Our pastoral team is blessed beyond measure to be gifted a sabbatical every seven years. This is something we’ve been doing as a congregation for nearly 30 years. I recognize the immense privilege it is to step away from the daily responsibilities of pastoral ministry to receive this gift. I went on sabbatical tired but nothing close to being depleted. In fact, I have felt immense life, joy and fulfillment in this season of pastoral ministry. But this rhythm has been important for the long term sustainability of pastoral ministry and the life of our church.

The goals for my sabbatical were captured in four words: rest, delight, study, and prayer.

The months of May and June were oriented around prayer and study. I spent every day journaling, reading, and in prayer. I also attended a formation conference at Westmont College in California on virtue formation. What a joy to see many friends and meet new friends in the formation community.

Of course, the month of June 2026 would be forever memorialized when my NY Knicks won the NBA CHAMPIONSHIP. I watched every game with my son + my father and brother via FaceTime. Sabbaticals hit different when the Knicks win a chip!

I visited my favorite monastery in Spencer, MA, and met an 80-year-old Cuban monk and scholar (Fr. Simeón) who quickly became a friend. I hope I can get him to speak at New Life in 2027. I read over 10 books, including the Pope’s encyclical on A.I., re-read Bonhoeffer’s Letters and Papers from Prison, Dorothy Day’s biography, St. Thérèse of Lisieux’s autobiography, John Cassian’s Conferences, Arthur Brooks’ Strength to Strength, a book on virtue formation, Becoming Friends by Waddell, a commentary on Acts by Willie James Jennings, and The Connected Life by Todd Hall, to name most of them.

In July, I took my son on a 1:1 trip to Disney World for his 12th birthday. He went on all the big rides for the first time. Seeing his expressions and sense of accomplishment brought great joy to my heart. July also brought a celebration of my mother-in-law’s 70th birthday in a rented house in Orlando. It was so good to be with family.

This was followed by an annual retreat I take with three of my closest friends (Glenn Packiam, Aaron Stern, and Shawn Kennedy) at a ranch in Wyoming. The gift of friendship and play was refreshing.

August was spent doing some NYC tourist stuff, including my first trip to the observation deck in the Freedom Tower. We also made a family trip to Disney (our favorite place) and took a Disney cruise. Rosie remains the most amazing travel advisor. 😁

Perhaps the most significant development during my sabbatical was a decision I made to become confident and conversational in Spanish. For different reasons—mostly rooted in fear and shame—I have not pursued learning and speaking this language of my family and culture. But I clearly sensed a call—and the grace from God—to pursue this goal. I hired a tutor, have practiced daily for two months straight, and have far more understanding than I had at the start of July.

I’m my own worst critic, so my progress has felt immensely slow and frustrating. One day I dream of preaching in Spanish, but more than that, connecting with Spanish-speaking people from around the world (an easy thing to do as a pastor in Queens). 😊 More than anything, I’ve learned afresh that change and growth require humility and the willingness to be a beginner.

The best gift of all was the time I was able to spend with Rosie. She was not on sabbatical, but because she works from home, we were able to spend lots of quality time with each other.

I’m coming back to my duties as a pastor refreshed and grateful, and I believe that the fruit of this sabbatical will come in the near future and well into the years ahead, by the grace of God.

(Some photos)

#Knicksin5

Our feet often reveal the weight we’ve been carrying—the pain we’ve been holding, the burdens we’ve learned to normalize. They are not the part of ourselves we universally showcase. They are the part we often hide. And yet, they are also the place where our vulnerability is most exposed. There is a reason Peter resists in John 13. To have your feet washed is to be seen in a way that feels uncomfortable, even invasive. It is to be known beneath the surface.

And this is where Jesus chooses to meet us. He takes into his hands what we would rather keep covered.

When Jesus washes the feet of his disciples, he is not merely performing an act of hospitality. He is revealing the very heart of God. A God who is not distant, not detached, not waiting for us to clean ourselves up, but a God who moves toward us in our dust, in our exhaustion, in our hidden places.

For Jesus, washing our feet is not about making us sanitary. It is about making us known. It is about entering the place we are most tempted to conceal. The place marked by shame. The place marked by fatigue. The place marked by our failures and our fragility.

And in that place, Jesus does not recoil.

In bending down to touch and wash our feet, Jesus is not just modeling humility—he is embodying the gospel. This is Philippians 2 in motion: though he is in very nature God, he empties himself, taking the form of a servant. He goes low—not as a performance, but as a revelation. The scandal of Christianity is not simply that God is high above all things, but that in Jesus, God goes lower than we ever imagined.

Lower than the parts of our lives we have worked hardest to keep hidden.

And this is the good news of Holy Thursday: there is no place you can go, no part of yourself you can conceal, no story you carry that Jesus is unwilling to enter.

And as he does, he speaks a quiet word over our lives:

“I see you.

I know you.

I am not turning away from you.

I love you.”

And then he says, “Now go and do likewise.”

Which means this: the people who have had their feet washed by Jesus are called to become the kind of people who are not afraid to kneel in the presence of others. To move toward what is broken. To touch what is vulnerable. To love not from a distance, but from a place of humility and nearness.

So on this Holy Thursday, we slow down. We let Jesus come close. We resist the urge to pull away. And we allow ourselves to be loved in the very place we’d rather hide. Because it is there—in the dust, in the tenderness, in the vulnerability—that we discover the transforming love of God.

And it is from there that we learn how to love the world.

She never uttered a curse word in her life, having memorized and taken seriously the passage that says, “Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths” (Ephesians 4:29). She always had a smile on her face, leading many people to wonder about her joyful disposition.

“How are you so happy?” the neighbors always asked.

Like clockwork, this godly mom replied, “Don’t be silly, dear. Christians are called to rejoice in the Lord, always, and again I say, rejoice.”

On a hot summer day, this dutiful Christian invited some friends over for lunch to talk about the latest news in the neighborhood church. She didn’t gather them for idle talk but rather to genuinely pray—­ to commit their town and neighbors to the things of God. She and her husband had worked hard to raise their children in the ways of the Lord.

They were financially generous and prayed before bed, before meals, and before long car rides. This family was the model of Christian goodness.

One day the family learned of an interesting community gathering. They were always looking for a moment to bond and to create memories. This night would be no different.

The entire community, it seemed, would gather in the localpark to celebrate, fellowship, and witness an event familiar to many in the South. You see, Jesse Washington, a Black seventeen-­year-­old, would be lynched that night.

The mom mentioned above could have been any mom on that day. In fact, in that part of Texas and in many other states, it was many moms, and dads—­ and, painfully, children too.

When I think of this level of brutality and dehumanization mixed with a bewildering spirit of joyful celebration, I can arrive at only one conclusion:

There’s something else going on. Something sinister beyond what we can see.

How could this sweet, Bible-­reading, pie-­making, never-cursing mom bring her children to witness this abhorrent “family-­friendly” act of evil? How did she reconcile her faith with this morally despicable act?

Well, in many ways, there was nothing to reconcile. Lynching was as American as apple pie. Even with the Lord’s Prayer on her lips, she was deceived by an insidious power greater than herself.

This is an excerpt from my book, Good and Beautiful and Kind. In this book I address many of the ways our individual lives and society finds itself fractured—as well as ways towards wholeness. In this chapter in particular I explore the biblical category of the “Powers and Principalities.”

As I reflect on my journey of preaching over the last 27 years, I’m deeply aware that my earliest formative years were shaped in Black churches across Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx. Those sanctuaries were my classroom. Those congregations were my teachers. I did not simply learn how to preach there—I was formed there.

Preaching in these communities was a gift because the preaching moment was never a solo act. It was communal, relational, and participatory. Preaching didn’t belong to the preacher alone; it belonged to the people of God gathered in expectation.

Black preaching flourishes within a culture that understands this instinctively—a culture marked by at least four realities:

affirmation

anticipation

participation

celebration

First, affirmation.

In these spaces, the preacher is not left alone to wonder whether the Word is landing. The congregation affirms—not the ego of the preacher, but the truth of the message. An amen, a that’s right, a nod, a holy murmur—these are not interruptions. They are confirmations. They say, Yes, we recognize that truth. Keep going. Keep bearing witness.

Second, anticipation.

There is a patient, almost reverent trust that the Word of God will do what it is meant to do. The congregation leans forward, waiting for the thought to unfold, believing that something is coming. This anticipation is not anxious or rushed. It’s rooted in confidence—in Scripture, in the Spirit, and in the shared conviction that God speaks through proclamation. In these spaces, the pressure to engage the congregation in the first 60 seconds is set aside because the community awaits an unfolding of truth that sometimes surfaces slowly.

Third, participation.

Call and response is not a technique; it’s a theology. It creates a holy exchange, a circulation of strength. The congregation draws something out of the preacher even as the preacher pours something into the congregation. Breath meets breath. Energy meets energy. Preaching becomes embodied—heard not only with the ears, but felt in the body. No one is passive. Everyone is involved.

And finally, celebration.

In the Black preaching tradition, proclamation is always tethered to joy—even, and especially, in a world marked by suffering. Celebration does not deny pain; it defies it. In the preaching moment, the powers are named and put in their place. Hope is reclaimed. The good news is declared with holy defiance: Jesus is Lord. And that truth is worth shouting about.

The Black Church has so much to teach us about the collaborative nature of preaching. At its best, preaching is not about polished individual delivery or rhetorical performance. It is about synergy of presence—the sacred interplay between preacher and people.

The fullness of Black preaching is found not in isolation but in communion. It is a shared movement, a sacred rhythm, a dance in which preacher and congregation move together, attuned to the Spirit’s lead.

A homiletical perichoresis, if you will—a mutual indwelling of voice, faith, and hope, where the Word takes flesh among the people of God.

Questions like these help us get to the core of our racial situation. It’s one thing to be in close proximity to someone who looks, thinks, or even eats differently than you. It’s another to be in deep relationship with that person, and still another to work for a world (that is, Christ’s “kingdom”) where our differences are not placed on a hierarchy that regards some as superior and others inferior.

The reality of racial sin and hostility in our world is very real. In the US, places and names such as Ferguson, Eric Garner, Trayvon Martin, and Charlottesville have reminded us that matters of race remain one of America’s deeply embedded thorns in the flesh. Just take a look at your social media timeline. A day doesn’t go by when we don’t see people vocalizing their rage, puzzlement, and defensiveness over matters of race. The turbulent discourse has found its way into our local churches and our homes.

We are consistently faced with the troubles of a racialized world. The stories we hear and see seem to be endless. Whether the stories are nationally televised or known only to us, we are regularly weighed down by the destructive ideas and practices that establish subtle and not-so-subtle hierarchies of human value based on skin color. Although the symbols of racism have been largely dismantled, the spirit of racism continues to permeate our world.

But we are not without help. There is a way that can take us beyond the disjointed and narrow approaches that fail to engage the multiple perspectives of racism—perspectives that include our collective past, our inner life, and our outward engagement.

Tensions in Brooklyn

During my childhood, the East New York section of Brooklyn was one of the most dangerous and economically poor areas of New York City. I grew up around Puerto Ricans, Dominicans, Jamaicans, and African Americans. Certainly, there were tensions between these groups, but one of the consistent places of racial and ethnic conflict were found at Chinese take-out restaurants or the local Korean-owned dry cleaners. I can vividly recall the tensions as well as the glimmers of healing that would surface from time to time. I have one memory in particular.

As a teenager and into my twenties, I would make monthly trips to the dry cleaners. For as long as I can remember, there was a massive, bullet-proof partition on the counter that separated the customer from the dry cleaner’s employee. In order to drop the clothes off one had to put the clothes into a drop box and then talk through the clear partition, giving specific instructions. As a kid I thought all of this was normal until the day the partition was removed.

One day in my mid-twenties, I stopped in to drop off a few buttoned-down shirts, and to my great surprise the partition had been taken down. I was about to go back outside to make sure I was in the same place. I mentioned how different the store looked and the owner said, in his heavy accent, “We want to build trust with our neighbors.” For the first time I was able to shake hands with someone in that space.

Upon reflection of that situation, I couldn’t help but think something deeply spiritual was taking place in that neighborhood on the corner of Essex St. and Pitkin Ave. I would find out later that the new Korean owners of that business were Christians. Something had compelled them to imagine a different way of being together. A new community was forming based not on suspicion, mistrust, and fear, but on hospitality, trust, and good-will. In that small dry-cleaner’s space, a metaphor of the gospel became clear as day. It wasn’t the fall of the Berlin Wall, but in my neighborhood it was a significant act.

In the midst of all of the confusion and anger that persists due to the racial tensions in our country and world, the Church must lead the way in proclaiming a message of hope, justice, and reconciliation. This is what we have attempted to do over three decades at New Life Fellowship in Queens, New York City.

__________________________

This is an excerpt from the chapter on racial justice and reconciliation in my first book, The Deeply Formed Life

It’s not a strategy for distraction from the real world or the real weight of our lives.

When we gather, we’re reminded of something far more honest and far more hopeful:

God is with us in the hard realities of life.

Not just in our joy—but in our grief, our waiting, our unanswered questions.

The Christmas season is often portrayed as a time of happiness for everyone.

Joyful music. Warm lights. Smiling faces.

And yet, we all know the truth—it’s not jingle bells for everyone.

For some, this season carries loss.

For others, disappointment, loneliness, anxiety, or exhaustion. And sometimes, the pressure to “feel merry” only deepens the ache.

What’s striking is that the very first Christmas story refuses to ignore this reality.

When Jesus is born, the world is not calm or peaceful.

The early chapters of the story are filled with pain—the horror of genocide, a family forced to flee as refugees,and a people living under the weight of an oppressive empire.

From the very beginning, Christmas enters a broken world.

It’s easy to craft a version of Christmas that edits out pain and disruption.

But the gospel won’t let us do that.

Jesus comes into the darkness—not around it.

That’s why, over the years, we’ve made space for what’s often called a Blue Christmas—a gathering that acknowledges sorrow, grief, and longing in this season.

This year, we’re not holding an entire Blue Christmas service. But for the next five to seven minutes, I want to invite us into a Blue Christmas moment—a holy pause within our worship.

Traditionally, Blue Christmas aligns with the winter solstice—the shortest day and the longest night of the year. The official beginning of winter.

And yet, here’s what’s quietly true:

from this point on, the light slowly begins to return.

The winter solstice whispers, “Light will come.”

Blue Christmas reminds us, “God is with you while you wait.”

And on days like this, we need space—space to bring before God the dark places in our lives and the dark places in our world, as we wait for Jesus to come and make all things new.

So I’m going to lead us now in a few moments of reflection as we light the four Advent candles.

Each candle represents one of the enduring promises of God—hope, peace, joy, and love.

And as each flame is lit, we are reminded: these are not fragile feelings, but gifts that God sustains—even in the night.

Responsive prayers adapted from: http://youngclergywomen.org/blue-christmas-service-when-christmas-hurts/

Advent presents us with two ways of being in the world.

The way of the infant Messiah, Jesus, and the way of the armed and fearful leader, Herod. Make no mistake about God’s approach to rescuing the world. When Jesus is born into this world, the gospel writers make a point to contrast these polar opposite approaches to securing peace.

Herod is the fearful leader, anxiously using his power to take up arms to defend his position and preserve his security. He was trained to see others—especially vulnerable people—as threats, whether they were or not. The infant Jesus takes a different approach to peace. Jesus comes to disarm Herod and the ways of his violent kingdom.

When God entered the world in the person of Jesus, he came in the most surprising and subversive way possible. In coming as an infant (unarmed, vulnerable, dependent) he establishes the way of the kingdom from the onset. The kingdom will not be characterized by fearful, self-protective, violent strategies.

Herod only sees enemies to be defeated. In his insecure and fearful mindset, he preemptively wipes out those who serve as possible threats to his throne. Herod essentially said, “Let’s rid ourselves of these imminent threats before they rise up against us.” His is a way of life that refuses to see the image of God in others, only the shadow of imagined danger.

And here is where Advent presses close to our present moment.

When leaders today speak with disdain about Somali communities, immigrants, and refugees—when they use the language of “garbage,” “threat,” or “infestation”—they are not walking in the way of Jesus; they are walking in the way of Herod.

When Donald Trump leverages fear, targets entire communities for punishment, and uses political power to stir suspicion toward the stranger, the refugee, the foreigner, we see a modern picture of Herod: a leader shaped not by peace, but by anxiety; not by love, but by domination; not by welcome, but by exclusion.

Herod’s spirit is alive whenever leaders weaponize fear to strengthen their throne.

Herod’s spirit is alive whenever vulnerable people—like the Somali community in Minnesota, or immigrants at the southern border, or Muslims scapegoated after tragedies—are treated as threats rather than neighbors.

Herod’s spirit is alive whenever political power is used to crush rather than protect, to intimidate rather than uplift, to sow division rather than foster belonging.

The infant Jesus unmasks all of this. He reveals the profound insecurity behind every Herodian heart. As long as we cling to fear, we will cling to violence. And as long as we cling to violence, we will be incapable of recognizing Christ in the face of the immigrant, the refugee, or the stranger.

Herod and his violent ways know nothing about the way to peace. His way produces a false peace—an anxious, temporary quiet that hides the deep wounds inflicted along the way. It is Jesus, the unarmed and unthreatening one, who shows us the path to true shalom.

In Advent we learn again:

True peace never comes from fear.

True peace never comes from force.

True peace never comes from treating the vulnerable as threats.

True peace comes from the God who enters the world as a child—disarming us with love, calling us out of fear, and inviting us to see every person, including the Somali immigrant and the refugee on the move, as bearers of God’s image. 

For many of us, it’s a time of slowing down, gathering around tables, and naming the gifts God has placed in our lives. It’s a time for family and friends to create new meals with tried and true recipes. It’s a moment to retell stories we’ve shared over the years, and respond as if it’s the first time we’ve heard them. 

All of this is a gift. 

Yet for our Native American sisters and brothers, this season carries the weight of deep historical trauma as the pain of land taken, cultures erased, and families devastated remains part of their collective memory. 

This is why Thanksgiving must be met with truth-telling. 

Thanksgiving is not a time for historical amnesia or minimizing. It is not a call to sentimental ignorance, but to courageous remembrance. 

We give thanks with our eyes open. We acknowledge the painful story beneath this holiday, even as we celebrate the God who enters broken histories with healing and truth. The God who calls us to remember is also the God who calls us to repair.

So as we express gratitude—for breath, for community, for the gifts of this year—may we also offer prayers of lament for the injustice endured by Native peoples. May our words of thanks lead us into deeper solidarity, humility, and action. And may we recognize that true gratitude is not simply feeling blessed, but being a blessing.

To follow Jesus faithfully means we hold both gratitude and grief in the same hands. 

So on this day, may we follow the Jesus who teaches us to give thanks honestly, to lament truthfully, and to love sacrificially. In that spirit, may our tables become places where healing, reconciliation, and hope take root. May our lives hold together tensions that are often superficially resolved. May our love be shaped by honesty. May our hearts be formed by gratitude. And may our actions be guided by justice and mercy. 

Thanksgiving 2025

Every month I spend time with a younger pastor, offering mentorship on leadership and pastoral ministry. Two of the pastors I met with last week asked how I go about writing public pastoral statements. Their question forced me to get clear on my process.

Here are five elements that guide me when crafting public statements for our church community:

1. Getting the Facts Right

Before offering a theological or pastoral word, I first want to ensure I understand what’s actually happening. We live in a time when misinformation spreads faster than truth, and the temptation to react quickly can lead to further harm. As a pastor, I feel the call to slow down—to verify, to read broadly, to listen carefully. My first task is not to have an opinion but to seek understanding. Getting the facts right is an act of love; it honors those who are suffering and protects the integrity of my witness.

2. Naming the Personal and Emotional Reality

Public statements should not be sterile pronouncements detached from human emotion. When the world is aching, people don’t just need my analysis—they need to know that their pastor feels this, too. I try to name the grief, anger, or confusion many are experiencing, including my own. Sometimes this means simply saying, “I’m heartbroken,” or “I’m wrestling with this deeply.” To name emotion is to create space for the Spirit to meet us in our humanity.

3. Recognizing the Diversity of Perspectives

In a community as diverse as ours—ethnically, politically, generationally—I’m always aware that we do not experience world events in the same way. What devastates one group might confuse another; what feels like injustice to some might feel like clarity to others. Part of my role is to acknowledge this difference, not to erase it. By doing so, I hope to model a non-anxious unity that holds space for difference. The church is at her best not when we agree on everything, but when we stay at the table together, under the lordship of Jesus.

4. Naming the Larger Cultural Forces at Work

So much of our reactivity and division doesn’t come merely from the events themselves but from the forces shaping how we experience them. Cable news, social media, political loyalties, and the culture of outrage all form us in ways that can distance us from Christ and from one another. Whenever I make a public statement, I want to call attention to these forces—not to shame—but to invite awareness. Our world trains us to be reactive; the gospel invites us to be rooted. Our culture fuels anxiety; the Spirit calls us to peace. Our society can form us towards apathy; Jesus calls us towards justice. Naming these dynamics helps us discern how to live differently, as people marked by a different kingdom.

5. Articulating the Gospel Imperative

Finally, every public statement I make must ultimately point to the good news of Jesus. Not as a slogan, but as a call to a distinct way of being in the world. What does it mean to bear witness to Christ amid violence, injustice, or polarization? It may mean choosing love over contempt, prayer over performance, neighborliness over judgment. My goal is not simply to be “right” but to be Christlike. Every pastoral word should help our community imagine how the gospel reshapes our response—how we might embody the hope, humility, and reconciliation that Jesus makes possible.

In all of this, my posture is one of prayerful discernment. I don’t always get it right. Sometimes I speak too soon; sometimes too late. But I keep returning to these five elements as anchors—reminders that pastoral speech in a polarized age is about helping people see the world through the lens of Christ’s love.

In a future article, I’ll write about additional matters to consider:

• When pastoral statements are not needed.

• Forming a community where difference doesn’t automatically lead to disconnection.

Friends, I’d like to take a few moments to offer a pastoral word in light of the week we’ve had as a nation. It’s been an emotional week. A heavy week.

And if we are honest, the range of emotions in our country is felt right here in our congregation. We don’t live in a vacuum—we carry the news with us, we carry the pain of the world with us. As a city, we were reminded this week of a day in history that changed everything—September 11, 2001. 9/11 remains for us a sobering reminder of the painful reality of evil in our world.

And yet, as sobering as that was, it wasn’t even the only thing weighing on us this week. In Denver, another school shooting. Evergreen High School—two teenagers shot. A young shooter who took his own life. A community forever changed.

We also heard that over 200,000 Palestinians have been killed or wounded in Israel’s ongoing war on Gaza. Numbers that are almost too large to take in. Each one, an image-bearer of God.

We learned of a brutal killing of a Ukrainian refugee on a train in Charlotte.

And yet, that wasn’t even the main story dominating our attention.

Our nation has been shaken by the assassination of Charlie Kirk.

There are moments when a tragedy touches a nerve, and this is one of those moments. Almost everyone has had something to say. And so, as your pastor, before we move into prayer, I want to offer a few reflections.

First, what happened to Charlie Kirk was evil.

Political violence must be condemned—period. It doesn’t matter who the target is. Whether it’s a Democratic lawmaker, the President of the United States, or a political figure like Charlie Kirk—it must be condemned. This 31-year-old man, will never again see his wife and children. They will never again see their husband and father. This is a tragedy, and he did not deserve this.

And as followers of Jesus, we are called to walk the narrow path of compassion and empathy. Before we say anything else, before we debate or speculate, we pray for those who mourn. We pray for his family. For his wife. For their children. So let’s pause now, and hold them before God, as well as all those who are victims of violence.

[Prayer]

Second, when tragedy hits, our first response is lament.

Lament is not just feeling sad. Lament is not simply grieving. Lament is choosing to bring our pain, our questions, our anger, and our sorrow before God. Lament says: Lord, we can’t carry this by ourselves.

And there is much to lament.

We lament the culture of violence that runs so deep in our nation.

We lament the lack of imagination in addressing our gun crisis.

We lament the way we demonize one another across political and cultural lines.

We lament how thin and superficial our spirituality can become.

But lament isn’t the end of the story. Lament opens our hearts to God’s perspective. It positions us to receive grace to live differently, to respond to the world in the way of Jesus.

Third, we need to be mindful of how social media and the 24/7 news cycle are forming us.

We all want to be informed, but there is a line we cross where we are not just informed—we are being malformed.

Our addiction to outrage.

Our addiction to distraction.

Our addiction to numbing ourselves with our devices.

All of this works against the slow, deep work of the Spirit within us. It does not shape Christ in us. And if we’re not careful, the very tools we use to stay “aware” will erode our capacity to live with compassion, patience, and love.

Finally, this moment is a call to reflection and discernment about what faithfulness to Jesus really looks like.

This might be the central matter in all that is being said on social media. There has been much debate this week about Charlie Kirk’s faith. Some are calling him a good and faithful servant of Christ. Others are questioning whether he was truly a Christian at all.

And friends, here’s where we need humility. Like you, I’ve seen videos of Charlie speaking passionately about Jesus on college campuses. I’ve also seen videos of him using words that have caused great harm to black and brown people, to Muslims, and to LGBTQ people. We are in no position to offer the final word on anyone’s life, but what we must ask ourselves is this: What does it mean to be faithful to Jesus? What is discipleship to look like publicly?

If you read the gospels carefully, Jesus makes it very clear. The true mark of faithfulness to him is not prayer alone. It’s not fasting. It’s not speaking loudly about God in public.

The clearest mark of faithfulness to Jesus is this: loving our enemy.

That is the essence of Christian discipleship. That is the narrow way. And that is what we are called to—no matter our political persuasion, no matter our personal history, no matter what the world around us is doing.

And this is why, every Sunday, we pray a prayer of confession together. Because the world we long to see—a world of peace, justice, and love—begins with us. With our humility. With our honesty before God. With our willingness to name our shortcomings, and receive grace to be formed into the likeness of Christ.

So today, before we move forward, let us once again confess our sins together. Not just as individuals, but as a community that longs to bear faithful witness to Jesus in a broken and violent world.

[Prayer of Confession]

Now, here’s the challenge: it is possible to focus on sins in such a way that keeps us deeper in Sin. Let me explain.

When the Bible talks about sin, it doesn’t only mean the individual things we do wrong—lying, gossiping, lusting, stealing. Those are sins. But underneath them all is something deeper. Scripture speaks of Sin—with a capital S—as a power. A principle at work within us. Sin is the inward bent of the soul that enslaves us to live with one orientation: “my kingdom come.”

So yes, sins are real. They matter. But they are symptoms of something more pervasive.

They are the outward manifestations of this inner reality. To focus only on sins is like obsessing over weeds without recognizing that there’s a root system beneath the surface.

This is why the New Testament makes a distinction. Sin is not just about bad actions; it’s about a power that holds us captive. Paul writes in Romans that Sin is something that “reigns.” It rules. It enslaves. Sins, then, are expressions of that captivity.

And here’s the sobering truth: it’s possible to be morally upright and still deeply enslaved to Sin.

You can avoid all the “big sins” that make the list in church culture, but still live with a heart oriented around self. You can obey the rules and still be operating out of pride, self-sufficiency, or a refusal to love. In that sense, you can appear holy but be far from wholeness.

But here is the good news: Jesus came not just to forgive us of our sins, but to deliver us from Sin itself. He is not interested in mere behavior modification. He is after liberation. He wants to free us from the tyranny of “my kingdom come” and draw us into the joy of “thy kingdom come.” The Church, however, often gets this backwards. We tend to focus on the easy-to-measure stuff—sins. We create checklists of behaviors to avoid, and we congratulate ourselves if we’ve kept them in check. But holiness is not measured by a tally sheet. Holiness is about transformation from the inside out.

Christian holiness begins not with self-improvement projects, but with the slow, often hidden, transformation of the heart. And this is work that only God can do. It’s the Spirit who reorders our desires, softens our pride, and bends us outward in love.

And so, the invitation is not to obsess over sins in a way that keeps us bound in fear or shame, but to open ourselves to God’s deeper work. To allow the Spirit to get beneath the surface.

To let grace not only forgive us, but free us.

Because holiness is not ultimately about sin management. It is about love taking root. It is about being so caught up in God’s life that the power of Sin loses its grip, and we become people who live not for “my kingdom,” but for “thy kingdom.”

A theology of work often goes missing in our discipleship. Here’s a short summary I’ve shared from time to time to help reclaim the truth that we are called—in various ways and places—to make something of the world through our work.

Labor Day is a good time to sharpen our theology of work. Some reflections:

• Scripture reveals a God "at work." We are made in God’s image to be people who reflect God as we make something of the world.

• Work is introduced prior to Sin, not after. Work is not a consequence of Sin. However, sin has made it difficult to work.

• We are called by God to labor, not just for a paycheck, but to make something beautiful of the world.

• The call to labor is not to be demonized. Neither is it to be divinized. It's not to be a necessary evil, or an idol. Our sense of identity is found in God’s grace.

• Our labor is one of the ways we image God. We are called to create, not be reduced to consuming.

• The best work we do is fueled by patient nurture, not quick efficiency.

• We put a boundary on work by keeping Sabbath. We rest from our work, in order to work from a place of rest.

• A healthy theology of work is a critique to the dehumanizing tendency of the powers (employers, corporations, NPOs, etc), to see employees as cogs in their machine.

• One of the ways that labor is dignified is found in laborers receiving a fair and living wage.

• In the age to come, we won't just be singing for eternity. We will be in the new heavens and earth, worshiping and co-laboring with God in the ongoing act of creating beauty.

• The futility we experience with work, and the injustice we witness will one day make way for a new reality, marked by a fullness of joy and the making of everything right.

• The Holy Spirit wants to empower us to become signs of that future reality, today.

As we are offering thoughts and prayers, it’s important to note that all “thoughts and prayers” are not created equal. Some lead to transformation. Others lead to a sentimentalized apathy.

As a pastor who spends many hours each week offering thoughts and prayers, I can’t help but see the triteness of this phrase in the face of ongoing massacres.

As a culture, thoughts and prayers have become code for a sentimentalism that is sympathetic to tragedy, but apathetic to any kind of transformation.

The problem with the thoughts and prayers we offer are manifold. It’s possible that our thoughts and prayers are filled with unimaginative thoughts and disembodied prayers. Here are three ways I think our thoughts and prayers have worked against us.

1. Thoughts and prayers are often the sanitized ways to ingrain us in insanity

As Richard Foster has said, “To pray is to change.” To change our minds requires us to entertain the possibility that the way things have been done requires rethinking and reimagining.

This is a significant aspect of prayer. The textbook definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly, and expecting different results. This has become the nature of things with thoughts and prayers. Certainly, in the moment, we are moved to tears, anger and, despair. But we go about our day without truly considering that prayer is a means to a new way of seeing reality.

We have taken a phrase that ought to be a catalyst for a new social imagination and have domesticated it to the sanctioning of the status quo.

We need thoughts and prayers that help to offer a new way of seeing—not based on fear, but based on possibility. Walter Brueggemann gets to this when he writes:

The task of prophetic ministry is to nurture, nourish, and evoke a consciousness and perception alternative to the consciousness and perception of the dominant culture around us. – The Prophetic Imagination.

This is what true thoughts and prayers are to produce in us.

2. Thoughts and prayers don’t take the reality of powers and principalities seriously

Prayer reminds us that because God in Christ is at work in the world, there is always hope for the life of the kingdom to continually break in. Let me say it like this: prayer is a power to resist resignation.

Prayer is also a way of resisting self-reliance. Prayer in the context of mass shootings and other tragedies is to remind us that “this kind of demon” (to use a phrase of Jesus) only comes out through prayer and fasting.

There are truly powers and principalities at work in the world. The persistent lack of willingness of some to reconsider sensible legislation is a sign of a stronghold of idolatry. The prevalence of mass shootings cannot be attributed alone to mental illness (though this is something that must be seriously addressed), but to a violent ecosystem that pervades our culture. Behind the violence and idolatry are powers and principalities. Prayer reminds us that the root of the confusion and resistance to change is deeper than we often think.

More than anything, the thoughts and prayers that are needed are to aid us to, in the words of Walter Wink, name, unmask, and engage the powers through the gospel.

The gospel is good news that exposes the false gods and ideologies that have held us captive to violence, in the most insidious and visibly abhorrent ways. Until our thoughts and prayers seriously lead us to identifying the larger, spiritual, and structural evil that exists, we will continue to treat symptoms—and not the root cause.

3. Thoughts and prayers are often disconnected from embodied engagement

This is probably the biggest issues with the contemporary usage of the term.

To speak of prayer as a Christian is to recognize the multidimensional aspect of it. True prayer requires some level of engagement. The luxury of “thoughts and prayers” is the ability to remain comfortably disengaged. When this happens, “thoughts and prayers” not so subtly reinforces the privatized, individualistic spirituality that characterizes most people of faith.

But thoughts and prayers are meant to help us move from the disconnected individualism to one committed to the common good of all.

I’m reminded of the words of Frederick Douglass when he said: “I prayed for twenty years but received no answer until I prayed with my legs.”

Minimally, and very practically, this means that we spend time learning more about the issues. It means we use our vote to redirect the current trajectory of our government in this area. It means we engage in discourse with others in a way that is civil and sensible.

The mass shooting epidemic in our country is multifaceted, polarizing, and requires a fresh look at the state of our thoughts and prayers. Until we do so, we will perpetuate the scourge that is our current reality, most depressingly, in the name of God.

God have mercy on us all.

To a culture that finds its home in hustling, this is a revolutionary idea. We are meant to believe––through external and internal forces alike––that resting robs you of your full potential. That somehow, to rest is to fall behind; to miss out; to be lazy. This is false.

When productivity is your god, rest feels like disobedience. It feels like betrayal; idolatry even. What’s needed is a recalibration, or rather, a reimagination of what it means to be human and in relationship with God.

We were created to live in harmony within a rhythm of rest and work. Our lives can’t be understood apart from this interplay. To rest is to acknowledge my limits. To work is to acknowledge my potential. To rest is to confess my finitude.

To rest is to entrust our world to the care of God. To work is to be reminded that God entrusts us with the care of the world.

All of this speaks not just to rest in a generic way, but in a Sabbath way.

Culturally, the summer is a time when rest is not just expected, but celebrated. Something in our cultural bones reveals the deep truth about us: we are not meant for non-stop activity. The only one who doesn’t slumber nor sleep is the Lord (Psalm 121:4). We were meant for Sabbath-rest.

Sabbath rest is more than a day off. It’s far more than taking a two-hour nap. Sabbath rest compels us to see our lives and our world through the particular lens of human limitation and God’s generosity. To keep Sabbath––a 24-hour period to stop our usual work for the purpose of ease, joy, recreation, and worship––is a message to our souls and bodies that we are worthy of receiving.

A Sabbath-less life is oriented around productivity and efficiency. Two forces that have the potential to destroy our lives and our world if not resisted. It’s often the case that people see Sabbath as a means to be more productive and efficient. But Sabbath is actually a way to form us to resist the idols of productivity and efficiency. Sabbath-keeping reminds us that we are more than what we produce. We are children of God.

I don’t know if you’re taking a few weeks off, or if you’ll just have the weekends to rest. Either way, bringing a Sabbath-mentality to the summer can lead to good fruit in our lives.

To do this, use these three questions to help you organize upcoming weeks through a Sabbath-frame.

1. Am I making space for delight?

The older we get the more delight-deficient we become. Sabbath is about joy. Make sure you are creating space for the things that energize you and fill your heart with gladness. As for me, this summer I’ll be looking to go kayaking at Hempstead Lake in Long Island for the first time. I’ve put it off far too long.

2. Am I making space for prayer?

Sabbath is not just rest from work, but finding rest in God. Take some time for unhurried time with God in prayer, in scripture, or for a mini retreat at a local park. Go for a walk and talk to God. Bring your journal and write down the gifts and challenges in this season. The Sabbath comes around every week. Try to experiment at least once with extended time of reflection and prayer.

3. Am I making space for rest?

You might want to give yourself the gift of waking up a bit later than usual (and yes, I recognize the challenge of doing this when you have small children). If this is not reasonable, you might consider inviting others to join you for a Sabbath meal. Sabbath is a time without “have-to’s” or “shoulds” which over time is to result is deep rest and renewal. Ask God to give you the grace to leave things undone.

This summer and the upcoming, may God help you to resist the internal and external forces that seek to define our lives by what we produce. May you have a greater capacity to receive Sabbath rest as the gift it is.

- Rich

We see this on the news every day. It’s possible to hear news about devastating attacks one minute and two minutes later, hear about celebrity gossip. We have been discipled in a culture that rejects contemplation, meaningful reflection and thoughtful engagement.

This is exactly why the season of Eastertide is important for the Church. For centuries, many in the Church have recognized that Easter is not a one day event that we anticipate, and then just like that, vanishes. The Church has affirmed that the power of the resurrection is more than a transient moment, but deserves sustained reflection.

It was Fr. Ron Rolheiser who first unpacked for me the shift of attention and focus in our culture. He writes, “We celebrate feasts differently than we used to. Formerly, there was generally a long fast leading up to a feast, and then a joyous celebration afterwards. Today, usually, there is a long celebration leading up to the feast, and a fast afterwards.”

In a more succinct manner, he captures our dilemma, writing, “We know how to anticipate an event, but we don’t know how to sustain it.”

In a culture easily swayed by the latest breaking news story, Eastertide is a welcome shift to our hurried and distracted lives. In this season we are invited to celebrate the good news that Jesus is alive and is making all things new. This news is worthy of celebration beyond a two-hour church service.

Eastertide is to lead us to a life of feasting. Lent is 40 days long. Eastertide is 50 days long. The feast is better than the fast! Therefore, we are called to refocus our attention in at least three ways.

I. Eastertide reminds us that through the resurrection Jesus is victorious over the powers of death.

The resurrection of Jesus is God’s word of judgment on the powers of death. And this resurrection power is available to those who choose to follow Jesus. In a world that is increasingly aware of the powers of death, whether through terrorism, nuclear threats, gun violence, or xenophobia, Eastertide reminds us of the reverberation of the resurrection.

The Church needs a sustained reflection on Easter because the gravitational pull of the powers of death is very real. It’s very possible to sing about Jesus conquering the grave and the next day be complicit in systems, structures and habits that bring glory to the powers of death.

II. Eastertide reminds us that God’s future life is available to us to enjoy and express to the world.

In the resurrection, Jesus anticipates the glory creation will experience when all things are made new. In the meantime, those who belong to Christ are given access to a quality of life the world can’t offer. Eastertide is an opportunity to imagine what the world will look like when Christ fully and finally reigns, and by faith, work to see glimpses of that coming reality in our present lives.

There’s probably no better time to pray for the healing of the sick because the resurrection is a reminder that one day there will be no sick. There’s probably no better time to work for peace, because the resurrection is a reminder that one day there will be no war. There’s probably no better time to celebrate and feast, because the resurrection is a reminder that we are headed to a banquet.

Christians, like our Lord, are to live from the future. Our communities and individual lives point to what’s coming.

III. Eastertide calls us to life that cultivates joy.

Jesus is alive! There is reason to celebrate and cultivate joy. In a world that tries to manufacture happiness, Eastertide reminds that joy is a gift to be received.

What does Easter joy look like? It begins with a cultivation of delight. If Lent calls us to abstain from certain things for the sake of communion with God, Eastertide gives us permission to attach our lives to things that bring us joy for the sake of communion with God.

Here’s an Eastertide reflection to consider: “What practices, people or places give me life?” In these dire days, full of turmoil and dysfunction, the cultivation of joy for the sake of life is profoundly necessary.

The cultivation of joy flows from the communities and table fellowship we pursue.

When we follow Jesus in the fifty days between Easter and Pentecost, we see Jesus making his disciples breakfast and breaking bread with strangers. In one of my favorite post-resurrection scenes, Jesus’ disciples don’t believe he is flesh and blood. His way of settling this issue? Eating before them. Luke writes in chapter 24:40-42:

When he had said this, he showed them his hands and feet. And while they still did not believe it because of joy and amazement, he asked them, “Do you have anything here to eat?” They gave him a piece of broiled fish, and he took it and ate it in their presence.

Time and time again we see Jesus eating, feasting, rejoicing. If there’s anytime when we have the responsibility to do the same, it’s in this season.

What if at the end of history, the question God asks us is not whether we abstained from sin. What if the question is “Did you enter into the joy that was available to you?”

That’s the invitation of Eastertide. Jesus is risen! So then, let us eat, drink and be merry!

We have worked hard to offer an approach to spiritual formation that is compelling, contextual, and rooted in Christ. Here are some of my reflections on what seems to be connecting. We are seeking to offer…

1. A Spirituality of Integration and not Compartmentalization

Our discipleship approach is one that integrates all of life under the Lordship of Jesus. Our inner world, related to feelings and emotions, is not cut off from our so-called “spiritual life.” It all matters to God. The younger generation is looking for a spirituality that doesn’t split the world into a sacred/secular dichotomy. In addition to personal integration, we are seeing an openness to theological integration. Our overarching discipleship paradigm has been shaped by the great traditions of the Church. We have learned that this ecumenicism, within the context of our Protestant/Evangelical tribe, has created a spirituality of generosity that has appealed to folks skeptical of judgmental postures.

2. A Spirituality of Interiority and not Simply Exterior Action

I believe we are seeing fruit among our younger generation because of our emphasis of interiority. The iceberg is our unofficial logo, inviting people to look deep beneath the surface of their lives. Over the years, I’ve been impacted seeing how many teenagers have taken courses at our church like Emotionally Healthy Relationships. We have heard powerful stories of teens hungry to grow into their authentic self in Christ. This greater knowledge of self has created entry points to understand God and the good news of his grace.

3. A Spirituality of Brokenness and not Performance

Reaching the younger generation requires a prioritizing of brokenness. Younger congregants in our church have repeatedly emphasized the freedom they have to be honest about their brokenness. We are endeavoring to create an anti-performance culture that creates safe spaces for vulnerability. This is what our churches need. This generation is skeptical of religious performance. They are looking for communities of shared struggle and shared grace.

As we think about engaging emerging generations, we need a more comprehensive, authentic and deep spiritual framework that changes lives.

To read more about my thoughts on spiritual formation, check out: The Deeply Formed Life, Good and Beautiful and Kind, and The Narrow Path.

She was once asked about her prayer life. The interviewer asked what does she say to God when she prays? Her answer? “I don’t talk, I simply listen.”

Believing he understood what she had just said, the interviewer next asked, “Ah, then what is it that God says to you when you pray?”

Mother Teresa replied, “He also doesn’t talk. He also simply listens.”

There was a long silence, with the interviewer seeming a bit confused and not knowing what to ask next.

Finally, Mother Teresa breaks the silence by saying, “If you can’t understand the meaning of what I’ve just said, I’m sorry but there’s no way I can explain it any better.”

Silence and Justice

Mother Teresa’s prayer life is my favorite story of describing what prayer is. Prayer is the act of listening to God listen. Quite paradoxical! There is an intimacy present in this kind of prayer that moves deeper than feelings or experiences. When I think about this story, I’m moved to silence and awe.

When I consider Saint Teresa of Calcutta’s life, I also realize that this silence is not an end of itself, but also a means to an end. Her prayer life was an example not just of intimacy with God, but a life of silence that overflowed into works of justice and mercy. Her silence in this respect is prophetic. And in this perpetual hostile environment of racial strife, we desperately need prophetic silence.

As a student of the Desert Fathers and Mothers from North Africa over the past 20 years, silence is something I treasure. Although I became a Christ-follower in the Pentecostal tradition, over the past two decades, I have integrated the contemplative stream to my discipleship. In the process, I have learned a thing or two about this formation practice. Most recently, I’ve reflected deeply on the connection between silence and justice. They are deeply connected in ways that bring shalom, and in ways that bring disintegration.

Biblically speaking, silence is often the precursor to justice and redemption. Moses dwells in the desert for 40 years before his proclamation of freedom and God’s redemption manifests. John the Baptist encounters God in the silence of the wilderness and emerges as a clear voice of justice and redemption.

Most importantly, Jesus, before his first sermon in Luke 4 spends 40 days fasting, in prayer and in silence, and his ministry bursts forward with words of liberation that deeply penetrate (and disturbs) the hearts of his hearers. All of this is what I call “prophetic silence.” Prophetic silence is the act of surrendering our words, to listen for the Word, which is to infuse our words with prophetic power.

Formation or Navel Gazing?

It’s this kind of silence that pastors, leaders, and activists need to cultivate. This silence is needed for the sake of our souls, the depth of our message and the longevity of the movement for racial justice. Without this silence, we will continue to see personal burnout, lack of nuance and short-lived movements.

Silence is a critical practice because it confronts us with God, which leads to confrontation with ourselves. Without this dual-confrontation our words and deeds are woefully inadequate. This is what the desert tradition teaches us.

The desert tradition didn’t emerge from a longing to naval gaze. It flowed from a burden to save the world from its disintegration. This is why the practice of silence (especially Christian silence) is to find it’s ground in God and be ultimately oriented towards justice, shalom and redemption. This is silence for the sake of justice. There’s another kind of silence, which is practiced for the sake of self-preservation. Sadly, this kind of silence is prevalent in our churches.

The Silence of Friends

Passive silence—which speaks louder that words—flows from hearts of people who have decided to align their lives with status quo. Passive silence is silence that emerges from the fear of losing church members. Passive silence is violence against those crying out for justice. This kind of silence is a far cry from the good news of the kingdom of God.

Dr. King is famously noted for saying, “In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.”

These words resonate deeply in the lives of many today who are burdened by the conspicuous silence and lack of empathy shown by friends amidst racial injustice. In this time of racial hostility, some of the most discouraging and heartbreaking acts have come from people who choose to remain silent.

This kind of silence is actually violence. To borrow the well-known phrase from Edmund Burke, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” If I could modify that for our time I’d say, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of racism is for Christian people to do nothing.”

Cultivate Prophetic Silence

We need more than ever to cultivate prophetic silence. In so doing we fuel the words we speak with the life and power of God. How do we begin? Here are some simple ideas to get going:

• Study the life of Moses, John the Baptist and Jesus. Note the connection between silence and action.

• Commit to at least 5 minutes of silent prayer each day (implementing Centering Prayer or the Jesus Prayer).

• As God leads, increase the amount of time spent in silence.

When we choose to be silent for sake of justice, our words will carry more weight and our impact will extend much further.

(This article first appeared in Missio Alliance)

To read more about contemplative life and justice, check out: The Deeply Formed Life, Good and Beautiful and Kind, and The Narrow Path.

Not the news you wanted to hear today, I’m sure. But this inescapable reality is important to embrace for the sake of our life with God and our formation.

Enter Ash Wednesday.

The Mark of the Beast?

Growing up in an Evangelical/Pentecostal church tradition, Ash Wednesday wasn’t even on the radar. My first encounter with Ash Wednesday was as an 18-year old in Manhattan. A few weeks after starting a new job, I recall going on a lunch break. What I saw literally freaked me out.

I was startled to see scores of people with black stuff on their foreheads. I wasn’t spiritually mature (I had just become a Christian), theologically trained, or ecclesiastically informed, so I took it that the black stuff on their foreheads had something to do with the Anti-Christ and the Mark of the Beast (seriously). For the next hour, I experienced existential dread. The anti-Christ has come. Armageddon is about to ensue. I found out from a co-worker when I returned from lunch that the black stuff had to do with Ash Wednesday. Whew!

Since then, I have gone from fear, to indifference, to deep appreciation for Ash Wednesday (and the season of Lent). I realized that I was influenced by an evangelical tradition that judged all ritual and those who participated in it as superstitious or legalistic. Little did I know that there was a means of blessing and grace available.

Ash Wednesday kicks off the Lenten season. Lent is a 40-day period of repentance and preparation for Easter. We begin this holy season by living according to a wisdom that our contemporary Christian and non-Christian world often rejects.

For those opposed to this day (and season) or for those who are indifferent to it, I want to underscore the importance of it for our maturation in Christ. There is a wisdom in ashes, which is to lead us to being life-giving witnesses in the world.

Ashes and the Wisdom of Ritual

Every year at our Ash Wednesday service at New Life Fellowship, our pastors will put the sign of the cross on the foreheads of those in our community and say, “Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” These words have been repeated through the ages and point us to the power and wisdom of ritual.

Fr. Ron Rolheiser notes,

Everywhere we are warned about the dangers of doing something simply because it is duty, that there is something wrong when the movements of love, prayer, or service become routine. Why do something if your heart isn’t in it? There is something legitimate in these warnings: Duty and commitment without heart will not ultimately sustain themselves.

However, with that being admitted, it is important to recognize and name the fact that any relationship in love, family, church, or prayer can only sustain itself over a long period through ritual and routine. Ritual sustains the heart, not vice versa.

The annual ritual of the imposition of ashes concretely reminds us our inevitable death. This ritual (as every ritual is to do) is to ground us in reality. This is one of the great gifts of the Church. Whether it is bread, wine, water or ashes, the rituals of the Church are to orient our hearts towards God.

Ashes and the Wisdom of Repentance

In scripture, repentance and ashes go hand in hand. Ash Wednesday orients our lives in this way. Now, typically, when we hear the word, “repentance” we often understand it through the lens of moralism. We hear repent and think, “do away with those dirty sins.” Change your life. Get in line! Clean yourself up!

But these words and lens lack the grace that repentance carries with it. When Jesus preaches repentance, it’s because the kingdom of heaven has come near. God has come close to us. Repentance is about joyfully and intentionally adjusting one’s life to this reality.

Repentance is a radical change of direction in response to God’s grace. In this respect, Ash Wednesday invites us to have our lives more fully marked in this way.

To repent is to acknowledge that a life turned away from God doesn’t contribute to human flourishing. In this regard, the ashes signify a turn of heart that leads to life.

Ashes and the Wisdom of Weakness

The ashes also represent our weakness, humanity and the fragility of life. We are human and not God. Therefore, we are given an opportunity to recognize our limitations and choose to not live with the guilt of being human. Ash Wednesday is not a day to live in guilt. It’s a day to recognize our brokenness, humanity and trust in God’s love. It’s a day to freely come before God and declare, “I am human, I am dust, and you still love me.”

In a culture that tends to deny weakness, Ash Wednesday’s wisdom is sorely needed. This day is to ground us as limited people created in God’s image. Ash Wednesday is about confessing to each other and to God that we are weak and that we will one day die. This confession is the prerequisite of living wisely and redemptively in the world (Psalm 90:12).

Jean Vanier has said, “Each one of us finds it enormously difficult to accept himself as he is, with that extraordinary mixture of weakness and strength, ignorance and wisdom, light and darkness, love and hate. In fact, we flee from something that I’d call our vulnerability, our immense fragility.”

Ashes and the Wisdom of Incarnation

The word of God spoken through the imposition of ashes offer a theological convergence. Dust and divinity are wrapped together. Word and weakness collide. We have seen this before.

In the person of Jesus, God comes to us wrapped in human flesh. Jesus is fully human and fully divine. The creation narrative in Genesis speaks of God breathing life into humanity. The convergence of dust and divinity is a running theme in scripture.

The earthiness of the ashes serves as a critique to a hyper-spiritualism. It’s a rejection of a neo-Gnostic approach to the spiritual life that wrongly asserts that all meaningful spiritual realities are to be found in an intangible experience. The ashes teach us that true spirituality is rooted in the mundane. It’s rooted in the earthiness of the human experience.

The ashes are to lead us in working against the powers of death in our world. The ashes are to make us rooted in the affairs of everyday life.

Ashes and the Wisdom of Death and Resurrection

When seen in larger context, Ash Wednesday sets in motion the pattern of the good news. It’s the start of a season that takes us into the land of resurrection. While it is true that “you are dust and to dust you shall return,” it is also true that God’s final word to the world is resurrection. Ash Wednesday points us not to a despairing of death, but to the death of despair. We are being pointed to a glorious reality of life. But that life isn’t possible without death.

In a culture that spends billions trying to deny aging and death, Ash Wednesday offers a different way of seeing life.

On this Ash Wednesday consider a few questions for reflection:

• Where am I refusing to embrace weakness?

• What might it look like to repent in this season (i.e., aligning your life to the reality of God’s nearness)?

• How might God be calling you to the work of incarnational mission?

(This piece is adapted from an article I wrote for Missio Alliance.)

If you’re interested in reading more from me, check out, The Deeply Formed Life, Good and Beautiful and Kind, and The Narrow Path

~ 1000 words - 7-8 minute read

Preaching in Brooklyn

I became a follower of Jesus at the age of 19. After a period of anxiety and despair, I visited the church of my childhood and heard a message of God’s resurrection power. I was so compelled by the message of hope and redemption that I responded to the altar call. Along with fifteen other family members, I was set on a new trajectory of life in Christ.

Soon after this encounter, I would visit youth rallies organized by other small Pentecostal churches in Brooklyn. Our youth group of twenty would cram into an old, dusty church van that had the faded words Arca de Salvacion (Ark of Salvation) on the side of it.

For the first year of my Christian journey, our youth group attended about seven of these rallies. There would be anywhere between fifty to two hundred teens passionately singing, dancing, crying and praying during the service. An evangelist would stand and preach, followed by a time of prophetic ministry. In this context, prophetic ministry meant that the preacher would scan the congregation, looking for someone to speak a particular word from God to. The messages given by the preacher were usually about calling and encouragement. (Thankfully, I was exposed to a healthy and affirming charismatic experience.)

As the preacher walked up and down the aisle, he would identify people by the color of their outfit.

“You in the white shirt, stand up.”

“You in the brown dress, come forward.”

“You with the blue tie, God has a word for you.”

To be called out in this way was terrifying and exhilarating. Astonishingly, I was called out in this way about five times over the course of my first year as a Christian. Different preachers in different churches would point me out, often as I sat towards the back of the church. And the message was usually the same:

“Young man,” they would say. “God has called you to preach the gospel… Brother, God is preparing you right now for a ministry of the word...God has anointed you to carry his word to others.”

At many of these youth rallies, I would stand at this point of the service after being called out, nervously shaking, but eager to hear what God would say. Over and over, these preachers would confirm in public what I sensed God speaking to me in private. After the first year, all of those prophetic messages ceased. I suppose it was time for me to start preaching. I thought I was up for the task.

The congregation I was part of would organize street services at the local shopping area, or in front of the public housing buildings for low-income families, not far from our church. We would set up 15-20 chairs, bring out our worship team who played salsa music like Tito Puente’s band. This always drew a crowd, and when enough people gathered, someone would preach. From time to time, it was me.

I would share my story of conversion. Truthfully, I wasn’t a bad kid. I didn’t have a dramatic testimony like the drug addicts or gang members I would hear about. I was tempted to lie about my upbringing to make my message more sensational, but my family was in the congregation. (Hard to do that when everyone knows your story.) I preached nonetheless in the street about God’s love and power to change lives.

Soon after these opportunities, my first pastor, Roberto Otero, would experience serious health complications. He spent many years preaching in churches around Brooklyn, but his frail condition kept him from this kind of ministry. So he sent me in his stead.

My first speaking engagement was at a small church in Brooklyn. Twenty-five people would fill the tiny church building. Due to the small confines, the room felt full— like a Billy Graham event in my mind. I would preach with passion, taking verses out of context, mistaking Paul from John, and confidently saying things like, “the Bible says, God helps those who help themselves.”

When it was time for the altar call, the congregation would stare at me, eyes glazed over––often because most of them hardly understood English, and my Spanish was terrible.

I would say, “If any of you want to come to Christ, come forward, I would like to pray for you.” Crickets.

When an invitation for salvation doesn’t work, the next best thing is to give people any reason to come up for prayer.

“If you’re sick.”

“If you’re tired.”

“If you’re bitter…if you’re broke.”

Inside I’m thinking, “C’mon somebody, anybody, please come forward. Help me out. You’re making me look bad.” No one moved. Except one person.

As I was about to hand the microphone back to the pastor, I saw a man walking down the aisle. It was my father. He had become a Christian the same day I had. He drove me to this speaking engagement and seemed to be touched by the message. He came forward. “Son, pray for me.” I gladly did so and then turned the service over to the pastor.

A month later or so, I would preach at another church. De-ja-vu. I preached on every verse in the David and Goliath story, making things up as I went. I’d close the service with an altar call. Not a soul moved—except my father, again. But as he walked down the aisle from the back of the tiny church (taking him a total of three seconds) something smelled fishy. I prayed for him and handed the service over to the pastor.

By the third speaking engagement, I knew what was happening. My father felt bad for me. He didn’t want his son go without someone to pray for, he’d respond to my invitation. Incredibly kind and loving of him, but when I saw him about to come down the aisle, I would hand over the microphone like it was burning coals. Not this time, dad.

After these humbling and mostly awkward preaching engagements, I would go to a Christian college and learn how to construct sermons. I would be trained to interpret scripture faithfully, equipped to tell stories and illustrate timeless truths with contemporary anecdotes. All of these things are integral to the call of preaching. But I would also have to learn how to be someone who allowed the truth of God’s word to form my life, out of which I preached.

This meant I had to unlearn some of the lessons I was taught along the way.

(To be continued)

If you’re interested in reading more from me, check out, The Deeply Formed Life, Good and Beautiful and Kind, and The Narrow Path.

DEI

CRT

BLM

Over many years, there’s been much talk about matters of race, racism, and justice. As followers of Jesus, what are we to make of it? I think we can start by naming the ways we incorrectly frame the issue, and consequently, the ways forward. I believe the Prophets can help.

One of the many reasons we need to read the Prophets is because they speak to the public dimension of God’s love. Many of us have experienced the personal or private dimension of God’s love; we know what it’s like to receive his grace and kindness personally. But the prophets remind us that God’s love is not just a private affair. It’s also to be a public act.

In Isaiah 10, we see words about a miscarriage of justice in the public life of the people of God, and Isaiah couldn’t remain silent. In the first two verses, he wrote, “Woe to those who decree iniquitous decrees, and the writers who keep writing oppression, to turn aside the needy from justice and to rob the poor of my people of their right, that widows may be their spoil, and that they may make the fatherless their prey!”

The cry of Isaiah is for righteousness—for justice. And justice very simply is about having right relationships, one with another. To do justice means that every person is taken seriously as a human being made in the image of God. So Isaiah wrote these prophetic words because the people who were in charge of ensuring that society was ordered toward justice were doing the opposite. Isaiah cried out against the larger structures of human existence. Isaiah was basically saying that on an institutional level, people were being sinned against. There were unjust laws that were oppressing people. Justice was being withheld, and the poor and widows were being mistreated. This was not a new problem.

When we think about our racialized society from very early on in the history of the United States (and beyond), the institutions of our society have been likewise culpable of systemic sin; every institution (because we live in a fallen world) is subject to it. For those who take the Bible seriously, this should not come as a surprise. Whether an institution is political, religious, economic or related to law enforcement, it has the potential to establish systems that work against the good of humanity, whether intended or not. Every institution has the unfortunate capacity to give advantage to some and disadvantage to others, to bring privilege to some and pain to others.

As you take in all this, you might be overwhelmed, but stay with me. To work through these issues requires us to take the time needed to grasp them. But it’s worth it because our world needs deeply formed people in this arena. Before I present a number of practical ways forward, I want to highlight four misunderstandings about racial reconciliation.

We Assume That Racial Justice/Reconciliation Is Possible Without Justice

There can be no true reconciliation without justice. For relationships to be fully restored, things have to be made right. Justice is the presence of right verdicts and right relationships, and it’s characterized by undoing power abuses and redressing sins against oppressed people.

Many who sincerely yearn for reconciliation can want to merely name the sins of the past, wash one another’s feet and then just move on without further thought or action toward justice. While these gestures may be beautifully moving, the larger systemic social injustices continue unhindered, creating fragmented relationships and ruined lives.

It should also be noted that working for justice should not be restricted only to taking up one’s cause with those in political power (as necessary an act as that often is). The pursuit of justice more often is about taking up one’s cause with whoever is in power in whatever context and seeking to work collaboratively to bring about fairness, just policies and equitable community life.

We Assume That Racial Justice/Reconciliation Means Color Blindness

For many people, color blindness is seen as a virtue— something to be applauded and celebrated. Some people are still fond of saying, “I don’t see color; I see people.” And although that seems really sweet, color blindness is not the MO of heaven: “I looked, and behold, a great multitude that no one could number, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb” (Revelation 7:9, ESV). God sees all the color. To be sure, when many people speak of being colorblind, their intentions are good. The focus of the colorblind model is that no one should enjoy any economic or social advantages based on skin color. But in the end, the language of color blindness is the attempt to establish relationship by denying diversity and our honest differences. So as good as intentions may be, pretending to be color-blind is still playing at something other than the truth.

We Equate Diversity with Racial Justice/Reconciliation

To be sure, diversity is a good thing, but in and of itself, it is not the same as reconciliation. On the surface, diversity looks wonderful, especially in church settings. However, as with justice, the temptation is for us to stop there. When we make diversity the end goal, we are no different from New York City subway cars. New York City subway cars are crowds of diverse, anonymous people in close proximity. But the church is called to be more than a sanctified subway car.

When the gospel is deeply at work, racial reconciliation results in a diverse community that embraces the unique gifts and acknowledges the distinctive sins of their ethnic-racial-social makeup while experiencing loving communion with others under the lordship of Jesus.

We Want Friendship or Evangelism to Solve Racism

The common response to addressing the institutional underpinnings of racism or the individual racial prejudice we carry is often cloaked in language of strategic warm and-fuzzy interpersonal relationships. This is especially true in much of the evangelical culture. There are two particularly relevant strategies highlighted by Michael Emerson and Christian Smith in their seminal book, Divided by Faith. Emerson and Smith noted that the classic strategies taken up by evangelicals are those of conversion and friendship.

Believers often think that if we can only convert more people to Christianity, this will solve the issue of racism. We think that if someone makes a decision for Jesus, this will end his or her racialized perspectives. So the goal becomes to just bring into the Christian fold as many of those diverse people as possible. But history has shown that some of the worst racist behavior has come from within the Christian fold.

What is needed to start is a larger vision of what the gospel is. Our definition of the gospel will always determine the nature of scope of our mission.

If our definition of the gospel starts with the confession that Jesus is Lord, and that Sin and Death no longer have the last word, we are better prepared to see our witness in the world as one that resists Sin and its individual, interpersonal, and institutional effects.

(This is an adapted excerpt from The Deeply Formed Life, where I write much more on matters of racial justice and reconciliation)