact quality of life and access to care. So much both/and. But I’m comforted that advocacy isn’t a distinctly human thing. When we advocate together, we reflect our God who also advocates with us for justice, wholeness, and shalom. Feel free to keep the conversation going below.

What still feels uncomfortable? Did you learn something new? What questions remain? How can I help?

If you’re new here, my name is Liz. I’m a hospital chaplain and a theologian. I work in a hospital and a seminary. I have a masters in chaplaincy from Dallas Theological Seminary, and I’m currently a doctoral student at Northern Seminary studying theology. Disability theology is one of my areas of expertise. My training is Biblical, theological, and clinical.

I’m autistic, so this work is personal. I’m also a caregiving mother to four children with disabilities and chronic illnesses. Instead of ballet and baseball practice after school, we head to the children’s hospital for specialist visits and therapies. Instead of church camps and retreats, our family encounters God in surgery waiting rooms and hospital gardens. Our family’s faith looks very different from the evangelical norm. Praise God.

I just turned in my manuscript for book one that comes out next year with NavPress, and am pivoting as I begin to research and write for book two w/ Brazos.

In this Substacky space I share whatever I feel like, truly. But if you enjoy learning about:

Disability theology

Weird stuff in the bible

Theology and culture

Caregiving

Advocacy & Justice issues

And practical theology

I sure hope you stay 😊

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While I am by no means the template that anyone in this industry wants you to follow, I do have some encouragement to share, particularly for those who feel immediately overwhelmed by some of the facts and figures they hear from authors, agents, and publishers. Because the truth is that my story wasn’t just the result of a little luck— it was also the result of good work, wise choices, and lessons learned.

Let’s talk about it.

Timing is everything— be smart with your energy

Before I signed with my agency, I spent months studying the landscape. I learned which places might be a good fit so that when I queried, my emails were personal, targeted, and intentional. Choosing an agent is choosing a business partner, so I wanted to be sure that my partner valued me as a person. Instead of sending out hundreds of queries, I sent three. The first one was kind of a practice round. The second was an automatic no without even opening my proposal. I learned from the rejection from the first two, waited a few weeks, and when I noticed that a new agent (who I discovered from social media) at my dream publisher posted her manuscript wish list, I took a risk on query number three— and she took a risk on signing little old me.

I signed with my literary agent two years ago, but we didn’t go on submission until this spring. That decision was intentional and strategic. From the get-go, I told her that I wanted to take my time and find the right fit. I also wanted to honor my personal bandwidth and season of life. I spend a year publishing magazine articles and opinion pieces while in seminary. I continued organizing my research. In a world that is so unbelievably hurried, deciding in advance to be someone who takes your time to do good work will set you apart.

What to hone?

So many publishing industry rejections correlate directly to platform size. And I get it. Sometimes that gut response is to immediately throw your energy into growing your social media and speaking presence. So, I’m going to whisper when I say this: don’t focus on honing your platform without honing your expertise, your experience, and your craft. That first agent who rejected me told me she loved my work and to reach back out after I hit a combined 50k. She is a wonderfully talented agent. Industry-wise this is not an unreasonable ask. But had I done that 2.5 years ago, I’d likely still be stuck trying to do that.

So, I finished seminary. I spent time doing the work. I took extra electives and did independent research studies with mentors to deep dive into my topics. I taught my topics. I integrated my research with my work in the hospital. I began doctoral work on one topic. I took multiple writing classes from literal legends. I honed my expertise. I honed my experience. I honed my craft. All of those choices not only gave me more authority on the page, but they also helped me clarify my message and engage well in ongoing conversations.

Know your voice

One of the biggest questions in the pub world often feels like the intimidating caterpillar in Alice & Wonderland puffing smoke in your face while challenging “Who are you?” And the truth is, at the beginning of the process, I really didn’t know. But because I took my time, I was able to try on a few different things before settling on the right fit. I am an autistic mother. I am a caregiver and an advocate. I am a disability theologian. I am a Bible teacher who advocates for women. Giving myself permission to try on some of the language before settling on the right fit helped me know how my unique voice contributes meaningfully.

This low-pressure process of trying on and taking off helped me to know my own voice as a Chaplain Theologian. My work connects practical theology with the seminary classroom and the academy. I have a masters in chaplaincy and am earning a DMin in Theology. I work at a seminary and a hospital. But that language would have fit strangely two and even three years ago. Not because the title wasn’t true, but because I needed to take my time, hone my expertise, experience, and craft. I needed to learn the sound of my own voice before I could like how it sounded. This isn’t about marketing strategy or positioning. This is about knowing who you are so that when someone attempts to change you or make you into something you’re not, you can simply respond “That’s not me.” Make no mistake, this absolutely happened. I took meetings with publishers who wanted to squish me into a box that wasn’t me shaped. But because I wasn’t desperate for any yes, I had the freedom to find the right yeses (plural).

The last piece of advice? Don’t write alone.

Celebrate your peers. Choose friendships over networking relationships. Find community with other authors who are also fumbling over two left feet while figuring out the lay of the land. Hear me, this isn’t a strategy to get you published, but it is a practice that will make Christian publishing a healthier environment for all authors. I’m not recommending that you pay to play, but I do suggest you find friends for the journey.

For example, my romantasy book club is the coolest crew of pastors, authors, and theologians. We have a ball simply reading silly little books together. I’m also a part of a coworking group that meets on Wednesdays. In this digital space, pastors, professors, authors, academics, and other professionals come together for a little face-to-face action in between pomodoro sprints. Another author group I’m a part of meets on zoom bimonthly. We encourage one another, share feedback, and create a safe place for questions, rejection, and disappointments.

I didn’t pay a surcharge to show up in any of these spaces. But these places have been some of my strongest sources of encouragement. I’ve watched so many author friends experience bone deep burnout from their book launches. So, I decided that regardless of how all of the marketing stuff plays out next year, I’m grateful that I’ll have kindred spirits to hold me in that season. I won’t have to go it alone.

Authors need to be intentional about dreaming up the kind of communities we want to belong to. So, if you haven’t met the right agent or publisher yet, focus on just being a good friend and writing in community. It’s so easy for this industry to feel like one big clique— or worse, a competition. Celebrate good work when you see it. Cheer for your friends because writing is hard. Be an encourager without strings. As writers we should want to love our readers with our words and our work. This starts with cultivating a healthy author community.

Writing in community also includes listening to the wisdom of mentors. I’m grateful for folks like Sandra Glahn, John Dyer, Beth Felker Jones, and Jason Byassee. Dr. G and JD shared what their proposals looked like, helped me find my voice on the page, and were way too encouraging for many years. They still are 😉. JD and Jason offered feedback while I was writing. Dr. Jones is now my doctoral supervisor, and I’m excited that my dissertation work with her will likely be the ATWTMV of this first book.

All that to say, yes. Put together a stunning proposal. Put yourself out in the world. Be yourself. Love your readers. Take risks. Learn from everything. Enjoy the journey.

But do good work because the world needs goodness.

The goal isn’t to figure out how to be a unicorn. The goal is to show up as your whole self, commit to the work regardless of the outcome, and leave room for a few surprises.

Feel free to keep the conversation going in the comments and share this post with a writer who could use a little encouragement.

Pens up, prophets & poets. The world is wild and weird right now. Your voice is needed and necessary.

Cheering you on <3

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So, I present: a FUN take on The Life of a Showgirl. Let’s talk Showgirls of the Bible.

Rule 1— This is completely unserious. We’re just here to have fun.

Rule 2— For the love of God, be cool. Not all connections are the same. Some are literary, some are linguistic. Some are tongue and cheek. I repeat— we’re just here to have a good time. Keep it one hundred (Is that what the kids are saying?)

Wanna play along? share your biblical showgirl connections below in the comments!

Showgirls of the Bible

Track 1: The Fate of Ophelia and Delilah

Delilah “swore her loyalty to me, myself, and I,” when she betrayed Samson. Regardless of whether her actions stemmed from survival, strategy, or self-preservation she refused to leave her fate in the hands of a man who absolutely underestimated her. Used by the system and then discarded from the story, she’s the showgirl who exits stage left— leaving readers with lingering questions about power, perception, and her mysterious fate. Judges 16

Track 2: Elizabeth Taylor and Bathsheba

Like Elizabeth Taylor, Bathsheba cried her eyes violet. No stranger to love and loss, Bathsheba is the showgirl of the Bible thrust unwillingly into a lavish spotlight of scandal, sorrow, and shame she didn’t ask for. David abused his power against Bathsheba and had her husband murdered— altering the trajectory of her life. By the time she’s made queen, she has everything and nothing. Their fancy prisons of royalty & fame may seem luxurious, but these glamorous girls’ survival stories are both submerged in profound sadness.

Track 3: Opalite and Deborah

Deborah quite literally danced in the lightning strikes. The ancient judge is often referred to as the woman on fire. Why? Because both the name of her spouse and her faithful general Barak mean “torch” and “lightning.” Her value isn’t based on the men that surround her, they illuminate her leadership during some of Israel’s darkest nights.

Track 4: Father Figure and Tamar

In Genesis 38, Judah was the patriarch who failed to do right by Tamar— and the father figure she outwitted to secure justice. She protected the family.

Track 5: Eldest Daughter and Leah

“Every eldest daughter was the first lamb to the slaughter”— and Leah— First to be married and the first to suffer emotional neglect— is no exception. Passed over for her younger sister, unloved by her husband, she continues to show up. “I’m never gonna let you down. I’m never gonna leave you out. I’m never gonna break that vow.” After bearing three children, Leah finally stops naming her children out of longing for Jacob’s affection and instead— in an act of reclaimed spiritual agency— she turns her heart toward God vowing: “This time I will praise the Lord.” Gen 29:35

Track 6: Ruin the Friendship and Michal

Michal loved David, deeply. She helped him escape her father Saul’s wrath, defied her family, and risked everything. But David married other women, traded her like property, and rejected her when she no longer played the part of his doting queen. He ruined the friendship by failing to value her devotion and heed her prophetic warning against his performative worship. She’s the showgirl who gave everything— and got nothing back.

Track 7: Actually Romantic and Jezebel

The evangelical obsession with vilifying Queen Jezebel is actually sweet— all the time they’ve spent on her. History turned her into a symbol of shame. But she’s the showgirl who lives rent-free in the minds of men who hate to see women exercise agency or use their voice.

Track 8 Wi$h Li$t and Mary

Luke documents Mary’s wish list in the Magnificat— and it reads like a revolution. She’s the showgirl who birthed God and dared to dream of a world reversed: the lowly lifted, the hungry fed, and mercy at the forefront while whispering to the baby in her womb “I just want you.”

Track 9: Wood and Abigail

Abigail read the room, defied her foolish husband, and intercepted David with wisdom and wit. She didn’t wait for fate or make decisions based on superstitions. This showgirl carved a better ending without knocking on wood, and scripture honors her as a woman who is “blessed for her good judgement.” (Even while the men are just thinking with their— never mind)

Track 10: Cancelled! and Vashti

Queen Vashti was cancelled for refusing to parade around naked in front of her drunk husband’s friends. And for every woman who refuses to be dehumanized by men in power, she’s the showgirl who reminds us: “Now they’ve broken you like they’ve broken me— at least you know exactly who your friends are. They’re the ones with matching scars.” When saying no to men in power feels risky and isolating, there’s solidarity in her story.

Track 11: Honey and Mary Magdalene

Honey is a song about how terms of endearment mean different things based on who’s talking. Historically, folks have used Mary Magdalene as a purgative phrase to incite shame, but Jesus called her strength by name. See, “Magdalene” doesn’t just mean “from Magdala.” In Aramaic, the word means tower. Mary the Tower is the nickname Jesus gave to the showgirl who stayed at the cross, met him at the empty tomb, and preached the news of the resurrection.

Track 12: The Life of a Showgirl and Ruth + Naomi

When Naomi encourages Ruth to return to her own people, it’s not rejection— it’s protection. She’s trying to spare Ruth from the pain of an unconventional life. Naomi is not unlike Kitty, offering sage words of warning pained by firsthand experience. But Ruth and Naomi’s story ends with an unexpected surprise. Even after choosing this life— filled with unimaginable loss, uncertainty, and God’s ultimate restoration— “they wouldn’t have it any other way.” From famine to family, it’s a picture-perfect showgirl ending.

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Now, as a retired professional ballet dancer, I know a thing or two about showgirl life. I’ve vomited into trashcans hidden carefully in the wings. I’ve powered through complicated choreography only to crash hard at the end of the night. Showgirl life is a different kind of pressure— it’s a different kind of lonely. When the audience is king and the performer is the object of their affection, the stakes are high. People value you for what you produce because they want to keep consuming. But consumer culture is gluttonous and greedy for what a performer can give. “You’re starving til you’re not”, after all. The relationship is symbiotic, yet still a bit strained and at times strangling (because remember, showgirls don’t get magnificent lives that are “all mine”— they get left for dead). The only folks who aren’t consumers either have a vested interest in your success, or they’re your competition waiting to take your place in the spotlight. Showgirlhood is inherently cutthroat.

Here is where I think recognizing Life of a Showgirl’s unrelatable relatability is actually helpful and honest. None of us normals are jet-setting across the globe, basking in picturesque accommodations and dripping with luxury. And while at first glance those lines feel out of touch, they’re juxtaposed with nostalgia and familiarity. I know a thing or two about an eight-year-old breaking a bone from an extra wild trampoline bounce. I know what it’s like to have a person in power demand unfettered loyalty as currency. I know what it’s like to have men in my DM’s with some kind of nerve because “everyone’s punk on the internet.”

Which is why it’s also okay to say that The Life of a Showgirl doesn’t take herself too seriously. When the lights blare brightly, she is ON. Showgirl is locked in, focused, and cursing herself for any stray missteps. But once that glow dims? Showgirl wants to write Shakespear fanfic and bed rot while reading Fourth Wing. She wants to kick her feet and giggle at silly puns. She wants to feel fierce— from underneath the cozy layers of her down comforter. To say that the life of a showgirl is a little bit unserious isn’t an insult. Not all art needs to be somber. It can be playful, cringe, and validate the entirety of the human experience.

That said, I do think this album missed opportunities to connect more deeply given our current cultural moment. Yes, showgirl life is a kind of fantasy— she’s pulling back the curtain and giving us a glimpse behind the scenes yet still silent on many of the woes that her audience isn’t able to so easily escape. Because MAGA is quick to silence dissenters, it does beg the question— does Taylor feel the same responsibility to her fans as she has in eras past? Yes, we can walk and chew gum. We can dance at protests and correct injustice while wearing glitter. But for whatever reason, she didn’t take that risk this time.

Interestingly, Taylor lets us peek into her fantasies too— daydreams of bossing up, settling down, and being left tf alone. I can’t imagine what it’s like to have the president of the US regularly bullying you on the internet, constant threats from stalkers, and the loud voices of angry men on the internet uppity at your mere existence. Freedom from that level of stardom isn’t an abdication of responsibility, it’s a reminder of her personhood— her humanity. (Yes, even if this life is what she asked for).

Lastly, some of the less serious moments veered into unhinged territory. Again, not an insult. I too am a tad unhinged because as a thirty something married millennial woman entering perimenopause and giving zero— redwood trees— I get it. I am a romance reader. And while it is a *choice* to make so many colorful biology innuendos, most of us have to save that energy for the group chat so we don’t get fired. But from Father Figure to Actually Romantic, here, Tay is not the example. She plays into the fantasy of how we wish we could respond to the misogynistic men hellbent on keeping us silent, small, and subdued. Still, we’re invited to cry our eyes violet, make our own sunshine, and pay the check before it kisses the mahogany grain.

Now notably, in Taylor’s showgirl fantasy, she isn’t just the exploited performer barely making ends meat. She’s the director calling the shots. She’s the billionaire baddie building a legacy. She’s the woman marrying a man with giant...hands. And a gorgeous *ring* on her left finger. Good for her.

Now, does this album save democracy, literacy, or common decency? Nope. But it does make space for honest conversations about millennial womanhood. And it’s also a reminder that none of us need to rely on art to inspire our actions. If you’re waiting for a singer to reignite your engagement against fascism, then I’d love to give you permission to call your representatives, protest, and care for your immigrant neighbors whether or not your favorite singer says so. Instead of being cutthroat in the comments with hot takes as cold as ice, for the love of God, call your reps.

Long story short, Showgirl is on repeat here. It’s a fun time. And while I’m a sucker for tortured poetry, (I am a chaplain after all. I’m no stranger to sad girl theology) it also feels good to pledge allegiance to silly vibes after a truly chaotic year. Whether or not Tay is your cup of tea, I do hope that you’ll see the life of a showgirl in new light because “You don’t know the life of a showgirl, babe, and you’re never gonna wanna.”

Liz

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Too often, II Samuel 9 is preached as a feel-good story of kindness toward the disabled— a heartwarming tale in which powerful King David generously welcomes the “crippled” Mephibosheth to his table. But this overly simplified sentimental reading does real harm. It glosses over the structural power dynamics at play, flattening Mephibosheth’s identity to a symbol of pity rather than a person caught in a dangerous political game. And since it’s been a while since we’ve talked about chapter nine here, this post is an updated refresher of sorts. Why? Because ableist interpretations fail to interrogate what David’s so-called kindness actually costs—or what it conceals. I challenge such readings by offering a close analysis of the Hebrew verbal forms in chapter nine. I argue that the chapter constructs a deliberate hierarchy of dominance and deference, with David’s power operating through the very grammar of the narrative. This is not a story about kindness— it’s a story about control disguised as compassion. In a world obsessed with optics, we must ask: is it still kindness if it serves the powerful more than the vulnerable?

In II Samuel 9, the text reveals a pattern of verbal forms that are closely tied to themes of service and subordination. These themes reinforce a tightly woven hierarchy of power, with David firmly situated at the top as king and benefactor. The chapter opens with the identification of Ziba as עֶ֙בֶד֙ (ʿeved)—a “servant” (v. 2)— immediately establishing his subordinate status as someone toeing the line between a slave and freeborn individual. Ziba confirms this relationship by calling himself עַבְדֶּֽךָ (ʿavdecha), “your servant” (v. 2), thus linguistically submitting to David’s authority, even though he was a part of Saul’s house. This same verbal cue reappears when Mephibosheth, too, refers to himself as ʿavdecha (v. 8), situating himself under David’s dominion despite being Saul’s heir. The narrator calls Ziba an ʿeved to describe his role as a servant within Saul’s household. However, both Ziba and Mephibosheth refer to themselves as ʿavdecha, a personal and deferential way of expressing their loyalty and submission directly to David—like the difference between a general job title (“servant”) and an acquiescent declaration of service (“I work for you, sir”). Every utterance of 'your servant' is not just language— it’s a linguistic bow to the throne, a ritualized submission dressed up as etiquette.

In a sense, this linguistic repetition is akin to the way corporate hierarchies operate— regardless of someone’s former title or experience, when entering the orbit of a new corporate culture, they adopt the nuances and language of deference to that authority. The rhetoric changes not because the person has changed, but because the power structure has shifted.

The use of the verb לָקַח (to take) in verse 5, where David “takes” Mephibosheth, fits seamlessly into the chapter’s larger theme of dominance and subservience. Notably, the same verb is later used in 2 Samuel 11 to describe David’s seizure of Bathsheba, and highlights a theological and narrative trajectory, foreshadowing an increase of force. Because behind fake smiles, in moments framed as benevolent (as in Mephibosheth’s case), David’s kingship exerts a unilateral authority that overrides consent, autonomy, and agency— suggesting that the mechanisms of royal power are consistent, whether they appear as mercy or manipulation.

The chapter’s lexicon continues to draw lines of superiority and dependence as David declares, עָשֹׂ֩ה אֶעֱשֶׂ֨ה (ʿasoh eʿeseh)— “I will surely show [kindness]” (v. 7)—an active decision that reflects his sovereign initiative. Similarly, וַהֲשִׁבֹתִ֣י (vahăshivotī)— “I will restore” (v. 7)— positions David as the one who redistributes property, reinforcing his own royal prerogative. While the gesture may appear generous, it’s clear that the one who easily gives can just as easily take away. Unfortunately, that’s exactly what happens later on. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

Then, Mephibosheth’s bodily gesture—וַיִּשְׁתַּ֕חוּ (vayyishtachu), “he bowed down” (v. 8)—visually marks his deference, illustrating the embodied nature of subordination in royal presence. But the accompanying phrase כֶּ֛לֶב מֵ֥ת (kelev met), “dead dog” appears in three key locations in the Hebrew Bible. In each case, the phrase carries political weight, specifically signaling the neutralization of a potential political usurper. This pairing of prostration with the slang phrase isn’t about humility as much as it’s saying “I know that you know exactly who I am.” These words weren’t delivered out of an abundance of gratitude, but with a bite. This scene is charged, the air is tense, the language is loaded. Mephibosheth’s deference is not a choice— it’s a survival tactic in a court where dignity is dangerous.

Then, the verbs related to table fellowship—תֹּ֥אכַל (toʾchal) and יֹאכַ֥ל (yoʾchal), both meaning “you shall eat/he shall eat” (vv. 7, 10)—signal Mephibosheth’s reintegration into royal favor, though always at the pleasure and direction of the king. This section is often referred to as a picture of God’s table in Psalm 23 that prioritizes inclusion. However, unlike Psalm 23, where God prepares a table in the presence of David’s enemies as an act of divine vindication, this portrayal features David as the one preparing the table—not God. And he does so not to receive mercy, but to put his benevolence on full display for his court. It’s clear that David’s feast functions less as a celebration of covenantal trust and more as a carefully curated act of royal performance. Here, Mephibosheth’s presence signals both the neutralization of Saul’s line and enhances David’s image as a magnanimous king before both allies and former rivals.

David, in this scene, plays chess while secretly moving both sides. The table may look democratic, but every move answers to the singular strategist, wearing the crown. The illusion of choice, particularly in our English translations masks the reality of domination, reinforced by internalized ableism, a flattened reading of the text, and a hermeneutic that centers a David who can do no wrong. This is not just a story about David. It’s a mirror held up to every system that confuses proximity with equity, and performance with justice. At a bare minimum, we need to acknowledge that David initiates every action, while pulling all others into his orbit of orchestrated control.

Meanwhile, Ziba is re-inscribed into a servant role through verbs of labor: וְעָבַ֣דְתָּ (veʿavadta), “you shall work,” and וְהֵבֵ֗אתָ (vehevetā), “you shall bring in” (v. 10). These imperatives do not simply assign tasks— they assert David’s dominance over both people and property. This reflects how labor directives in hierarchical systems often function not just to delegate work but to reinforce status— like a manager assigning work in a way that reminds the employee who holds the authority to assign it in the first place.

Thus, the narrative structure and repeated use of these verbal forms create a dense network of roles, obligations, and power dynamics. What appears on the surface to be a perfect picture of hesed, is linguistically framed as a reinforcement of dominance, with David operating as the sole source of any mercy, provision, and legitimacy. Through these various textual themes, the chapter dramatizes the reordering of Saul’s legacy under David’s kingship, where former threats are neutralized through careful incorporation, and loyalty is rewarded through controlled privilege. It’s a classic case of “keep your enemies closer.”

In this light, David’s kindness conceals his careful consolidation of power. By absorbing a rival into the system and exploiting the disabled heir of his enemy for good PR, the political threat is contained, and the benefactor’s image as both just and generous is preserved to ableist onlookers, who delight at the ancient inspiration porn. It’s a win/win. “Did you see? It was so kind of King David to help that young disabled man.” But the text never suggests Mephibosheth needed help to begin with. Perhaps he would have been just fine— if David had simply let him be. Real hesed does not need to be staged, and it never demands a throne to prove itself. And if you’re still unconvinced, keep reading on to chapters sixteen and nineteen.

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As always, thanks for being here and supporting my work. There are so many exciting updates in the works that I can’t wait to share.

Until then, let’s keep the conversation going below:

· What theological consequences arise when we confuse political performance with covenantal faithfulness? How can we spot the difference in Scripture—and in our own communities?

· Think about a time when you were invited to “the table”—in a church, school, or workplace. Were you free to speak and move as your whole self, or did your place at the table come with unspoken expectations?

· When does inclusion function as a tool for assimilation and manipulation rather than liberation? What are the signs?

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If you’re new here, welcome! I’m Liz, a hospital chaplain and theologian writing at the intersection of disability, caregiving, and theology. I also write about weird things in the bible. And because I’m an extra serious student of culture, I write about theology as it relates to romantasy literature and Taylor Swift. If you’re a returning reader, you know I’ve been writing about Mephibosheth for years. :) Long story short, through my research, I’ve noticed a pattern that often minimizes his literary role, with various conclusions drawn based on attitudes or theological stances that aim to paint David in a favorable light. However, when we actually examine the text, many of these conclusions about David’s character start to unravel. So, what does that mean for the others in the drama-filled story of his reign? What does it mean for Mephibosheth when David’s responses in the text don’t actually match the benevolent reputation that evangelicals tout? What does it mean for readers today?

Among scholars of the Hebrew Bible, the so-called “Succession Narrative” (2 Samuel 9–20; 1 Kings 1–2) has generated diverse literary perspectives, particularly regarding its structure, sources, and theological intent. While some, such as Leonhard Rost, viewed the Succession Narrative as a unified, early composition designed to justify Solomon’s rise, others have emphasized the fragmentary, redacted nature of the material. The term “redacted narrative” is thus used to designate layers of later theological or political editing that reshape and reinterpret earlier episodes. Within this broader context, the “Benjaminite sections”—specifically 2 Samuel 9; 16:5–14; and 19:16–31—stand out for their thematic coherence around Saul’s surviving house, and are marked by unique linguistic and theological characteristics suggestive of an editorial stratum (often referred to as S3) with pro-Davidic and anti-Zeruiah leanings. These episodes prominently feature Mephibosheth (aka Meribaal), whose representation has elicited competing interpretations ranging from a passive figure of royal mercy to a contested character in the politics of covenantal loyalty.

One of the most detailed literary analyses of these Benjaminite sections comes from F. Langlamet, a seasoned biblical scholar and former contributor to the Revue Biblique, whose linguistic expertise and theological insight have made lasting contributions to the study of Samuel and Kings. In his 1981 article “David et la Maison de Saül,” Langlamet argues that these texts were deliberately shaped to uphold David’s divine mandate while discrediting his internal challengers, particularly the sons of Zeruiah. His approach isolates recurring vocabulary and syntax that connect these texts and reflect an editorial aim to contrast David’s piety and restraint with the militaristic excesses of Joab and his kin.1

Within this Benjaminite section of the redacted narrative, the literary-theological contrasts between David, Joab, and Mephibosheth serve as more than narrative devices. According to Langlamet’s analysis, these episodes were edited with deliberate linguistic and thematic precision to elevate David’s kingship, legitimize his theological standing, and distance him from the violent realpolitik embodied by the sons of Zeruiah, especially Joab. Langlamet contends that the redactor (S3) sought to reinforce David's divine mandate by juxtaposing his measured leadership against the unruly militarism of Joab, and to frame Mephibosheth as a loyal, pitiable foil whose presence reaffirms David’s magnanimity and divine favor. Within this framework, the Benjaminite texts become rhetorical tools in a larger editorial campaign to uphold David's legitimacy and suppress competing claims to power.

I challenge that redactional theology by arguing that Mephibosheth does not function merely as a passive recipient of royal grace, but as a prophetic witness whose loyal suffering exposes the failure of Davidic ḥesed. Rather than reinforcing David’s theological superiority, Mephibosheth’s continued presence in the narrative interrogates it, revealing that David’s political decisions fracture the covenant he claims to honor. For the covenant with Jonathan to remain intact, the land needed to remain whole— a principal David violates in his compromise with Ziba in 2 Samuel 19. Mephibosheth, therefore, does not vindicate David; he indicts him.

While Langlamet positions Mephibosheth as a counterweight to Joab’s violent pragmatism, the deeper irony is that David himself ultimately participates in the very political expediency he rhetorically disavows. In 2 Samuel 19, after Mephibosheth appears before David in a state of visible mourning— “He had neither taken care of his feet, nor trimmed his mustache, nor washed his clothes from the day the king departed until the day he came home in peace” (2 Sam 19:24 NASB)—he declares his unwavering loyalty: “Let him even take it all, since my lord the king has come safely to his own house” (2 Sam 19:30 NASB). Yet David responds by dividing the land between Mephibosheth and Ziba (v. 29), an act that not only discredits Mephibosheth’s testimony but fractures the very inheritance that 2 Samuel 9 sought to restore. This gesture is not an act of justice, but a concession to political convenience. David’s action betrays the ḥesed he once pledged to Jonathan (cf. 1 Sam 20:14–15), and calls into question whether his covenant loyalty was ever meant to endure under the strain of political survival.

Thus, Mephibosheth functions theologically not as a background character but as a moral compass within the story, a figure whose disability and dispossession do not silence him but instead heighten the gravity of his testimony. He becomes a living critique of David’s failure to embody the fullness of covenantal ḥesed.

His unwavering loyalty, voiced without bitterness and offered without demand, stands in stark contrast to the self-preserving violence of Joab and the selective benevolence of David. As Korean Old Testament scholar Oh Min-Su has shown, disability in the ancient Near East was not merely a physical condition but a social and theological marker—often entangled with systems of injustice, naming practices of grief and survival, and the sacred margins of communal life. Read in this light, Mephibosheth’s presence and persistence carry prophetic weight, not just as a recipient of David’s ḥesed, but as a living rebuke of its collapse.2

In a narrative constructed to vindicate David’s rule and suppress internal threats, Mephibosheth bears witness against both. He reminds us that true covenantal faithfulness is not measured by proximity to power or rhetorical appeals to divine blessing, but by the integrity of one’s actions toward the vulnerable.

Read in this light, Mephibosheth disrupts the redactor’s apologetic aim and recasts the narrative’s moral center. He is not a symbol of royal generosity but rather a prophetic indictment of royal failure. His presence challenges the reader to reconsider whose voice tells the truth of history: the victorious king? Or the disabled descendant of a displaced house who refuses to betray covenant even when covenant fails him? As disability scholars like Jeremy Schipper’s have shown, Mephibosheth’s story is not peripheral but structurally central to the ideology of Davidic kingship. His disabled body becomes a narrative site for defining who belongs, whose covenant matters, and what kind of leadership Israel can bear.3

Theologically, Mephibosheth stands as a cruciform figure within the succession narrative— a sobering reminder that divine fidelity is often preserved through the faithfulness of the wounded, rather than might of monarchs. Unlike Langlamet, who sees Mephibosheth as a foil designed to bolster David’s divine legitimacy, I read him as a theological disruption—an embodied protest against a covenant that David betrayed. Mephibosheth’s steady presence in the story shifts our attention from kings who can do no wrong, and challenges readers to wrestle with a consistent ethic of covenantal faithfulness for all. Mephibosheth’s story reminds readers to value the voices of the vulnerable always, but particularly when they testify against power.

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My husband is black, and our four children are biracial. With that family dynamic comes a set of challenges that I admit I wasn’t prepared for before becoming a parent. But experiencing racism and discrimination over the years has shaped me. It’s opened my eyes to a reality that I didn’t understand before. And while there’s a spectrum spanning harmless mistakes to full on hatred, for the most part, we feel safe in our community. But it’s no secret that the new administration has racists feeling emboldened in their brazenness. After 47’s inauguration, it started with a little boy calling my oldest daughter the N word, threatening her, and making her fearful to the point that she didn’t want to go to school. We handled things with the admin and her teachers. But even the child noted that his parents wouldn’t care. They’d know he was “just joking.” But since that we’ve been going through the motions, taking care of each other, and ensuring that our home is respite from the increasing craziness of the world.

Last week I picked up my daughter from school in the middle of the school day. She experienced a severe asthma attack in the middle of class. She followed her action plan and began nebulizer treatments with the nurse. After sitting with her in the nurse’s office and evaluating her symptoms and sats, I decided to take her to the closest ER for treatment. Asthma is not new to us. We’ve spent weeks in the PICU, and we know to err on the side of safety. The ER closest to her school is only a few stoplights away, so it made the most sense. And while the children’s hospital in the city is our first choice, we use this local ER when we need to. After getting her checked in, they saw her quickly and the tell-tale signs of respiratory distress were visible. She wheezed through tight chested breaths with pale flesh around her mouth. She needed oxygen. Which is why it didn’t register at first, the thing that happened next.

The attending doctor had a calm demeanor when he entered her room, but a strange lilt to his voice. He began by directing his questions to my elementary school aged daughter. But in the middle of an asthma attack, she couldn’t speak. When I answered on her behalf, his tone shifted towards suspicion. When he addressed me, “Oh are you family?” I responded yes. This was strange because I told the nurses who triaged her at the check in desk that I was her mother, and all of her insurance information was already in the system. She’s been treated here before. When he asked “Who, exactly?” He didn’t believe me when I said I was her mom. He then asked for proof of my relationship to her. Alarms bells began sounding in my brain. And when I asked what he needed that for, he said “to verify her citizenship.”

Now let’s pause for just a hot little second.

*This is a minor in the middle of a medical emergency. *

I identified her as a high-risk asthma patient in the middle of an asthma attack upon arrival. I identified myself as her mother upon arrival. My ten-year-old was visibly distressed and in obvious need of medical attention. We are literally in the ER.

My daughter was in the middle of a medical emergency, but the doctor wanted to verify her citizenship before treating her.

My daughter is an American citizen.

After that, icy rage filtered over me. I am a hospital chaplain with a different healthcare system. I’m trained in trauma and crisis care. I am involved in immigration spaces I know the law in the state of Georgia. Since November I’ve partnered with immigration experts and faith leaders nationwide as we figure out what it looks like to care for the vulnerable when ICE enters sensitive locations. But I’ll be honest, in my wildest dreams I never would have imagined that I would come that close to experiencing something like that firsthand.

Thankfully, my child was so out of it that she didn’t realize what was happening. Thankfully I was able to prove who I was (even though that was already well documented).

Thankfully other staff members on the floor know us well, remembered us, and stuck close by after I told them what happened. They offered encouragement and support.

But I couldn’t help but think “What if?” What if we were a mixed status family? What if my info wasn’t in the system? What if What if What if? What if a child died because a doctor wanted to out a minor to ICE more than he wanted to treat a child for an emergency?

My daughter was finally treated for her asthma attack. She was discharged later that day. And I’ll admit, I don’t feel safe returning to that hospital ever again.

Because I didn’t just feel my own fear. I felt the fear of millions of mothers who are scared of this unhinged regime that is more interested in stoking terror in immigrant communities than loving their neighbors.

And while the White House social media accounts incite jeers with their crass degradation of migrants, and Facebook apologists with a sixth grade reading level spout Fox News flavored talking points about “law and order” (no offense to sixth graders), I’m just furious. I’m furious that white supremacy feels so emboldened to weaponize their hatred in such vile ways. And when the president posts Napoleon quotes that function as dog whistles giving the green light for racists to act first and act questions later, I’ll admit, the next four years aren’t looking great.

Now, some of y’all are more interested in the tea, and I promise my lawyer is on it 😊

But here’s the deal: The changes to sensitive locations are real and significant.

Churches, hospitals, and classrooms should be safe. period. And while unfortunately some states do require proof of citizenship to be treated in the ER Georgia doesn’t. And while some states are placing bounties on the heads of migrants, Georgia isn’t. But this administration is sowing so much chaos and fear at such a rapid rate, that the states’ rights proponents don’t seem to care much about the invisible lines when it comes to the limits of their vitriol.

And maybe in your all white super Christian upper middle-class bubble, you don’t see it firsthand. Maybe the friction isn’t a part of your lived experience day in and day out. Maybe you aren’t regularly proximate to people who look, vote, and think differently than you. I didn’t before my family wasn’t white.

But the reality is that NO family deserves to feel unsafe when they’re facing a medical emergency.

Lifesaving treatment matters more than proper paperwork, full stop.

All people are made in the image of God worthy of dignity and care.

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So, pretend that family in the ER isn’t me and my biracial daughter experiencing a case of misplaced racism.

Imagine it’s an undocumented child, gasping for air. Imagine that you’re the one with the power in the room to hook a struggling child up to oxygen. You’re pro-life, right? Do you treat the child, or do you need to see papers first?

Do you help or do you hesitate?

Remember, Georgia isn’t Texas. Treating an undocumented child isn’t even against the law.

Crazy, right? How we’ve found ourselves here. Protecting our children from enemies that swore a Hippocratic oath to do no harm.

The intersection of xenophobia, racism, paired with some smug misogyny and ableism is whiplashy enough- especially in the middle of an emergency situation.

This world is breaking my heart right now. As we speak, the white house is posting ASMR videos of deportations, valentines vilifying migrants, and AI generated portraits of a president donning a crown.

Places that are supposed to feel safe are scary.

People that are supposed to be the healers are choosing harm.

This is the state of things.

I’m scared for us.

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