Deciding which books can take up precious suitcase space on my journey to Scotland has been… a challenge. In this process of sorting and stacking, the storage stack grows, the giveaway stack grows and then shrinks again when I change my mind, and the burn stack hovers at one.

She’s a spicy one- but she’s not the reason we’re here.

One of the gifts of seminary (and current woes of sorting) was exponentially developing my religious studies and theology library. And now, instead of using my time to continue shrinking this growing mess in my home, I had to compile another stack and write about it. I give to you the “Books that were Absolutely Worth the Seminary Tuition” stack.

Of course not- I’ll only recommend seven, and I won’t even charge! You’ll get the page count (excluding endnotes, indexes, etc.) and a brief description of why I think seminary would have been worth it just for these books. They are the titles from course syllabi, additional books that my professors deemed beneficial, or (in the case of one) a book I found while researching for a paper. And all of these books have influenced my desire to remain in Christian community while following Jesus.

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7 Books That Were Worth the Seminary Tuition

1. Whose Religion is Christianity? by Lamin Sanneh

I had no intention of sorting my choices in any particular order, but this may well deserve the first seat. Written about 20 years ago, Sanneh, a Muslim-turned-Christian scholar, writes this book in Q&A form, developing a conversation between a skeptical western voice and his own. Sanneh removes western culture from the perceived center of the Christian universe; he then explores how Christianity might emerge in different cultures, particularly on the African continent, and suggests that true, faithful Christianity has no original language or people group- it has always been a translated faith. I think and speak differently about the work of the Holy Spirit around the world, and I am filled with hope!

Page count: 130(ish) pages on Kindle

2. Enfleshing Freedom: Body, Race, and Being by M. Shawn Copeland

Here’s Copeland’s introduction: “[This book] focuses the Christian question of what being human means on the body, most particularly on the bodies of black women.” This is sacramental theology- adjacent. This book gave me new language for understanding the table of God, the practice of communion, and the unity that Christ’s body must bring to Christ’s body. I’m making my mom read it right now.

Page count: 130 pages

3. Black and White Bible, Black and Blue Wife by Ruth A. Tucker

Technically, I listened to this while I did yardwork, which is probably one of the better ways to approach the book’s content. It’s a tough read as a memoir. Tucker recounts her experience in an abusive marriage with a training pastor, and she couples the story with alternative readings for the Bible passages that were misused against her during their marriage. Stories are some of the best evidence for the argument that all Scripture undergoes interpretation, and how we apply that Scripture to our own stories is no tertiary issue.

Page count: 190ish pages; 6.5 hours on Audible

4. New Testament and the People of God by N.T. Wright

Please don’t be disappointed, but this is the only NT Wright work I’ve read in its entirety. Wright’s academic works are dense, with NTAPG coming in at about 550 pages; this is only one of four volumes in the series. He describes what the world of Judaism would have looked like in the early first century. My favorite aspect of the book was Wright taking so much time to define the concept of “story” (buzz word!), which is one of the more persuasive ways of framing faith that Christians inherit from our Jewish brothers and sisters.

Page count: 558 pages

5. Jesus and the Forces of Death: The Gospels’ Portrayal of Ritual Impurity Within First-Century Judaism by Matthew Thiessen

Have you ever mistaken the biblical concept of purity for holiness/sinlessness? Me, too! I chose to write a paper on this title for a Gospels and Acts course with Scot McKnight. Of the books I have read on understanding Jesus in the context of the Jewish ritual purity system (I haven’t read Staples yet), this has had the strongest impact on me and the easiest influence in church circles because of the book’s length. I chased after Thiessen a couple years ago at SBL to have him sign my copy (unashamedly, I might add). I’m due for a re-read.

Page count: 195 pages

6. Inspiration and Incarnation: Evangelicals and the Problem of the Old Testament by Pete Enns

Is the theme of this library that I have new language or have abandoned old language with regards to Christianity? Enns challenges the evangelical tendency to conflate specific readings of the Old Testament with Christian salvation, and he suggests a road on which Christians can faithfully (and critically) read the Bible in light of emerging biblical scholarship. I was shaken by this book on my first reading; today, I’m so very grateful for Enns’ voice!

Page count: 180 pages

7. Womanist Midrash: A Reintroduction to the Women of the Torah and the Throne by Wilda C. Gafney

This is a fabulous (re)introduction to the longstanding Jewish tradition of midrash, a practice of “filling in the gaps” of scriptural narratives. “Womanist,” the title for black feminists and coined by author Alice Walker, also refers to the author Wilda Gafney’s own identity as she encounters and wrestles with the story of women in the Hebrew Bible. She offers alternative readings on female characters like Hagar, Tamar, and Jezebel- to invite our imaginations and our inherited perspectives to participate in the reading and understanding of Scripture.

Page count: 340 pages; 17 hours on Audible

A lovely line I just read from Jane Eyre feels proper to wrap up this list: “Prejudices, it is well known, are most difficult to eradicate from the heart whose soil has never been loosened or fertilized by education…” Jane does not speak of grad school or PhD programs; she speaks of reading, of increasing exposure to ideas that may feel foreign.

You, dear readers, must understand how difficult it is to narrow a list of transformative titles. I had far more books to recommend (several being written by my seminary professors!), so my conclusion is this: higher education is not simply for the degree you are conferred. It is not only for the information you gain inside the classroom but also for the literal library of books (and voices) your professors, teaching assistants, and classmates help you to build.

Might I suggest that these books are better read in groups or with a reading buddy? Perhaps that is why I love them even more: because of the conversations that grew out of them with my seminary friends- and if they chime in below, they will tell you whether they think these books made seminary worth it, too.

Will you add any of these to your library? Are there any books you would suggest for mine?

Meanwhile, I’m sitting at a table too short for my knees to fit under, trying to debate a 5th-grader about God’s origin. I see God enter the classroom behind the girl, who is telling me that God was probably born from Zeus, at least that’s what her mom told her. And I look at God like, can You help me out here? But God doesn’t intervene, so I let the girl finish her own creation myth while I assemble my rebuttal. This is my seminary education hard at work.

My dad is in big church, teaching about a giant fish and a tiny worm, a reluctant prophet and eager repentance. When he’s done speaking, he’ll break bread, pass the cup, and minister to the people in the room whose own theories about their Creator probably don’t include Zeus. Instead, they might think of a God whose only emotion is anger, or who isn’t interested in hearing from 50% of the room without a male present, or who takes issue with America not supporting certain nations in the Middle East. The Bible tells them so, and if their pastor doesn’t? There are other sources out there.

Anyways, I’ve abandoned my lesson on the Lord’s Prayer because 1/2 of my congregation doesn’t think God actually hears our prayers, and the other 1/2 wants to know if we can play ping pong in the youth room. I oblige.

In this corner, with less than $20,000 in student loans but about to gain a whole lot more at her fancy international university, not yet ordained and can tell you what ἐκκλησία means, buhhhhhd-ding seminarian!

And in this corner, with too many questions to answer on a Sunday morning, standing less than 4 ft. 5 in. but operating a brain too smart for her teachers, 21st-century kid!

I’ve been sitting with a question during the last two years of my seminary education: when I graduate, am I supposed to return to paid church work, or do I walk deeper into the recesses of academia? Help!

You have probably sat with a version of this question, too. Maybe it has less to do with pastoring versus researching, but boiled down to its skeleton, the question looks like these- is this career “Christian” or “secular?” Should the marketplace be abandoned in favor of the church?

Is what I’m doing valuable to the kingdom of God?

The question doesn’t always surface so clearly. In my own experience (read: limited experience), I've wrestled between working for the local ἐκκλησία (which means church or gathering and I know this) and working in ecumenical- or “secular”- spaces. A good friend warned me that such a dichotomy can be alienating to people who have never been called into the higher calling that is being paid by the local church. It can sound like one job really is devoid of holy meaning, that receiving a steady paycheck or having health insurance is a wimpish pursuit.

More seriously, that one vocation could be labeled a “higher calling” than another runs the risk of propagating hierarchy in the Christian community, what the apostle Paul likens to a human body in a letter to the Corinthian church:

Just as a body, though one, has many parts, but all its many parts form one body, so it is with Christ. ¹³ For we were all baptized by one Spirit so as to form one body—whether Jews or Gentiles, slave or free—and we were all given the one Spirit to drink. ¹⁴ Even so the body is not made up of one part but of many.

Just as the human body isn’t a redundancy of the same organ, so the community of believers should not be- cannot exist as- a homogenous blob of indistinguishable members. Each part has a role in the greater function and flourishing of the body. (And Paul wasn’t writing about paid roles here.) Paul goes on,

Now if the foot should say, “Because I am not a hand, I do not belong to the body,” it would not for that reason stop being part of the body. ¹⁶ And if the ear should say, “Because I am not an eye, I do not belong to the body,” it would not for that reason stop being part of the body. ¹⁷ If the whole body were an eye, where would the sense of hearing be? If the whole body were an ear, where would the sense of smell be?

Eyes matter- but not so much that they must overhaul the work of the ears. A body can work without them, but it will miss certain abilities. How was the body intended to function? Here’s Paul’s follow-up:

¹⁸ But in fact God has placed the parts in the body, every one of them, just as he wanted them to be. ¹⁹ If they were all one part, where would the body be?²⁰ As it is, there are many parts, but one body. ²¹ The eye cannot say to the hand, “I don’t need you!” And the head cannot say to the feet, “I don’t need you!” ²² On the contrary, those parts of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable, ²³ and the parts that we think are less honorable we treat with special honor…

We need feet! We need hands! We might even need gallbladders (though at least two people close to me have had them removed)! And again, the body may learn to function well without these parts, but it should never be because the head booted the foot out of a role. Jumping a little ahead, Paul emphasizes this:

But God has put the body together, giving greater honor to the parts that lacked it, ²⁵ so that there should be no division in the body, but that its parts should have equal concern for each other. ²⁶ If one part suffers, every part suffers with it; if one part is honored, every part rejoices with it.

²⁷ Now you are the body of Christ, and each one of you is a part of it.

The body of Christ! It is not the body of Staunton, Virginia, or the body of the United States. This unified body surpasses ethnic identity-markers, it surpasses genders, and it certainly surpasses collars- be they priestly or blue.

But what do I do about my career?

Ah. Yes, back to the original point. Help me decide- what work will curry more favor with God?

“I’m sorry, I just can’t believe that Jesus rose from the dead. It’s been what? 2,000 years?”

I shifted weight to my back foot, like an amateur, and the punch came out of nowhere. I’m down on the mat now. This question didn’t come from a kid; it came from Handsome Man who sits on the front steps of the church. I’m still reeling from the impact. I have heard how he wrestles with the church because of his own experiences as a kid in the cavernous space. I’ve heard his confession, too: that life felt more joyful when he believed. And in my less-than-pastoral response, I wonder why he doesn’t will himself back into the Christian faith, when I should have asked, What’s keeping you awake at night?

What else has changed since you “stopped believing?”

During seminary, I sidelined as a baker. I shared butcher block and stainless steel and conversations interrupted by oven timers. Having spent a lot of my time in church circles where vulnerability felt like an archaeological dig, I was barely brushing the dust off this space before my coworkers’ frustrations with the world, with religion, and with themselves were unveiled. There were plenty of jabs at Jesus and his followers, but I will grant that a lot of them were warranted. Christ’s body was being exposed for having too many mouths and not enough ears, or hands, or whatever part of the body is responsible for loving our neighbors well. In fact, if I revisit the passage from 1 Corinthians 12 above, I see that what unites the body of believers is not simply belief about Jesus but the presence of the Holy Spirit.

Later in 1 Corinthians 13, Paul reminds this body that they can have every member, every spiritual gift, every authoritative position locked down- but if they have no love, everything else is moot. In fact, those gifts are distractions, like bells or gongs. In a letter to the Galatians, Paul tells the believers that the fruit of the Spirit is love and a whole basketful of qualities that have nothing to do with vocation or skill. They are the presence of the Spirit of God.

The acts of the flesh are obvious: sexual immorality, impurity and debauchery; ²⁰ idolatry and witchcraft; hatred, discord, jealousy, fits of rage, selfish ambition, dissensions, factions ²¹ and envy; drunkenness, orgies, and the like. I warn you, as I did before, that those who live like this will not inherit the kingdom of God.

²² But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, ²³ gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law.

Maybe God isn’t scanning our church sanctuary, wishing there were more competent pastors with seminary degrees. Maybe God is wondering where the love has gone (cue Black-Eyed Peas). More to the point, certainly God is reminding Christ’s body today that the most important work we can do is to love one another as Christ has loved us. This happens in any job, and sometimes we have to get pretty creative with how to love our neighbors. God keeps it fun.

If the church remains in the church building, we miss Handsome Man’s questions. We miss my bakery crew’s frustrations. Maybe we get 5th-grader’s inquiries once, but if I shoot her theories down and give no space for her curiosities, why would she return? How do we love as Christ loved us if we never engage at butcher block tables, or hardware stores, or on long runs, or in corporate spaces? Again, creativity is welcomed.

Have I answered my question yet? Is it the wrong question?

Yes. Sorry.

Instead, let me ask this: how can I best love God and my neighbor in the space I currently inhabit?

I’ve spent the past 1.5 years caring for the children at my church. I’m going to spend the next year at University of Saint Andrews, earning my Master of Literature in Biblical Languages.

So, maybe my fate is the fate of Priscilla, teacher of the apostles and working woman on the side, engaged in helping others to understand the words of God afresh while making a living in the marketplace. I’m called to love well.

And maybe my fate is the fate of Jonah, running away from my American church responsibilities to dive into Greek and Hebrew in a foreign land, only to be swallowed whole by what I encounter, deeply humbled, and spit back up to do the work God has given me to do: to love and serve him as a faithful witness of Christ.

See? God gets creative with our stories, too.

This is a personal story about pain and hope, but I imagine many of us can place our own stories somewhere at this intersection. Over on my friend Catherine Jones Payne’s Substack this week, she writes about how Psalms, specifically Psalm 137, can help us to pray through our suffering. I encourage you to read what she has to say about trauma and spiritual care.

**Please be advised that I mention situations of abuse, which may not be beneficial to all of my Substack readers.**

Today was supposed to be 20 miles, but I had to stop. For two hours, my left knee had been throbbing, and I couldn’t keep my heart rate below 160. Only one more long run before race day. I wondered if I was being tenacious or stupid to continue.

I’ve been running since middle school, but I picked up long-distance again in 2020. During the pandemic, I resurrected a few of my old hobbies with the extra time I had: running, baking, and writing letters. While friends grew in their technical expertise of sourdough, I read about cadence and fueling and form.

The thing we runners love almost as much as running is telling people why we love running. I’m all about the challenge: taking anatomy and physiology at university as a non-science major; tackling MURPH when the opportunity comes up at community gyms; writing a thesis when my program did not require it. It’s why my brother and I signed up for an ultra-marathon in May before we’ve ever run a marathon. (Again, tenacity or stupidity?) I really do find joy in the pain. As someone plagued by multi-tasking, I love that I can’t be doing anything but the task at hand. I have to work through the pain, get to the top of the hill, sprint to the 400 meter line. I may not be disciplined in all aspects of my life, but I’ll get my run in for the day.

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Ice packs. Elevation. Epsom salts. Praying. I hover over my computer, conjuring up a recovery plan.

A little more than two years ago, I left a relationship that was riddled with injury. It’s still hard today to try and untangle the strings connected to responsibility; in the beginning, they all led back to me. Because I reached out first. Because I drove. Because I was a grown woman who became silent and placating when I should have said…

There were a few things I should have said.

The first four months of recovery involved a lot of denial on my part- denial that someone had taken advantage of me, that I hadn’t been in control as much as I had thought, that I needed to admit I was a victim in order to begin healing. I wanted the blame. Blame felt easier to make sense of than helplessness. Holding onto that blame, however, kept me in a repeating argument with my family while I tried to protect a person who had harmed me.

Abusive situations affect the victim, of course- but they affect the victim’s close community almost as much, even when that community isn’t aware of all the painful details. My parents. My brother and sister-in-law. I didn’t see myself the way they all saw me, and I was angry when they were telling me the truth in their observations. I was angry. I was heavy. I was confused.

The only time this weight lifted would be on a run, so I ran. On an empty stomach, on a treadmill, on Bells Lane. I took to the hills with my burdens. I argued out loud with myself and Jesus about why I felt the way I did and when I could get free from my memories. I chased after that clarity and wished it would follow me into the house when I took off my Saucony trainers.

I wonder if I’ve torn my MCL. I have just enough knowledge of the human body to make myself susceptible to self-diagnosis, but the pain in my left knee yells its confirmation. I’m cycling and swimming once a week to see if that helps ease the pain. I get angry with myself about this injury, for ignoring the warning signs early on, for jumping into this challenge too quickly.

July 2024. I laugh and cry about how much went wrong that month. I tried returning to the situation I had fought to leave. I crashed my parents’ truck. I farm-sat for a family and had to deal with their animals suddenly dying. I watched the fireworks and thought about dying myself. The world was in flames, but I was unresponsive. I remember despairing that my mind would always feel broken.

In this tumultuous month, a seminary friend came to stay. We walked, we talked, and we prayed. She shared pieces of her own story that gave me courage to keep stepping forward, leaving behind what was no good.

Oh, the joy of making it to the top of the hill and looking like you worked for it. You did.

Thanks be to God, who pulls me from the pit! What once consumed my full attention fades into my periphery. I don’t think about this experience every day, and when I do, the tears tend to keep their distance. I’m still running, but I have healthier motivations getting me out the door. Between 2025 and 2026, I’ve clocked about 570 miles of running alone.

Is it wrong to miss when running wasn’t the hardest part of my day? Running had been my way of escaping my realities, and now it puts a spotlight on my pain. My familial relationships are healing, my mind feels clear and strong, but my knees are feeling weak. I add in squats and lunges to see if that’s enough to strengthen my lower body.

My body was broken for no one. It was handled carelessly and selfishly. It didn’t have to be broken in order for me to know God’s kindness, or to increase my tears for those who have also been broken down- but these are the merciful effects. There are negative effects, too: I want to know that men who are faithful to Jesus will behave like Jesus, but I am wary. I cry over what I lost. I pay penance for my foolishness. I cling to my brokenness like a curse.

On a recent Sunday, as I retold the Road to Emmaus story in children’s church, one girl exclaimed, “This is my body broken for you!” The Stranger had only just broken the bread to pass it to the two followers. She recognized Jesus right then: willingly breaking and sharing of himself, transforming our unjust breaks and forced brokenness into redeemed wholeness. In the midst of my own brokenness, I clung to the Lord’s Table, taking part in the bread and wine every week with my Anglican church body. As I’ve reminded the children at our church, though, we live not simply in memory of Christ’s death- but in light of Christ’s resurrection.

Joy is all over the place. I am so rich in friendships. I’m writing for fun again. I didn’t drop out of seminary, and I am preparing to graduate in June. I love Christ’s body- the one broken for me and the one that gathers together as often as we can. Because I believe Jesus rose from the dead, I refuse to believe that evil ends this story.

Simultaneously, if there is a call to live into the reality of the resurrection, there must be an acknowledgement of the very real deaths we all have experienced and will experience. A woman in my congregation shared testimony of meeting Jesus in a vision and hearing him extend the same invitation he had shared with Thomas: “put your finger here; see my hands.” In other words, know My body that was broken for you.

We have no reason to visit Jesus’ graveside, and we cannot ignore the cross.

Is it oversharing to talk about our real sufferings? How do we do it well? I am trying to set the stage for suffering not as an anomaly to Christians but as part of the human experience we share with Jesus (and all too often, we Christians prove our humanity in poorer ways). How do we boast in our sufferings, as the Apostle Paul seems to do? Will we forget our pains, or will we remember them in light of the resurrection? Have Jesus’ scars faded at all?

My knee- my dear, injured knee- impacts my runs. I am learning how to rest and heal and not expect that my times will be as fast as my training app predicts. How much greater will the fracture from 2024 appear in my mental x-rays and wellness checks? How much more will I baby the physical spaces where I experienced pain? My life has been significantly impacted, and though I do not live in pain every day, I walk with a slight limp, a vision obscured. And yet, I recognize Jesus. I see him clear as day in the breaking and the forgiving. Forgiveness is the long game.

May the limp persist- if only to remind me that all is not yet well, but it will be.

For a 40-day period of abstaining from one of our most human needs, “permission” would not be my immediate descriptor. You and I might lean towards “discipline” or “suffering” if we’re being honest. I’m not making light of giving up a midday meal or even my morning coffee; if you have participated in fasting before, you’ll know how quickly these “sacrifices” become small sufferings as we wrestle with hunger, irritability, and an inner voice that is difficult to quiet.

I first learned about Lent in my freshman English class. I can picture my second-floor classroom, winter sunlight hitting our plastic-topped desks, and my two friends chatting with our teacher about what each was giving up for Lent. Between discussions of To Kill a Mockingbird and Romeo & Juliet that spring semester, I found myself wondering about churches that made their members fast for 40 days. It seemed inauthentic. It seemed legalistic- the word I had learned from my parents’ experiences and was quick to throw at any Christian rituals imposed on the church, by the church.

There are a few comments I can make about this memory:

1. I was in a public high school overhearing this conversation. I, a Las Vegas transplant, was still not over the fact that so. many. people went to church in my small town in Virginia.

2. As a Las Vegas native, I was more familiar with Mardi Gras (literally, “Fat Tuesday”) than I was with corporate fasting.

3. In fact, despite being raised in the church, I knew almost nothing about the church calendar.

This is the first in a series of posts connecting the Wilderness story found in Exodus with the church’s practice of Lent. This week, I want to set the stage with a bit of background on Lent and why Christians still practice fasting. I also want to emphasize McEntyre’s choice of the word “permission” as a key part of the formative journey through Lent. Yes, our entrance into the season through Ash Wednesday is a confession of our human frailty, but we are also extending permission to the Spirit of God to work within us.

Is this a bold claim? We will see!

Lent and Fasting

Before the Church put formal perimeters around Lent in AD 601 under Pope Gregory I, Christians had already regularly practiced an extended period of asceticism and prayer. “Lent” comes from the Latin word quadragesima, meaning “a period of forty days,” but some traditions set aside as many as 8 weeks of scheduled fasting with one day a week being a “feast” day.2 Read what St. Athanasius, an early Christian theologian in the 4th century, had to say in his letters:

“...[Let] us first be purified and freed from defilement, so that when we depart hence, having been careful of fasting, we may be able to ascend to the upper chamber with the Lord, to sup with Him; and may be partakers of the joy which is in heaven. In no other manner is it possible to go up to Jerusalem, and to eat the Passover, except by observing the fast of forty days.”3

I look forward to discussing the significance of the number 40 in a future post in this series; for today, though, it is enough to suggest that “forty days” at least refers to Jesus’ own practice of fasting in the wilderness recorded in the Synoptic Gospels.4

Fasting appears throughout the Old Testament: you’ll see it in preparation for a decision being made, in response to oppression, or hand-in-hand with communal repentance. In Exodus 34:28, Moses was with the LORD on Mount Sinai “forty days and forty nights without eating bread or drinking water” (NIV). In 1 Samuel, Hannah would not eat in her “great anguish and grief” over her barrenness (1:16). In 2 Chronicles 20, King Jehoshaphat declared a national fast for Judah to seek the Lord’s help against the approaching enemy (20:3–4).

These Old Testament examples do not exhaust the list by any means. Fasting is also seen in the New Testament, primarily related to Jesus. In addition to his practice of fasting briefly mentioned above, Jesus addressed fasting in his Sermon on the Mount, saying to his disciples in Matthew 6, “When you fast, do not look somber as the hypocrites do, for they disfigure their faces to show others they are fasting.” Commentators point out the use of Jesus’ use of “when” suggesting that Jesus does not expect his followers to abandon this practice. The Gospel of Mark, however, depicts a situation when Jesus is scolded for not insisting that his disciples fast, and Jesus responds that they have no need to fast when the bridegroom is with them (Mark 2:18–22).

So, fasting might be expected- but it will not be enforced.

While Catholic, Orthodox, and mainline Protestant denominations have continued to observe Lent in its different forms, it is the Evangelical stream of Protestantism that has not known what to do with fasting as a community (perhaps there is a greater neglect of praying as a community here?). If fasting is observed, it is more about the individual’s spiritual formation and less about corporate formation. Says S.H Mathews, “there is also a tendency in evangelical literature to promote fasting at the direction of an inner movement of God in the life of the believer— the “call to fast”—rather than fasting on specific holy days.”5 There seems to be an underlying resistance to practice something that is imposed on the entire community with allowances for what individual members might feel led to do. It’s no great jump to conclude that the Evangelical Protestant stream feels safer erring on the side of individual preference.

Permission to Fast

Jesus does not mandate his followers to fast. The Church cannot force me to give up my meals. Why should I observe Lent?

The permission that McEntyre suggests is one we give to ourselves to quiet that inner voice and “change pace… to make our times with self and God a little more spacious.”6 The team at Lectio 365 begin each morning prayer on their app with this invitation- “to pause to be still; to breathe slowly, to re-centre my scattered senses upon the presence of God.” In a world that cannot stop moving, you and I have permission to do exactly that.

However, I think the permission extends past making space in my agenda. Perhaps, the permission is given not only to ourselves but to the Spirit of God. During Lent, we are offering the choice we usually have- eating when we are hungry- to God to do a work in these small sufferings, so that we might know God more in the great sufferings. We actively surrender our preferences, our eating habits and timetables, and we entrust God with another one of our deeply human desires- control. We invite Jesus into our humanity, and we allow hunger to move us towards prayer.

Jesus’ words recorded in Revelation 3:20 (NET) feel ironically pertinent here- “Listen! I am standing at the door and knocking! If anyone hears my voice and opens the door I will come into his home and share a meal with him, and he with me.”

What if Jesus is waiting for us to invite him in, to give him permission to clear our tables these next 40-odd days? No, fasting is not required. But if I can take on this small, temporary suffering, I wonder what I will hear the Spirit of God say.

Lent is both intimately personal and intended for communal observance. Next week, I’ll be back with a conversation about the Israelites’ shared hunger in the wilderness in the book of Exodus. What might we learn by stepping into Lent together?

I credit the Lord and the generosity of many for being able to call the UK “home” during Covid. From September 2020 to July 2021, I served as a worship intern for St. Michael le Belfrey, a brilliant church in the heart of York. The church is currently undergoing a restoration project, but you can see below what it looked like when I was there. If you’re interested in my earlier storytelling, I shared about my short English life over at my blog, She Lives Elsewhere!

One tricky part about being a worship leader during the pandemic- and there were several tricky parts- was that the congregation could not join the team in singing. For nearly 18 months, UK government guidelines restricted corporate worship gatherings, with only the worship leaders being allowed to sing in order to lessen the spread of the virus. Congregants were encouraged to find other ways to exalt God apart from sung worship: banners were used, hands were clapped, and prayer ministry abounded. Still, I longed for us to sing.

This may have been a superfluous rule considering the circumstances- was *not* singing really preventing the spread of COVID-19 when we still engaged with each other in the church building? But we followed the rules, and we anticipated the day when the church could sing together again. We, the worship leaders, sang on behalf of those who could not sing.

Faithful Resistance

This past Sunday’s Old Testament reading was from Daniel, a book that juxtaposes the God of heaven and the rulers of Babylon. Pretty quickly, God establishes the Israelite exile Daniel as a trustworthy advisor to those in power, a role he fulfills for three separate kings- the Babylonian Nebuchadnezzar, his son Belshazzar, and Darius the Mede/ Cyrus the Persian.1

In Daniel 6, we read that King Darius issues this decree for the Babylonian residents: “anyone who prays to any god or human being during the next 30 days, except to [King Darius], shall be thrown into the lions’ den.” This was on the advice of the local rulers and administrators, Daniel’s coworkers and subordinates. In fact, they suggest this decree to bring down Daniel because they know the only way they can remove Daniel from his place of influence and power is by threatening his faithfulness to God.

Here is Daniel’s response in verse 10: “[Now] when Daniel learned that the decree had been published, he went home to his upstairs room where the windows opened toward Jerusalem. Three times a day he got down on his knees and prayed, giving thanks to his God, just as he had done before.”

Daniel continues in faithful allegiance to God, praying in the same spot, facing toward a fallen Jerusalem but perhaps remembering the prophecies of his slightly older contemporary, Jeremiah:

“This is what the LORD Almighty, the God of Israel, says to all those I carried into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon: ‘Build houses and settle down; plant gardens and eat what they produce… [Seek] the peace and prosperity of the city to which I have carried you into exile. Pray to the LORD for it, because if it prospers, you too will prosper.’” (Jeremiah 29:4–5, 7)

Daniel’s protest is not one singular demonstration; his protest is the faithfulness demonstrated from the first chapter of the book until the end. It is Daniel’s earnest pursuit of God’s face that venerates and villainizes him. And it’s not only Daniel- his fellow exile gang finds favor in one chapter and is sentenced to death in another. The rulers threatened the resisters with death, and it is possible that many exiles disregarded the Lord’s words from Jeremiah and abandoned their unseen God for fear of the rulers they could see.

Spoiler alert: Daniel survived three kings.

Intercessory Songs

In another foreign land about 600 years later, two men are brought before government officials. Empowered by the Spirit of God, they released a young woman from oppressive work and, in doing so, had disrupted the local economy. The crowds lead the charge for the men to be beaten and thrown into jail, where they will not await a trial. The prison they are moved to is likely crammed with other criminals or rebels, and the two men have their feet chained to the ground. As the already-dark space loses light, moans and cries from the other prisoners fill the room. The space would not feel peaceful, even with a guard watching to ensure that no fights would break out. Above the noise, however, the sounds of prayers and songs of praise rise clearly. The cries stop. The other prisoners listen to the two men singing hymns- Paul and Silas (Acts 16:16–25).

A song cracks the tension. It softens any hold on bitterness or vengeance. It lifts spirits that sink deep.

In a night of uncertainty, Paul and Silas worshiped God in their chains. In the face of oppression, slaves sang their grief while they were forced to work on a land that was not their own. In prison cells, activists from the 1961 Freedom Rides sang of freedom despite having been beaten by police officers and opponents. What can singing do but shake us from our present reality, remove the power from the evil one, and turn our attention to the God of heaven?

We are being fed the lie that this current moment is the pathway to peace, that this violence is necessary for peace to be achieved. What we have seen for months is not peace. We have witnessed painful disruption, chaos, and broken systems breaking even more. I keep thinking about this quote from Dr. Jemar Tisby: “[white] Americans keep looking to 1930s Germany for lessons on authoritarianism, but they ignore Black Americans who have survived it here.” What we are experiencing is nothing new under the sun, but perhaps now it is more visible to groups that were previously sheltered or unbothered.

During the pandemic, when worshipers were being asked to limit their gatherings, to quiet their voices, Christians spoke out against these restrictions. I’m for peaceful protesting; it’s the right of American citizens and can be beneficial if it is seeking the peace and prosperity of the people. However, I believe God worked in the discomfort of our Zoom calls and songless worship. While I was at the Belfrey, our community practiced worship as more than singing to God. There were remarkable moments of healing, of prayers being answered, and of pockets of quiet in the presence of God.

Five years later, Americans have witnessed neighbors, who were not breaking the law in one moment, be labeled lawbreakers and criminals in the next. We have seen violent protests rewritten.2 We have seen non-violent protests end in violence. We have seen the vulnerable suffer because of the removal of government-funded aid. We have seen death again and again.

This is not simply discomfort. These are more than minor inconveniences to a weekly gathering, yet the voice of the American church begrudgingly whispers its opposition. What if we are meant to lift our voices at this moment? Not retreat but faithfully remain where we have been placed? Seek the prosperity and peace of all people in our communities?

What if we are called to sing against the darkness as it moves in?

None of the kings whom Daniel served were faithful to the God of heaven; of the three, only King Darius was “greatly distressed” at the plight of Daniel and prayed, “May your God, whom you serve continually, rescue you!” as he was sealing Daniel into the den of lions (6:16). Our exemplary characters to consider are not the kings; it is Daniel, who serves the Lord continually, regardless of the one in power. It is Paul and Silas, who sing praises in shackles and witness the power of God in that prison. It may be too much to ask for elected leaders who will embody the way of Jesus in a pluralistic, representative democracy; certainly, the greater impetus is on those of us who claim to follow the nonpartisan Jesus- be it from the judge’s seat, the pulpit, or the marketplace.

How are you responding to the decrees of your ruler? How are you responding to the deep darkness of the night?

Allow me to end this article with an exhortation of courage and a reminder of the good work that Jesus has done: he is freeing the oppressed, bringing good news to the poor, and proclaiming freedom for those imprisoned. This is the Jesus we worship. This is the Jesus who suffered, and died, and rose from the dead. This is our King.

Do the work you have been given to do. Plant gardens. Seek the good of the community around you. When you are asked to participate in the work of Babylon that opposes the voice of God- faithfully resist.

And when you step into the crowd of the oppressed, join in that disorienting freedom song.

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Is your heart heavy from reading this? Do you find yourself without words to respond to what you see and hear? Are you feeling like a broken record on social media platforms, in your church congregations, as you chat with friends in coffee shops? Are you upset with my words?

I recognize that I am writing with a specific slant. At this moment, I think that is necessary. If you’re concerned with the way I have used the biblical texts, I would welcome your pushback or critiques.

And if you answered “yes” to any of these questions, pause for a moment. Breathe. Thank the Lord for one good thing from today.

It never had a name. My Chevy Silverado with the hanging bumper remains un-christened and unwashed, and I remain uncertain about whether investing more into this vehicle with 212,000 miles is the wiser financial decision. So it sits, no name, driven only to the grocery store down the road when a need for chocolate chips arises.

Many of the problems I face have been unsolved this way- giant problems that cannot hide but are content to stare me down when I walk out the door.

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Solution #1: The Repair Closet

Over the last five years, I have leaned more deeply into the Anglican Church tradition, where I first encountered my beloved Catechesis of the Good Shepherd (CGS). It’s most popular and practiced in Catholic and liturgical settings to bring up children in a Montessori-like space where they can encounter the Spirit of God. It is beautiful, and it is ordinary. In my regular interactions with my Baptist church’s children, I have found the principles reshaping the way I see these little image-bearers (more in a later blog about being Anglo-Baptist if you’ll forgive me for dropping that anecdote here).

In CGS, there’s a process encouraged among catechists: if a “work” (what we call the practices and Scripture demonstrations introduced to children) is broken in the atrium, it is important to not replace it right away.

In the Parable of the Good Shepherd work, for example, the Good Shepherd’s staff snaps. Of course it might! Children love this protective, good shepherd and his little sheep, but their hands sometimes move too enthusiastically with Sculpey clay figurines. When the inevitable happens, the catechist is responsible for removing the work to the “repair closet” to be put away for a time. It’s not to punish the children for breaking the work; rather, the children should feel its absence and consider what it means to lose something of value. Or to delay the gratification of its arrival again.

Is that mean? Is it teaching a lesson in a controlled environment that strives to avoid any explicit “lesson time?” Regardless of what it is meant to instill in the children, this practice has been a lesson for me. Chevy Silverado 1500 sits, not waiting to be mended but waiting for my finances to be in a good spot, waiting for me to make a decision about its future, waiting for a moment when I’m in enough discomfort to require a working vehicle again.

Does the brokenness need to be mended immediately? Or do we linger in the absence of what was once whole?

Solution #2: Fix It, Dammit!

Forgive me. Did I mention the truck is also leaking oil?

The oil spill spreads wide below the truck, spreads below the yucca plant leaves that spread out into the street. It all keeps spreading- into my calendar, into my checking account. The oil drags my neighbor Sean’s house off its foundation and consumes his crepe myrtle.

Well, not quite. But the oil troubles have been visible for years. Even while the problem sits unmoving, it seeps. Even once the problem is addressed, it stains.

I sit with my problems until they become other peoples’ problems. I wonder what this says about my ability to care for other people’s problems before they become my own. Maybe all of our oil spills meet in the middle of the street and compare repair costs and damages done and pain inflicted. I cannot tell anymore where someone else’s pain ends and my own pain begins.

Is the brokenness that we experience now meant to be a learning opportunity? Is there even a way to immediately mend the problems we see? For so long, so many have functioned well enough in the brokenness because it is only slightly uncomfortable for them. The truck sits out front because I can walk to work. I can carpool with my parents, a friend. The broken system works for my circumstances, and I don’t push against it until I absolutely must. Others were flagging the dashboard lights months, years before me.

How long do we allow a problem to sit, spread, stain before we patch the hole, stop the leak, abandon the flood, condemn the whole thing? How long, O LORD?

But we’re just talking about my truck here. Pump the brakes- it’s probably fine to let Chevy sit a little longer.

1. This is the modified transcript from my second time preaching (ever!) and my first time preaching in 2026. I have added citations and modified some elements to help its readability. If you’re interested in listening to the message as is, you can listen below. If you want to read my extra words, onward then!

2. In this Substack’s infancy, and in the state of America today, I want to clearly spell out the need for hospitality that honors Jesus. I hope this article does that. Grace and peace, neighbors.

The Road to Emmaus (Abridged)

13 Now that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem. 14 They were talking with each other about everything that had happened. 15 As they talked and discussed these things with each other, Jesus himself came up and walked along with them; 16 but they were kept from recognizing him.

28 As they approached the village to which they were going, Jesus continued on as if he were going farther. 29 But they urged him strongly, “Stay with us, for it is nearly evening; the day is almost over.” So he went in to stay with them. 30 When he was at the table with them, he took bread, gave thanks, broke it and began to give it to them. 31 Then their eyes were opened and they recognized him, and he disappeared from their sight. 32 They asked each other, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he talked with us on the road and opened the Scriptures to us?” (Luke 24: 13-16, 28-32, emphasis added)

Imagine you’re walking with Jesus – and you have no idea it’s Jesus.

Jesus, your rabbi who was crucified only the Friday before, whom the female followers have claimed is alive, is walking beside you while you mourn his death and question these sightings. Not only that- he’s correcting your doubts, he’s teaching you the greater narrative of Scripture that centers on him.

Maybe you wonder to yourselves, “he seems to know a lot about Jesus.” But it’s not in his teaching that you recognize his face. It’s when he sits down at your dining table as a guest, takes the responsibility of the host by breaking a loaf of bread and blessing it, and hands you the first piece. That’s when you know. And then he’s gone.

In this sermon, I want to focus less on Jesus’ words in this passage and more on the actions he and the two companions demonstrate. Luke could have recorded this Jesus-sighting with simply the dialogue. He could have left out the traveling circumstances and said, “Jesus appeared to his followers, unrecognizable at first, but upon teaching them the errors of their misunderstandings, they knew it was Jesus.”

But Luke doesn’t do that. Luke writes about the encounter on a specific day, happening on a long walk, leading to a very human action: sharing a meal. Through Jesus’ encounter on the road to Emmaus, disciples both then and now come to realize that the kingdom of God is the binding of the ordinary and the extraordinary, humanity and divinity- breaking bread and disappearing acts. I think it’s a good spot for us to sit as we look ahead to 2026.

Food for Thought

Many of our New Year’s resolutions revolve around food. We strive to eat healthier, to eat less cake, to eat more leafy greens. Purdue University asks 1200 Americans every month on their food habits. In January 2024, about 25% of this group had pledged to change their diets for the New Year. I’m attempting to pack my lunch every day so I avoid the peanut M&Ms in the church office. Like many American women, I had a complicated relationship with food as a teenager that has followed me into adulthood.1 In my hands, food became the self-inflicted punishment against my body.

Food is vital- not just to our flourishing but to our survival. More than half a billion people go hungry throughout the world. Here in Virginia, 1 in 8 people face food insecurities every day. Food is one thing we cannot get enough of and we cannot seem to escape. Food reminds us that we are human.

And in its necessity, we sometimes forget the gift that food is! The way it draws people in, breaks tension, signals a celebration. Or sometimes, a meal is arriving at exactly the right moment: when the waiter brings your food on an awkward first date, and you’re rescued from talking any more. We eat every day, but we’re aware when the meal we’re eating matters a little bit more.

Jesus and Meals

If you look across the four Gospels, you will see that Jesus dined with (or near) all types of people during his ministry: close followers; betrayers; religious opponents; female friends and devotees; and the general “tax collectors and sinners.”2 Jesus shared meals on hillsides, in homes, at the tables of the rich, and in upper rooms. Every recorded meal was accompanied by a parable, by a teaching, or by both. Several of Jesus’ parables depict a banquet or meal gathering to describe the kingdom of God. John Koenig, who wrote this incredible, short book called New Testament Hospitality, said this:

Jesus’ persistent attention to food, drink, and hospitality is intended to convey something important about the reciprocal relationship between God and human beings.3

Jesus was clued in to the importance of not only consuming food but sharing food. In God’s kingdom, food isn’t just for sustenance; it’s for new life, celebration, and restoration.

Hospitality in Action

One of the first things we can notice in our Gospel passage is that Jesus takes on the identity of the Stranger. Look at v. 15–16: “As they talked and discussed these things with each other, Jesus himself came up and walked along with them; 16 but they were kept from recognizing him.” It’s not that the followers have temporary memory loss of what Jesus looks like. An outside force is causing Jesus to be unfamiliar to them.4

I recently completed my thesis for my New Testament Studies program at Northern Seminary, and I chose to write about food. Food, hospitality, and why Jesus tends to do his best restorative work at mealtime. That word, “hospitality,” might make you think of hotels, room service, or Disney World. It should! There’s a reason we recognize good hospitality when we experience it- and complain when we notice its absence. Despite its use in our modern-day vernacular, hospitality extends past vacation time. If you’re prepared for a brief language lesson, let’s dive in!

The term’s origins are French, but the root word in “hospitality” is Latin. Hospes meant both “host” and “guest,” implying that every person who one time occupied one of those roles was expected to occupy the other at a later point. (More on this concept here.)

The Greek word- helpful here because our oldest New Testament manuscripts are written in Greek- offers a richer vision of what hospitality accomplishes. Φιλοξενία (“fee-locks-eh-nee-a”) is built from two words, φίλος and ξένος. The verb form of φίλος, φιλέω (“fee-ley-os”), roughly means “I love.” Ξένος (“ksehn-os”) is translated as “stranger.”5 Did you catch that?

The love of strangers.

Φιλοξενία does not appear in this Emmaus passage outright, but it is certainly evident–insiders loving a stranger through welcoming and caretaking. “Stranger love” is quite a different concept than what many of us were brought up to remember. Stranger danger, anyone? We live in a culture filled with suspicion. We are heightened to expect worst case scenarios because truthfully, we also live in a world with many worst case scenarios.

So, when the world tells us to avoid strangers, what does Jesus do? Jesus becomes a stranger. And he takes every opportunity to make himself known to us in our most ordinary tasks- like walking, talking, and eating.

The funny thing about strangers is that the more time we spend with them, the more familiar they become.

Set Your “Tables”

Let’s look again at Luke 24. In verse 29, it says, “[but] they urged him strongly, “Stay with us, for it is nearly evening; the day is almost over.” So [Jesus] went in to stay with them. 30 When he was at the table with them, he took bread, gave thanks, broke it and began to give it to them.”

There’s a scene in the first episode of the television show Severance where the main character is invited to a “foodless dinner.” And the host makes a comment that the real feast is the intelligent conversation they all have. Insufferable.

This moment, of the followers inviting Jesus to stay with them, moves past the courtesies of listening and engaging conversation. It requires the followers to sacrifice their space and expand their dining space. To share your table with someone is vulnerable. It lowers the status of one table guest while simultaneously raising the status of their seatmate. A dining space puts everyone at the same level.

My parents’ dining room is one of my favorite rooms in their home. The table is warm, the candles are often lit, and if we could have every seat filled on a regular basis, I would be so content. The problem is that life gets busy. Great feasts are expensive. Spontaneous dinners aren’t always possible. Maybe, then, the “table” is not always a literal table.

What is your table that you can share? Is it your car? Is it carpooling to work with a coworker? Is it a path you love to walk with your dog? Is it the fence you share with your neighbor? Is it your porch? Is it your actual dining table?

Last week, I stopped by one of οur congregant’s near dinnertime to drop something off, and without hesitation I was handed a bowl of pasta to eat. I hope that the next time someone stops by my home unannounced, I’ll be prepared with a meal or, at the very least, a chocolate chip cookie. Hospitality doesn’t always require food, but that’s a good place to begin.

Who Was the Stranger?

If we turn back to Luke 24 one last time, we notice that the interaction between Jesus and the followers does not end with the three travelers simply sharing a meal; it ends in revelation and restoration. The moment that Jesus broke bread and gave it to the followers is the moment they recognize him.

And they say, “weren’t our hearts burning within us while he talked with us on the road and opened the Scriptures to us?” (v. 32) For the two companions, the experience of walking with, talking to, and welcoming Jesus into their shared space tilled the ground for them to become the guests to Jesus’ host. The roles switched. The hosts received the gift of remembering their dear Lord.

Hospitality does not end when the table is cleared. Its impact lingers beyond the guests leaving the room. The stranger becomes less strange and more familiar. The host might be extending the invitation- but if they are willing, they will ultimately receive from their guests.

Perhaps it is unreasonable to think that every stranger we encountered was Jesus in disguise, but what if this was our default? What are we missing when we avoid the strangers in our circles? The people we think we know about but don’t really know? I’m not suggesting we toss out the need for safety or discernment, but Christians have historically entered into unsafe, unhealthy, inhospitable environments in order to be the hands and feet of Jesus.

Moving away from Luke and over to Matthew, I am reminded of Jesus’ words about the coming day when the Son of Man would sort the right from the wrong:

“Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’

“Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’ “The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’” (Matthew 25:34-40, emphasis added)

What are the signs of knowing Jesus, according to Jesus? It’s not how well we speak about Jesus, nor about how many pages I have written about Jesus during my time in seminary. It’s how we treat Jesus when we don’t think we’re talking to Jesus.

It’s one of my church families opening their home to their Iranian neighbor’s mother to live with them even though she cannot speak English. It’s a widower in our congregation leaving a truck in a church parking lot decades ago for anyone to use when they needed it. It is the righteous followers of Jesus allowing God to use our ordinary moments to reveal who Jesus truly is to the world.

Whether at our tables or on the road, may we not miss an invitation to serve the Stranger in our midst.

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I sat down to watch Wake Up Dead Man: A Knives Out Mystery on opening night. I haven’t stopped thinking about it- or talking about it- since then.

I have no intention of spoiling the murder or murderer in this article. If you haven’t watched Wake Up Dead Man and have no plans to watch it, I think you’ll still find fruit in reading about it. A man ends up dead in a church, and the primary suspects include a priest and his flock. Private investigator Benoit Blanc (played by Daniel Craig) is asked to consult on the murder (his talents have been called upon in two other mysteries, worth watching for Craig’s Georgian accent alone).

The case is certainly intriguing, but a different case turns in my mind: how did the film’s writer and director, Rian Johnson, get away with creating a nuanced Christian character, let alone a nuanced Catholic priest?

I’m a cradle Christian, raised by a pastor and Christian educator. I’m a seminary student on the verge of graduation. I’m a church minister, working in a small town in Virginia. I have some credentials, then, to speak on the representation of Christianity in film: it stinks for Christians. Christians are either the disguised villain or the unbelievable, pious side character. And Jesus Christ is just a camera pan away to the crucifix. Alive he may be to believers, but his presence is usually unaccounted for among his followers.

You’ll believe my surprise, then, when I encountered Josh O’Conner’s character “Father Jud Duplicenty.” Earnest in his belief in Jesus Christ, disciplined for punching a deacon, capable of swearing in front of clergy and getting slightly tipsy at a hell-themed bar, and devoted to the Church- even when his own church wants nothing to do with him.

It is not a mystery of determining where Johnson got the idea for such a character. I know Christians like Father Jud. I know Christians like Josh Brolin’s “Monsignor Wicks,” too. The mystery is what Johnson hopes to convey through O’Conner’s character. Is it for the Christians like Father Jud to feel represented? Or is it for the Christians behaving like Msgr. Wicks to be rooted out?

Wake Up Dead Man is filled with Christian caricatures. Wicks’ and Father Jud’s small congregation is basically a cartoon drawing of Christian types that any person could find in churches across America. And Christians aren’t unique in their stereotyped, on-screen representations; religious groups have often been easy targets for the media to mock, accuse, or misrepresent. A study on Muslim representation in movies between 2017 and 2019 showed that 53.7% of Muslim characters were targets of violence, while 39% were the perpetrators. The diversity within a faith tradition, any faith tradition, is rarely displayed onscreen.

O’Conner is no stranger to playing a priestly character. I first came across his acting in 2020’s Emma as Mr. Elton, a young, conceited vicar who is both the subject and victim of unrequited love. Jane Austen did not write all of her fictional clergymen in the same tone, but Emma’s Mr. Elton and Pride and Prejudice’s Mr. Collins stand out as poor mascots of the faith. Austen was not opposed to Christianity; she was a member of the Church of England. Rian Johnson, too, grew up in the Christian faith as an evangelical Protestant. What do their portrayals of religious folk have in common? They both wrote from their experiences in an attempt to bridge the gap between what they knew of the faith and what they observed of the faithful.

Caricatures often highlight the worst blemishes and the most significant sins. The Christian caricature, however, ultimately benefits Christians. It highlights the chink in the armor, the glaring red light of a failing system. If the way of Jesus Christ is one of love, compassion, and forgiveness, then Msgr. Wicks choosing to air his congregants’ dirty laundry for his own gains seems like a choice no real Christian would make. Let’s all be grateful that life does not imitate art, right?

Early on in the film, we learn that Father Jud had taken another person’s life in the boxing ring as a teenager. Sure, it’s part of Jud’s “before I met Jesus” story, but this is a wound that breaks open several times for Jud. How is it that evil and compassion, foolishness and wisdom, can reside in the same body? This is the reality of Christianity: not that all are spotless lambs or wolves in sheep’s clothing, but that each human might bear the marks of a broken world even as they attempt to pursue righting it.

I have never had to power wash “rockets” off a mausoleum or deal with a murder mystery in the pews- but I often speak with congregants whose articulations of faith are different from my own. They are fearful of the world, of experiences and perspectives that might shake their foundations. Or they are losing faith in a Jesus they cannot believe would be represented by their political opponents. The “sheep vs. wolf” mentality, so prevalent in Wake Up Dead Man, is just as easy to find in most American churches. Enemies are everywhere, says the person from the pulpit (significantly less spectacular than Msgr. Wicks’ lectern). What are Christians supposed to do to their enemies? Wicks burns them. Father Jud punches them. Of the two approaches, though, only Father Jud acknowledges what the way of Christ is: to love his enemies.

Maybe my earnestness is showing. I want my congregation to see Christ the way I see Christ, the way Father Jud sees Christ, the way the Gospels speak of Christ. I believe wholeheartedly that the Jesus Father Jud follows is not always the attractive version, but it is the version that stays truest to the source material.

Then again, I’ve heard that Jesus flipped tables. Maybe there’s room for a well-placed left hook.

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Welcome to my first post under Strangers to Neighbors! You may be familiar with my work over at She Lives Elsewhere, where I wrote for several years on life, time spent abroad, and seminary studies. I’m happy to announce a long-delayed migration to Substack, and I’ll take this change in location to update the blog’s name and content. Thanks for coming along.