Tess and I grew up together from the time she was 10 and I was 13 in a little fundamentalist church in suburban Detroit. We were a part of the same friend group in our mid to late teens at a time when friend groups in those circles were very important. Most of us went to public schools but we were first and foremost church kids. We were taught to avoid, almost to fear, non-church kids, including those from other Protestant denominations - and especially Catholic kids (and for me - Jewish kids as 60% of my graduating high school class was Jewish) as they would lead us astray and make us “backslide.” Dualism (the separation of the spiritual world - which included our church, and the secular world - which was everyone else) was alive and well in our upbringing. Sigh…

But the times impacted us. For me, it was the war in Vietnam and the Civil Rights Movement. The friends I met at Michigan State University shaped me in so many ways and were critical in my journey. We sat up late at night talking about the world and our parts in it, we listened to lots of music and saw live shows in coffeehouses and in arenas, we may have partaken in a few illicit activities, we marched and were tear-gassed in anti-war demonstrations, we sat at tables at grocery stores and encouraged people to support the United Farm Workers by not buying California grapes, we went to other classes on campus and presented slideshows on the war, and so much more. We also played softball together and won the dorm championship, had great parties, played euchre until early morning hours, went camping, and more. For Tess it was the burgeoning feminist movement in the evangelical church. For those of our generation, the book All We’re Meant to Be by Nancy Hardesty and Letha Scanzoni was revolutionary. Tess found herself in a very strict conservative nursing school setting and ate up the authors’ words of freedom and liberation for women. Tess and I spent a lot of time hanging out together during our college years, talking, sharing our thoughts, and laughing at stories. Then, unexpectedly, we realized that something was going on. A funny story of our “courtship” is that I asked Tess one night if she ever wondered about my “intentions.” She quickly said “no,” but then admitted that maybe she had been wondering. So, we began to explore what it meant to move from friendship to something deeper, and then to love for each other. After I graduated from Michigan State, I moved to Chicago for a year where Tess was finishing her last year of nursing school, then we moved back to Detroit and got married in my folk’s backyard. Tess was 21 by two weeks, and I was an old and wise 23-year-old.

The wedding was a hippy-fest in so many ways. One of the joys of the anniversary party was sorting through our files from the wedding. The menu was macaroni salad (granddaughter - “What is macaroni salad?”), fruit salad, and ham, with all the salads and breads brought by friends. The budget for the wedding, aside from our friends’ contributions of the salads, was $580 with the ham, at $80, being the most expensive item. The cheapest items on our itemized budget were napkins at $.50 and pickles at $1.25 (son-in-law - “Who puts pickles on their wedding budget?”)! Tess’s off-white muslin dress was homemade and cost $16.00. My off-white muslin shirt and bell-bottom pants cost $32.00. Both were embroidered with red flowers by a good friend. Our friends wore jeans and sat on the grass. Church folks from our little conservative church sat in chairs and were probably a bit bewildered. Our families stood up with us in place of bridesmaids and groomsmen, and my father, a lay pastor and elder at our church, married us. We walked down the gravel aisle to a piano version of “You Are So Beautiful” by Joe Cocker…but we weren’t brave enough to use a recording of it! Some family members and friends sang some great songs, we had a reading from Bonhoeffer’s Life Together, a feminist homily from a husband/wife mentor couple (it was very radical in our circles for a woman to preach, even at a wedding!), and a short reading by a good friend in which we wrote about our growing commitments to social justice and feminism. That reading, as we look back at it today, was steeped in the religious language of our upbringing and is almost embarrassing to read now. Similarly, our hippy wedding reception was not very hippyish. It was very tame and reflected our upbringing; no music after the ceremony, no dancing, no drinking. More of a backyard potluck. It took many years and our immersion into new communities of new friends to show us how to celebrate with each other and with friends.

A few years after getting married we found community at the Church of the Messiah (Episcopal). We moved down to Messiah’s neighborhood a few blocks from Belle Isle on Detroit’s near east side and lived on East Grand Blvd for the next eighteen years. Some of those years were spent in “intentional community” in which we lived very simply, participated in a common pot for finances, and made important decisions in common. Life on the Blvd was intense, and relationships were intense. People in the community were from many religious traditions with some coming from charismatic renewal movements, some from Catholic backgrounds, and many, like us, from evangelical upbringings. A mostly white church community in a poor and mostly African American neighborhood led to many, often difficult, conversations about racism. We all made mistakes, and we all learned so much. At the same time, we became involved with the Detroit Peace Community (DPC), a loose gathering of Catholics and mainline Protestants, centered around Detroit’s Catholic Worker Community. The DPC was committed to confronting American imperialism, particularly in Central America, and to ending the nuclear arms race. As a group, we discussed, debated, planned, and carried out many “actions” of non-violent resistance. Both communities formed Tess and me in very meaningful ways and some friendships from both Messiah and the DPC continue to this day. During this same time, I spent eight years as the Director of the Jesuit Volunteer Corps: Midwest (JVC) and had the privilege of working with a few hundred young Catholic adults who gave a year of service in soup kitchens, domestic violence programs, community organizations, and so much more, as well as the adults and many Jesuit priests who supported them. Tess and I were a few years older than the Jesuit Volunteers, but friendships that developed have had a lasting effect on us. Because I worked with them every day, I, in particular, learned so much from them and I remain incredibly grateful for their friendship. Our three kids were all born during these years and we have these communities: Messiah, DPC, and JVC, to thank for modeling how to live in this world, how to love each other - including our children, - how to work for justice, and how to practice true partnerships in relationships and in marriage. Counseling was seen as a healthy choice in these circles and Tess and I benefited from some good therapists in those early years. This, for us, was a time of incredible formation for our family, and for our marriage.

Our move with another Messiah couple to Detroit’s west side in 1996, when our kids were 12, 9 and 6, brought us to the next part of our marriage and family journey. We entered into a new neighborhood and met new adult friends in the community largely through sports, especially baseball. I began helping out in my kids’ Little League teams and ended up coaching baseball, basketball and soccer for the next 12 years. Our double-lot yard was suddenly filled with lots of boys! I began playing euchre with neighborhood guys and a few old friends weekly, first at some local bars and then in the home of a very good friend, for the next 20+ years. Our lives centered around our kids’ school (a K-8 magnet school in the Detroit Public School system), sports, our neighborhood, and our new church, which we found through baseball friends. The church was a mostly white suburban church, which was new for us, but we liked the preaching and liked all the artists who gathered in that church. Our kids’ lives were spent between white church and family settings, and, through school, neighborhood and sports, African American settings. They learned to “code switch” with ease and we could tell who they were talking to on the phone just by listening to which kind of speech they were using. We loved to travel with the kids to the Smokies or upstate New York and took one trip to the Rockies to camp and hike in beautiful mountains. We vacationed every year with my extended family at Virginia Beach or Daytona Beach. We went to our daughter’s concerts and recitals, and our son’s sports events. These were full but good years for us with family being at the center of everything.

They were also good years for Tess and me vocationally as I started at NSO in 1994, and Tess started to work in Oncology for the Henry Ford Health System in 1999. In my work I was immersed in an organization staffed largely by female and African American employees and eventually rose to become Chief Operating Officer, partnering with my African American CEO who is now a life-long friend. She and many others at NSO welcomed me into a world of service to those on the margins and taught me much that I, as a white middle-class man, would have never had the opportunity to learn elsewhere. Tess joined a dedicated group of nurses who, with others on their medical team, worked with cancer patients to bring healing when they could, and a longer life to others when healing was not available. Hard work like that can only be life-giving if the team you work with is committed, kind, smart, and trusting. Tess was lucky to find them and they were lucky to find her. Our careers provided for much discussion at night as we shared our stories and, I believe, offered a good role model for our kids of how to support a family and live true to one’s values at the same time.

As we aged and experienced the “normal” health issues that came with middle-age years, as our kids grew out of youth sports and went to/graduated from college, as our parents began to have failing health and then pass away, we found our life together to be slowly changing. Our kids found wonderful partners and started their own lives together. Now our daughter was having kids, and they lived a few hours away. Our sons were settling in Grand Rapids, and then one in New York City. Our church community changed again to Gesu, a Jesuit church in the city. Stress from work, even with our good jobs, took a bit more of a toll, and we began to envision our next steps together. Family, for us, was central so after forty-three years of living in Detroit we retired and made the move to Grand Rapids to be closer to the kids and grandkids. All three kids and their partners lived here when we came, though one has since moved to the east coast due to his partner’s residency, and now her medical practice in Vermont. We lost some crucial supports when we moved from Detroit. I lost my card game of so many years and other regular interactions with some of the guys with whom I played cards. Tess lost women-friends who lived close by. We lost the daily interactions with friends and co-workers from work or quickly-planned dinners with local friends. Now, in our new setting, we had much more time together and worked to establish new habits and patterns.

Then Covid hit and disrupted everything for everyone. We feel so fortunate that we were already in Grand Rapids when it hit, otherwise it would have been so difficult to see our kids and grandkids. We became the school monitors for our grandgirls as they had to sit at their dining room table and learn via zoom. Their mom was upstairs teaching first grade from their little office, and their dad was in his empty office trying to keep his organization alive. Parents of young children, during Covid, were put in impossible positions. But we were able to sit across the room from the girls, putting masks on when we had to get close for any reason, making sure they had what they needed to learn, letting the dog in and out, fixing them lunch, and just supporting them. All of us would go for long walks in the many parks in and around the city, and then, as things slowly improved, we would gather on back decks for dinner and conversation. Tess and I also began our discipline then of morning yoga/stretching and walking, a discipline we keep to this day. And, we learned to be with each other A LOT! It’s really not a bad way to enter retirement as we were forced to make changes and establish new patterns.

Now, we are in our 70’s, slowing down physically for sure, but still enjoying time with our Grand Rapids family which now includes one of my sisters and her husband. We have also, to our surprise, found a few new friends in Grand Rapids with whom we see plays or concerts, join for dinner, play golf, or have a beer. The little girls we watched during Covid are now teenagers and we get to watch their plays, their volleyball matches, and so much more. They still seem to like to hang out with us, and they are very good to us. We see our kids here a lot and we know how blessed we are. We do not take that for granted at all. And, a bonus grandson arrived one year ago from our east coast son/daughter-in-law, allowing us to start the grandparenting game all over again. We love this new growing bundle of life and visiting him and his folks gets us to beautiful east coast mountains with some regularity.

Some things, though, have changed. There is always change. Our daily reactions to the brutality of the Trump administration are different. We are both horrified by the dismantling of democracy, the assault on the “common good,” the brutal treatment of refugees and immigrants, the continued support of the genocide in Gaza, the enrichment of the president and his billionaire friends, and so much more. But we have different emotional responses as we process all of this, and we sometimes bump into each other along the way. Tess likes to listen to podcasts, read, and talk about it more as she processes externally. I read (listening is harder for me) and process things more internally. And I write an occasional Substack about it. I look for communal support through church or through faith-based writers still, and Tess does not. The wounds of years of a guilt-based religion have taken their toll on her, and church is not somewhere she finds peace or community. And, like any couple, we have different things that bring us joy and contentment; for example, following sports, eating out, reading for me. Phone games, eating in, listening to podcasts for Tess. So, we look to balance those needs, finding common ground where we can, listening to podcasts on some of our walks and walking quietly on others. Music, particularly live music, is still a place of retreat and joy for both of us.

Our selfcare for our bodies and our health has become more important for us as well. We are very aware that many our age struggle with their health, and we are aware of losses, some close to home. My mom, who was diagnosed with her eventual life-ending cancer at the same age as I am now, once told me that the hardest thing about being old for her was the loss of family and friends. That strikes true to us, as it does for many people our age. Significant friends our age who were at our wedding are no longer with us. We try not to take our relatively good health for granted as we continue to travel east to see our family, go on hikes, play the occasional pickleball game, and live a relatively active life. We hope to continue doing so together for a long time. But we know that there are no guarantees.

In our wedding program, we had a long quote from C.S. Lewis. Part of it reads: “If the old fairy tale ending, ‘they lived happily ever after,’ is taken to mean ‘they felt for the next fifty years exactly as they felt the day before they were married,’ then it says what probably never was nor ever could be true…But of course, ceasing to be ‘in love’ does not mean ceasing to love. Love in a second sense, love as distinct from ‘being in love’ is not merely a feeling. It is a deep unity, maintained by the will and deliberately strengthened by habit; reinforced by grace which both parents ask, and receive, from God.” Tess and I have tried to do the work of marriage that Lewis describes. But we were also lucky in that many of our changes were in similar directions. Like any marriage ours has had its ups and downs and its joys and sorrows. Others have put in the work that Lewis describes and still some marriages fail. There is no blame when that happens. And, I think Lewis missed one important point. A long marriage like ours takes a village. Ours, though, by and large, has worked. But we know that it is not just us. It is us with others standing alongside us. Together.

Bill and Tess together. That is the key and the theme. But it is also “together” with so many who have journeyed with us. Siblings and extended family. MSU friends. Messiah friends. Detroit Peace Community friends. JVC friends. Rosedale Park friends. Baseball friends. Card night friends. Trinity friends. Gesu friends. Nursing friends. NSO friends. New friends and neighbors in Grand Rapids. And most of all, we have shared our journey with our kids, their partners, and our grandkids. You don’t make 50 years of marriage work on your own. It takes a village, and what a village we have had. Thanks to all of you who have traveled this road with us.

To Tess:

• Tell the kids to love peace and reconciliation, and to work toward it. I learned that from Martin Luther King Jr.

• Tell them to choose the way of Jesus because it offers the best way to live, not because it offers the easiest way to eternal life. I learned that from William Stringfellow.

• Tell them to find Christ in all things. I learned that from St. Ignatius.

• Tell them to find meaning in the Eucharist. I learned that from the Plymouth Brethren, the Episcopalians, and finally, from Bishop Romero.

• Tell them to embrace our culture, loving what is creative and life-giving, but naming what is seductive, diseased and immoral. I learned that from Fr. John Staudenmaier, S.J. and from contemporary prophets and artists, including some in this church.

• Tell them that fidelity, in love and in faith, is honorable, and that it is possible even in a culture that teaches us that nothing can be permanent. I learned that from Fr. John Kavanaugh, S.J.

• Tell them that God has a preferential option for the poor. I learned that from our brothers and sisters in Latin America.

• Tell them to learn, to expand their experiences and their minds. I learned that first from my parents, and then from the many educators, professors, pastors, and friends who have pushed and challenged me.

• Tell them I love them.

• Tell them I love you.

I’ve been thinking about this recently, wondering what I would write differently were I to write this today. I was in my mid-50’s with teen-aged and young adult kids when I wrote this, but I am now in my mid-70’s with adult kids and grandkids. I was very active in a church then, serving on the pastoral team, but now I stay on the fringes of a church whose understanding of the gospel includes doing their best to be anti-racist while also being completely inclusive of LGBTQ people. I was working in a good but demanding job, supporting staff who worked with people on the margins, but now I am retired. I was living in the mostly African American city of Detroit then, but now live in majority white Grand Rapids where we moved to be with our kids and grands in our retirement. Much has changed. So, what would I write differently and what would stay the same?

• Tell the kids to love peace and reconciliation, and to work toward it. I learned that from Martin Luther King Jr. This advice, absolutely, would stay the same. In some senses, MLK’s vision for the “beloved community” is still at the heart of all that I believe.

• Tell them to choose the way of Jesus because it offers the best way to live, not because it offers the easiest way to eternal life. I learned that from William Stringfellow. This one is tougher. Stringfellow’s point was to choose Christianity because of the values and way of life it offers for living in the present, and not for a fire insurance from hell (which I don’t even believe in anymore). Many Christians and even former Christians who have been through a process of “deconstruction” in which they question much of their former faith still cling to their love for Jesus. My deconstruction is a bit different as Jesus, at least symbolically for me, is intertwined with so much of the problematic parts of my religious journey. I still value good preaching and liturgy tied to Christ, but the concept of a “personal relationship” with Jesus means very little to me these days. I would probably restate this to say: Tell them to choose values that affirm the dignity of all people as all of us are created in God’s image, or something to that effect. I still think Stringfellow was on the right track, so I could give him some credit!

• Tell them to find Christ in all things. I learned that from St. Ignatius. Again, the language is a bit too Christ-centered for me but I love what Ignatius and, therefore the Jesuits, are saying. To find Christ in all things is one way of rephrasing Matthew 25, where whatever we do or do not do for others is what we do or do not do for Christ. We feed the hungry or ignore the hungry. We heal the sick or ignore the sick. We welcome the stranger or ignore the stranger. We clothe people or ignore their needs. We visit those in prison or ignore them. We find Christ in all things, which is a way of thinking and living that makes sense to me. Others have similar values from their own religious or humanistic worldview, but as I identify as a Christian, finding Christ in all things is true to my tradition.

• Tell them to find meaning in the Eucharist. I learned that from the Plymouth Brethren, the Episcopalians, and finally, from Bishop Romero. Romero was killed because of his public stand with the poor, assassinated while serving the Eucharist. That is incredibly moving to me. I hope my kids (and grandkids) find meaning in ritual and liturgy of some kind, whether Christian or not. I have found community through rituals, common prayers, liturgy, and Eucharist. All are communal. All are shared experiences. I continue to value that.

• Tell them to embrace our culture, loving what is creative and life-giving, but naming what is seductive, diseased and immoral. I learned that from Fr. John Staudenmaier, S.J. and from contemporary prophets and artists, including some in this church. I would keep this, as this has been reinforced even more through my exposure to “reformed” theology which starts with God creating the world and calling it good, rather than starting with the “fall” and focusing on our sinfulness. Instead of being afraid of the world and of culture (as I was taught), we immerse ourselves in it, find truth and meaning in work, in relationships, in beauty and art of all kinds, and look for what is good.

• Tell them that fidelity, in love and in faith, is honorable, and that it is possible even in a culture that teaches us that nothing can be permanent. I learned that from Fr. John Kavanaugh, S.J. Nothing would change here. Kavanaugh talked about how consumerism works against commitment, how everything is focused on self and on immediate satisfaction. In contrast to that, he argued for an ethic that sees beyond today, beyond self, beyond individualism, and is focused on MLK’s “beloved community.” This seems even more true today that 20 years ago when I wrote it.

• Tell them that God has a preferential option for the poor. I learned that from our brothers and sisters in Latin America. Again, this is even more true today than it was 20 years ago. In our current political and cultural world, empathy for the poor, for Black and Brown people, for LGBTQ+ people, for undocumented (and even documented) immigrants, and for other marginalized groups is seen by many on the right as a weakness. Elon Musk called empathy the “fundamental weakness of Western civilization.” Pastor Doug Wilson has long been on the fringes even of right wing politics and theology with his calls for a patriarchal Christian theocracy where a woman’s role is to produce babies. He advocates taking the vote from women, and publicly embraces white Christian Nationalism. Now, he is in the mainstream and is the pastor of the Secretary of Defense who invited him to preach to officers and troops at the Pentagon. Mike Johnson, the Speaker of the House, believes that God has “ordained” Christians to govern the United States. Clearly, he is not talking about Black Christians as he works diligently to gerrymander them out of congressional seats they now hold. A preferential option for the poor is not on the Trump or Republican agenda, and, frankly, is seldom on the Democratic agenda as the focus is much more on middle and working class Americans. I am thankful for the public witnesses of both Pope Francis and now Pope Leo for keeping a vision of a preferential option for the poor in front of us.

• Tell them to learn, to expand their experiences and their minds. I learned that first from my parents, and then from the many educators, professors, pastors, and friends who have pushed and challenged me. Well, now my kids are the ones expanding my experiences and mind. Their generation is shaping our world while my generation is often in the way of equity and justice as we (particularly white people) hold onto a vision of a past that is not welcoming of anyone different from us. One of my kids, whose faith journey has been quite different from mine, reminds me regularly that his mom and I were the ones who encouraged him to think independently and that we have nobody to blame but ourselves! We now learn so much more from all three of our kids and their partners than we teach them, and that is all right. It is even appropriate. Their thoughts, their work, their ideas, their worldviews may have been partially shaped by us as they grew up but now they are mature adults and the world, with all its beauty and despair, is theirs to shape.

• Tell them I love them. And their kids. Now more than ever.

• Tell them I love you. Why would I stop after 50 years?

Today is also not a simple time. It is difficult not to be overcome with pessimism and despair over the events of the last few months, and even the last few weeks. Much has been written by people smarter and more eloquent than me about the recent Supreme Court decision gutting the Voting Rights Act, and the instant gerrymandering in the South that resulted. Just last week, in Tennessee, Black legislators, who called out the racism of the new gerrymandered map that will eliminate a Black district in Memphis by dividing up Black votes into long, meandering mostly white districts, were kicked off all legislative committees as a punishment for their opposition. In Alabama Republicans canceled the scheduled primary elections and appealed to the Supreme Court to reinstate a gerrymandered map that had previously been ruled as unconstitutional due to the Voting Rights Act. The Supreme Court, of course, instantly agreed with the state and the gerrymandered map will now be used. In Indiana seven Republican Senators refused Trump’s demand to gerrymander that state to eliminate Black districts. Trump called for their ousting and millions of dollars were successfully spent to defeat most of them in recent primaries. Many cities in the South are currently passing laws changing their voting system from a ward system, which was protected by the Voting Rights Act to ensure that minority communities in majority white cities had representation, to an at-large system, where all council members are elected across the city. Some pundits predict that the Congressional Black Caucus will lose half its members in the next two elections, and that cities throughout the South will lose most of their Black City Council representatives. The South, they predict, will become a one-party section of the country, all due to gerrymandering.

All the while, the white legislators making these changes say these actions have nothing to do with race, but, rather, with political power which the Supreme Court says is a legitimate reason to gerrymander districts. In a recent “Convocation Unscripted” podcast (Robbie Jones, Diana Butler Bass, Jemar Tisby, and Kristin DeMez), Tisby points out that the same arguments were made in the Jim Crow South for the poll tax (a tax that must be paid before someone voted, thus limiting poor, mostly Black sharecroppers from voting) and the Grandfather Clause (in which you can only vote if your ancestors had voted before 1867, thus, again, eliminating Black voters whose ancestors were enslaved at that time). These white legislators bristle at charges of racism, acting as if their motives are pure while saying that racism has no place in America. Writer Keith Johnson, in his Substack entitled “The Body of Christ, Gerrymandered,” finds bitter irony in white Christians working so hard to oust Black Christians from having any power. I recommend it to you. Generational damage is being done that will likely not be overcome in my lifetime. Tess, my wife and partner of 50 years, has been bursting into tears frequently these past few weeks. Her newest sign for our regular protests reads “Racist Gerrymandering = Jim Crow 2. Her anger is palatable.

Eighteen-year-old me loved the poetry of Cat Stevens but also loved the political lyrics of David Crosby (Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young) who sang: “But you know, the darkest hour is always, always just before the dawn.” A few days ago, as a 73-year-old, I heard these words from Pink Floyd artist David Gilmore on his most recent album. “And when the curtain call is done, morning always comes.” And again he sings: “The clearest light shines in the darkness, shining on me. And we're still doing this dance one step at a time.” It reminds one of John 1, where scripture says “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” But I believe that we will be in darkness for some time now. Jesuit priest and friend John Staudenmaier, SJ, used to encourage us to embrace the darkness. He argued that post-Enlightenment Western Christians had lost their love of the “holy dark.” In the dark we seek each other out for warmth. In the dark we seek out each other for protection. In the dark we seek each other out for companionship. In the dark we learn silence. In the dark we tell our stories and those of our ancestors. Thus it was for tens of thousands of years before our ability to live in bright lights all the time. Philosopher Jamie Smith, in his new book “Make Your Home in This Luminous Dark,” tells how Civil Rights activist and biblical scholar Howard Thurman reflected on the ordeal of segregation by comparing it to sinking into deep and dark ocean depths before finding the luminous quality of the darkness where fear is relaxed and confidence and vision become clear. Smith argues that stillness and silence are an ordeal endured in the dark, and an incubator for upending.

“Upending.” I love that word. Indeed, it is our task. As I said, we have, I believe, a time of darkness ahead. I will likely not see light overcoming this darkness in my lifetime, but maybe some kernels of light will shine through. I look at my adult kids and at the ways in which they live their everyday lives, and I see kernels of upending. I look at my teenage granddaughters and know that their vision of a just world is so far beyond what I knew at that age. More upending. I look at my 9-month-old grandson who is moving, as we speak, with his parents to a new home in the mountains of Vermont and have hopes that his world will be one in which kernels of love and compassion will become more fully formed. And Tess and I, and those of our generation, still have much to learn from the darkness, remembering that enduring and learning from the dark is an incubator for upending.

Blessings on all of us as we endure, learn, seek each other out, tell our stories and those of our ancestors, hold each other, encourage each other, care for those in pain, and work to upend. It is a task to which we are called. May we have the strength and courage to go about this task in our daily lives as we listen to the “wind of our soul.”

Enjoy this song, “The Wind,” by Yusuf/Cat Stevens

As many of you know, Tess and I were raised within a fundamentalist theological framework. The bible was to be taken literally (except, conveniently, for scriptures like the Sermon on the Mount, Matthew 25, the entire book of James, verses on how to treat strangers and immigrants, etc., but I digress) and our job was to use logic and reason to rationally convince people of our case (so they could believe like us and go to heaven). Thus, our training in youth group and other church-related venues was in apologetics. We were taught to make logical arguments about such things as miracles, the Resurrection, etc., such as, “if Jesus didn’t rise from the dead, then who moved the stone?” There was even a book we read called Who Moved the Stone?. Really. I went away to Michigan State University and Religious Studies was one of my majors. But I was at MSU(!), not at a fundamentalist, or even a Protestant mainline or Catholic university. So, my profs were a Catholic sister, an Orthodox priest, a Methodist minister, etc. The Methodist minister, in particular, really challenged me and introduced me to new ideas and new ways (for me) of reading and understanding scripture. The term of the day in more liberal Christian circle in those times around the resurrection of Christ and miracles in general was “demythology.” Many very well-known biblical scholars used this approach to scripture but I, of course, had certainly never heard of it. I’m not a biblical scholar but an internet summary of demythology describes it as using stories as a way of examining the theology of Jesus. It is theology in the form of stories as lessons were taught in the mythical language – stories - known at the time. Stories about miracles, therefore, must be given a subjective understanding only. On Easter day, something may or may not have happened to the body of Jesus, but either way there was a great change in the souls of his followers as they realized that the good news of Jesus remained valid and did not disappear with Jesus’ death. So, at MSU when I tried to argue with these profs that the Resurrection was literal, they responded by saying, “Hey, if that works for you, that’s great!” They simply didn’t care if it was literal. That wasn’t the point as far as they were concerned. I was lost as to how to respond. So much for all my training in apologetics. We (fundamentalists) were 25 years behind in theology and any intelligent exploration of scripture. Because of this, I realized two things. First, my upbringing had left me totally unprepared me for any intelligent conversation on faith and theology, and second, there was a big, wide and diverse Christian world of which I was totally unaware.

Tess and I married shortly after college and became very involved with an Episcopal community, Church of the Messiah in an urban Detroit neighborhood for the next many years. While there we also interacted with the Detroit Peace Community (DPC), a gathering of peace activists from many traditions including Catholic Worker, Methodist friends, other Episcopalians, and even other refugees from fundamentalism, like us. Through Messiah and the DPC we were introduced to liturgy, to the church calendar, to urban life in a poor community while seriously wrestling with issues like racism, non-violence, feminism, and more. Messiah, however, was still fairly evangelical and theological questions around how we read scripture were not at the forefront, at least for me.

My immersion into the Catholic world of St. Ignatius, who founded the Jesuit order, through my role as Director of the Jesuit Volunteer Corps (JVC) in my early 30’s was the next setting in which my theology was challenged. I found myself working with young adults who grew up Catholic, some of whom were very involved in their faith journey, and others for whom it had been more cultural and rote, yet meaningful in other ways. Most Jesuit volunteers were certainly not literalists, and their worldview and even some values were decidedly different from my upbringing. Messiah had prepared me for JVC in many ways with a strong social justice orientation, but Messiah was still largely evangelical. JVC was not, nor were the Jesuit priests who spoke at our retreats, nor were other speakers on justice, on simple living, on community, nor were the “Support People” in each city who accompanied the Jesuit Volunteers in their journeys. I cannot imagine even having a conversation in that environment about whether the Resurrection was literal. It simply did not come up nor did it matter. Christianity was far more than a literal interpretation of scripture. It was an exploration of the ways that Scripture moves us with its poetry, its creation myths, its understanding of what it means to be human, its stories of oppression and redemption/freedom, and more. JVC also helped me appreciate and explore the lives of the saints, particularly Ignatius, and more current saints like MLK, the women religious (nuns) who, like Oscar Romero and others were killed in El Salvador, Bishop Tutu, and others. The recent biography on MLK, King, by Jonathon Eig, talked about the conflicts between MLK and his father over how to view scripture. MLK operated out of a much more liberal school of theology which bothered some of the more theologically conservative leaders of the Black church. Yet very few (only fundamentalists) would argue that King is not Christian.

I’ve had a long journey since JVC too, staying at Messiah for many years, then moving to Trinity Church where we had a brilliant pastor with great and wonderful theological teaching, then back to the Jesuits at Gesu, and now here in Grand Rapids in a more Christian Reformed tradition. Amongst family and friends, you will find a range of approaches to questions like this. Some may have a literal interpretation about things like the Resurrection, seeing it as core belief, while others may believe in a literal Resurrection but would have the grace to allow other viewpoints. Others, like me value questions, doubt, and especially uncertainty. Certainty in religious beliefs actually scares me, as certainty is the bedfellow of fundamentalism in any form, be it evangelicalism, Catholicism, Islam, or even atheism. I’m certain that something happened on Easter, but not certain of what it was. Something happened that was powerful enough to change these women and men and inspire them so profoundly that they preached and lived the message of Jesus even at the cost of their lives. As an aside, Jen, one of the pastor’s at my church, recently wrote a pointed post on her Substack page wondering if one should consider whether it is faithful to the gospel text to allow a man to preach on Easter Sunday, alluding, of course, to the scriptural story that women were the first to proclaim the Resurrection of Jesus. That makes me smile.

For me, the issue of whether the Resurrection is literal is simply not core anymore. I much prefer and feel comfort and inspiration in an embracing of the Pascal Mystery. The Pascal Mystery, taught to me first by my Catholic friends, is the cycle of death and resurrection as shown to us by Jesus’s death and Resurrection. We live the Pascal Mystery all the time in both big ways and small. We have a fight with one of our kids (even as little kids) and then we share a loving moment. We are deeply wounded by a friend but find new life as we work it out. My mom is dying, but not before new life, her newest grandchild born that day in the same hospital, is placed in her arms. She whispers, “I am very happy.” Within minutes she slips into her last coma. Our good friend was killed during our years at Messiah but other friends fall in love through their grieving of her and spend a life together. My son-in-law’s grandfather dies a slow death but the talks they have during his illness are lifegiving for both of them. The Civil Rights movement and other justice movements are full of defeats (deaths) and new hope (resurrections). Out of death comes life. That is the key. That is at the core of my Christian worldview and sometimes is all that keeps me going amidst today’s cruelty and madness.

Frederick Buechner, in The Final Beast, said “The worst isn’t the last thing about the world. It’s the next to the last thing. The last thing is the best. It’s the power from on high that comes down into the world, that wells up from the rock-bottom worst of the world like a hidden spring. Can you believe it? The last, best thing is the laughing deep in the hearts of the saints, sometimes our hearts even. Yes. You are terribly loved and forgiven. Yes. You are healed. All is well.” That resonates deeply with me. Diana Butler Bass, in her Easter meditation from A Beautiful Year writes about the first Easter sermon by Mary Magdalene who proclaimed “I have seen the Lord.” Bass then says “Even now, as our wounded earth cries, as petty Caesars hold sway, as young protesters are crucified for preaching justice, as immigrants and refugees flee violence only to meet with cruelty, as the poor, persecuted, and the hungry wonder if they are forgotten, a tomb stands empty and the table is set. The road from the first invitation to the first sermon was long; the journey from that first sermon to the final embrace of love and justice longer still.”

In the end, I think the question of whether something is literal or not is the wrong question. For me, the questions are what is healing, what is good, what is just, what is true, what brings new life, what is holy? As I discovered many years ago at MSU, the Christian world is wide and diverse. And, the Christian world is only a part of the greater spaces in which people everywhere embrace, through their own religious and non-religious beliefs, a journey that tries to figure out those questions. What is healing, what is good, what is just, what is true, what brings new life, what is holy?

So, today, on Easter Sunday, I get to join others in our opening prayer: “This is the good news. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness can never put it out.” I get to sing the “Hallelujah Chorus” with others at the end of our service. And, I get to join with millions of Christians of all traditions proclaiming with confidence, and even with joy, “Alleluia, the Lord is Risen. The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia!”

Dark’s use of the word “empire” took me back to my early adult days of taking empire seriously. Empire theology for many Christian activists of my generation has its roots in the work of Jacques Ellul’s Presence of the Kingdom and William Stringfellow’s An Ethic for Christians and Other Aliens in a Strange Land, which is a commentary on Revelations 13, written by the apostle John. Babylon, in this passage, is seen by most commentators as a stand-in for Rome for John and his readers. In this vision of Babylon falling, the heavens rejoice. Both Ellul and Stringfellow take the “Fall,” as told in the creation myths of the Hebrew scripture, seriously. Ellul writes: “If we take the Fall seriously, the expulsion from Eden, which implies the constant presence of death, and if we take seriously the promise of the return of Christ…we are obliged to consider the present moment as apocalyptical, that is to say, as the last before (we) are confronted by judgement and mercy.” He writes that the Christian is inherently revolutionary because we belong to “two cities,” one being our physical presence in a particular society and the other being loyalty to what many have called “Kingdom values,” i.e. those values to which we are called by scripture and by the teachings of Jesus. We live and act in our present world but consistently call for a justice that is beyond the capabilities of a fallen world. Stringfellow’s book builds on Ellul’s work and defines the fall as happening throughout creation, including all institutions. Sin is not just personal, it is systemic. Our workplaces, our churches, our economy, our government, and so much more are fallen and in need of redemption. Stringfellow says, “What I do say is that Babylon represents the essential version of the demonic in a nation. Babylon is thus a parable for Nazi Germany. And Babylon is thus a parable for America….the Babylon epic bespeaks the moral character of every nation and of every other principality which is or which was or which may be.” Building more on Ellul, he says that “Babylon is the city of death, Jerusalem is the city of salvation.” “Incarnational theology,” Stringfellow says, “regards this world in the fullness of its fallen estate as simultaneously disclosing the ecumenical, militant, triumphant presence of God.”

Working from this theological base, in the late 1960’s, Jesuit priest Dan Berrigan and others staged acts of civil disobedience such as burning draft cards with home-made napalm to protest the Vietnam War. Late in his life, Martin Luther King spoke out against the war, but for many this was the first public witness from white Christians that they had seen. For the next many years, targets of actions, including actions of civil disobedience, grew to include the nuclear arms race and the role of the U.S. in the wars in Central America. During our years at the Church of the Messiah (Episcopal), along with our collaborations with the Detroit Peace Community, many of us used the liturgical calendar to enter into “actions” during Advent and Lent. Many actions were at companies and facilities that were a part of the arms race industry at that time, but others included commemorations of the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, actions around the killings of indigenous and religious people in places like El Salvador and Nicaragua, and more. The discussions leading up to those actions were lively, challenging, and prayerful with good people trying to come together on a plan for a particular action. The preparations that people went through to prepare for civil disobedience were thorough, deep, and thoughtful. Though I did civil disobedience a few times during those years, the only time I was actually arrested and spent any time in jail was for joining with others in a “sit-in” while singing hymns at a company that made parts for nuclear weapons Others would sneak onto air force bases and damage aircraft, liturgically and literally turning swords into plowshares as it says in the book of Isaiah. Others entered the halls of Congress and refused to leave, praying and singing for peace. The list could go on and on. My jail time was brief, but some spent long sentences, sometimes years, in prison for their witness.

Over time, while still valuing empire theology, I began to appreciate other theological approaches to engagement with culture and politics. In biblical times, empire was all people knew. The ancient empire of Babylon and current empire of Rome were their realities. Centuries later, forms of democratic government developed and empire theology, in the minds of some, did not recognize the possibilities of democracy, acknowledge that democracy was not empire, nor allow for serious political engagement through democratic solutions. The successes of the Civil Rights Act and Voting Rights Act are examples of political engagements which were instrumental in seeking justice through use of the democratic process. In fact, it can be argued that we have only had democracy since the passing of those two laws. Stringfellow cannot be put in the empire-only box as he was very involved in local politics where he lived and often engaged in political strategizing on a national level. My time working with the Jesuits introduced me to their work trying to change systems on behalf of the poor, particularly in Central America, where some were martyred for their work. Robert Drinan, a Jesuit priest, served in Congress during that time and was a voice for justice for over 10 years as a Democrat before the Vatican forced him to resign or leave his Jesuit vocation. As I noted in a previous Substack, my immersion in Ignatian (Jesuit) spirituality was deep and meaningful for me and continues to shape who I am. Ignatian communities that seek to “find Christ in all things” and to be a people that practice a “faith that does justice,” continue to inspire me. In those years I also discovered the social teachings of the Catholic Church, particularly since the time of Pope Leo XIII who, in the late 1890’s and early twentieth century advocated for workers and families in the transition from a rural to an industrial economy. The Catholic Church encouraged legislation favoring unions, outlawing child labor, protecting the poor from the wealthy class, and more. The current Pope took the name Leo in his honor. In later years, my encounters with Reformed theology further shaped me. Reformed theology sees engagement in the institutions of society as sacred and as a calling. Cornelius Plantinga, in Engaging God’s World, writes: “Christians follow their main vocation by playing a lively part in institutions and endeavors that, consciously or not, seek the interests of the kingdom…including governments, businesses, professions, and non-profit service organizations as well. So are families. If they work right, families become a microcosm of the kingdom of God, incubating us in faith, hope and love, schooling us in patience, supplying us with memories good enough to take out of storage on a lonely night.” Plantinga again: “…Government has enormous power to advance or retard human harmony and justice…” Other perspectives from other theological movements, for example the Wesleyan tradition or the abolitionist movement, abound.

Empire Theology, like any theological perspective, has insights to which we need to pay attention, particularly in a time such as this when authoritarianism, cruelty, economic bullying against nations near and far, and now preemptive war (against any traditional theological defense of war) are on daily display. The billionaires who run so much of our government, economy, and media seem to see Russian oligarchy as a model for how to subvert democracy and gain and keep power. These billionaires, in our moment, are a very direct threat to democracy. One of my kids gently corrected me recently when I described Trump as a dictator. He agreed that Trump wants to be one, but said our democracy still has barriers in place to prevent that. Certainly, he agreed, Trump and the Republican Party, with billionaires as their funding base and with the support of the Republican members of the Supreme Court, are striving and often succeeding in moving toward authoritarianism and away from democracy. Their dismantling of the Voting Rights Act, their naming of the Civil Rights Act as their next target, their efforts to gerrymander voting districts to negate Black votes, their efforts to make voting more difficult through the Save Act, all show their determination to subvert democracy. Still, my son is right. Democracy is not yet defeated and there are some hopeful signs that it will not go down quietly. Movement toward resistance at the voting polls is promising. We have yet to see what the Midterm elections will show, and, if progressives are successful, what kind of brakes Congress can put on this authoritarian administration. Dark says that “art eats empire for breakfast.” I think you can substitute “authoritarianism” for “empire.” Art eats authoritarianism for breakfast. I like that.

Art, particularly music and musical theater for Tess and me, is a place of engagement on which we depend in our efforts to stay whole and healthy in the midst of this emergence of authoritarianism. To quote Dark again: “Art is integration, a long healing game to which everyone is invited. Art makes us feel. The more we feel, the more we can acknowledge, grieve, celebrate, and act upon what we’ve experienced, what we’re seeing and taking in.” We have creative friends who paint and or work in ceramics, some professionally, and art from local art fairs fills our home. The beauty and joy these friends and other artists bring to the world is good for our souls and necessary for our long-term ability to resist evil. Literature serves a similar purpose for both of us. Ta-Nehisi Coates describes his baptism into writing by saying “It was clear that such power must serve something beyond my amusement - that it should do the work of illuminating, of confronting and undoing, the violence I saw around me, that beauty must be joined to politics, that style possessed must meet struggle demanded.” We read to get a glimpse of other people’s stories, to be moved, to be engaged, to be surprised by beauty and by people’s capacity for love. And then there’s the power of music. My favorite form of resistance in Minneapolis is the choirs who sing words of hope, love and invitation to the people in ICE. “It’s okay to change your mind / Show us your courage / Leave this behind/ It’s okay to change your mind / And you can join us / Join us here anytime.”

Tess and I went a few weeks ago to see our granddaughter in a play entitled “The Lightening Thief: The Percy Jackson Musical.” The production was months in the making, performed by middle and high school kids of many races and sexual orientations from the Grand Rapids Public Schools, and it was wonderful. The audience, made up of extended family and friends, cheered for these kids as they danced and sang and told a story. I needed that. We went to Nashville twice last year, once to see David Gray, and then a second time to see Allyson Krauss, along with local singer/songwriters both times. I needed that. We joined old friends in Ann Arbor just after New Year’s to see the Yellow Room Gang, local favorite musicians from metro Detroit. I needed to see our Detroit friends and I needed the songs. Every autumn my old MSU friends gather around an autumn gig by Joel Mabus (one of us!) in East Lansing to listen to music and share friendship. I always need that. This past summer we went with family and friends to see the traveling Broadway musical “Come From Away” in a community theater and were so moved by the story and message. I needed that. We have tickets for more plays and concerts this summer, including Bonnie Raitt in September, and, on our 50th wedding anniversary, Sarah McLachlan, whose music we love. What better way to celebrate our 50th? What better way to keep our spirits strong so that we can do our little parts to protect democracy? What better way to keep our hope alive?

I will finish with more lyrics from Days of Ash. I commend an episode from a podcast entitled Subtext with Lee C. Camp and Savannah Locke in which they go through the new U2 album one song at a time. Very good stuff.

The power of the people is so much stronger than the people in power. (American Obituary)

Be open to be broken / As every heart that sings / No voice and drum can overcome /
A symphony of strings (The Tears of Things)

If you have a chance to hope it’s a duty. (Yours Eternally)

How you hope depends on what you dream / What you imagine is your destiny (One Life at a Time)

America will rise against the people of the lie / We love you more than hate loves war. (American Obituary).

Even in the midst of authoritarianism. Even in the midst of cruelty. Even in the midst of war. Bono says, “We love you more than hate loves war.” Repeating that, singing that, believing that, is resistance to authoritarianism. I believe that. It can’t stop there, but I do believe that.

Don’t forget. Art eats empire, and authoritarianism, for breakfast.

Attached for your perusal:

Tess and I grew up together in the Plymouth Brethren church, a fundamentalist American breakoff from the Church of England that emphasized lay leadership (no pastors), no liturgy, weekly celebration of the “Lord’s Supper,” and helped birth the theology known as dispensationalism. We interpreted scripture literally and believed that creation happened over seven days. Thus, we were suspicious of science right from the start. We believed that, due to the fall of Adam and Eve, we were sinful people needing to be saved by Christ’s blood sacrifice. This is core and is what we were immersed in from our earliest years. Messages of being sinful, dirty and undeserving of God’s grace were constant. However, we now lived in a period of grace because of Christ’s sacrifice, allowing us to go to heaven after we died. Finally, scripture, particularly the books of Daniel and Revelation, showed us the future which would bring a time of tribulation, then final judgement, and then eternal salvation only for those who believe like us. If you read the Left Behind books or saw the movies, you know what I am talking about. Our particular church was known as the liberal church of the smattering of other PB churches in metro Detroit as we were allowed to go to movies, we had musical instruments at church, and eventually, at the more casual Sunday night service, we even used guitars! My parents were kind and welcoming, often housing people in our home for many months at a time if the need arose. My dad helped found the church and was an elder and preacher there until his older years. He also helped found the Bible camp we all attended and worked at in the summers. My friends were church friends, my sports teams were church teams, my youth group was absolutely central to me…my life revolved around church.

Looking back now, Tess and I see many almost cultish aspects to our upbringing. In particular, we were immersed in dualism which taught that those of us in the “sacred world” were to fear everyone else in the “secular world.” We were taught to resist the influence of “non-Christians.” Included in that group were main-line Protestant church kids, Catholics, and Jewish kids, of whom there were many in my community, as those kids would bring us away from our faith and toward an eternity in hell. Piety was greatly valued. I remember as a kid going over to a Catholic friend’s house to hang out one Sunday afternoon and meeting their priest who had lunch with their family that day. He was drinking a beer and smoking. What more proof did I need that friends like this would lead me astray? And, we were taught to fear our bodies and our sexual drives as modesty, guilt, shame and sinfulness were stressed, with the burden for “appropriate” behavior placed mostly on the girl. Healthy sexual relationships were supposed to magically develop when you got married. Tess and I can easily point to ways that this culture harmed us and our marriage. Author Brian McLaren, in his book Faith After Doubt, suggests four stages of spiritual development. Our fundamentalist upbringing is clearly stage one for us. Everything was right or wrong with no nuance. It was us versus them. Authority figures were to be followed and obeyed and loyalty to the group was emphasized. But even with those structures in place, cracks began to appear for both of us in our teens and early 20s. The culture and events of the late 1960s and early 1970s still snuck through the fundamentalist bubble.

My two older siblings were both students at Michigan State University and our dinner table conversations began to be frequented by discussions and arguments about the Vietnam War and racism, particularly in the aftermath of the Detroit rebellion of 1967. My parents, to their credit, listened. My father convened some meetings of white elders from mostly suburban PB churches along with Black elders from Detroit PB churches to talk about why these churches, in the same denomination, were so divided by race. I remember well when he preached a Father’s Day sermon in 1971 entitled “Speaking as a Father” in which he came out against the War in Vietnam from the pulpit. The turning point for him, as a World War II veteran, was the My Lai Massacre. I was so proud of him, but this came with a cost, as for the rest of his many years at his church his preaching opportunities were reduced, and preaching topics were provided for him ahead of time. For me, I started to look for ways to marry my evangelical faith to my new interests in poverty, racism, and militarism. Per McLaren, Stage 2 of the stages of faith is when you hang on to your faith but start to look for new and better teachers. It is a more pragmatic faith, looking for results and valuing independence. For Tess it was discovering a very new movement of evangelical women who were asserting themselves as leaders and teachers in the midst of extreme patriarchy. The book All We’re Meant to Be by Letha Scanzoni and Nancy Hardesty crashed loudly into the evangelical world, and Tess devoured it. For me, at Bible Camp, a counselor showed me a small booklet by Vernon Grounds, an old Baptist preacher, which introduced me to the words of the Old Testament prophets, words which embraced a love for the poor and called for justice for those being oppressed as well as the words of Jesus in the Beatitudes, and Matthew 25. I do not ever remember hearing sermons on any of those scriptures in my church while growing up. Dispensationalism taught that some scripture was meant to guide us now but other parts, like those passages above, were for the coming Kingdom and had little or no bearing on how we lived our lives. Reading that pamphlet opened up a new world for me and I never looked back.

In my home church our youth group was trained in “apologetics,” i.e. the Bible is to be taken literally, and our job was to use logic and reason to rationally convince people that our understanding of Scripture is correct, and to convert them by making logical arguments about such things as miracles, the resurrection, etc. For instance, “if Jesus didn’t literally rise from the dead, then who moved the stone?” Really. I followed my siblings to MSU and Religious Studies was one of my majors, but I was at MSU, not at a fundamentalist, or even a Protestant mainline or Catholic university. So, my professors were a former Catholic sister, an Orthodox priest, a Methodist minister, etc. The Methodist minister in particular really challenged me and introduced me to new ideas and new ways (for me) of reading and understanding scripture. For instance, I was introduced to reading the books of Daniel and Revelations as books written to oppressed people promising justice and peace in words steeped in symbolism that only the target audience, not their oppressors, would understand. Wow. So different from using those parts of scripture to predict the “end times.” The theological term of the day around the Resurrection and miracles in more liberal Christian circles at that time was “demythology.” Many very well-known biblical scholars were using this approach to scripture, but I, of course had never heard of it. In summary, demythology said that the stories of Jesus’ life offered theology in story form. The lessons were taught in the mythical language known at the time. Stories about miracles must be given a subjective understanding only. On Easter day something may or may not have happened to the body of Jesus, but there was/is a great change in the soul of the disciples as they realized that the good news of Jesus remained valid and did not disappear with Jesus’ death. So, when I tried to argue with these professors that the Resurrection was literal, they responded with, “hey, if that works for you, that’s great!” They simply didn’t care if it was literal. That wasn’t the point as far as they were concerned and did not even qualify as meaningful conversation. I was lost in how to respond. So much for all my training in apologetics. We (fundamentalists) were 25 years behind in theology and any serious exploration of scripture. Because of this, I realized two things. First, my upbringing left me totally unprepared for any intelligent conversation on faith and theology, and second, that there was a great big, wide and diverse Christian world of which I was totally unaware.

After Tess and I both graduated from school, we got married in a hippy wedding in my folks’ back yard. Our youth group leaders from our home church preached a short feminist homily (they were the liberals of the church) and we set off to build a life together. We moved into the city of Detroit and eventually discovered an Episcopal community, Church of the Messiah, on the near-east side where they embraced simplicity and living amongst poor and disenfranchised communities. We soon moved down to the neighborhood of the church and joined our lives with theirs for the next 18 years. We lived “in community” with others for long periods of time, and on our own in our own apartment at other times. We shared a common purse with others in our community for many years but stayed in the neighborhood even when that formal community ended. We lived simply and were immersed in an impoverished and high-risk neighborhood trying (and often failing) to learn how to be good neighbors - always a tough lesson for white people in a community of color. Moving to Messiah, as I reflected to my old spiritual director a year or so ago, was Tess and me bursting out of Stage 1 into Stage 2. Bursting out.

Messiah was connected to similar communities around the country, including Sojourners where my brother and sister lived, and New Jerusalem, a Catholic community where Fr. Richard Rohr was the pastor. We were able to listen to the writings and teachings of my brother, Jim Wallis, and Sojourners magazine not only because he was family but also because our communities were intertwined. Also, with help from people like me and Tess, Messiah became closely connected to the Detroit Peace Community, a loose gathering of political activists from Methodist, Catholic Worker, Episcopalian, and other faith backgrounds witnessing to the dangers of the nuclear arms race and working in solidarity with those seeking liberation in Central America from U.S. supported dictatorships. At Messiah and through the Detroit Peace Community Tess and I discovered the seasons of the church, liturgy, the lectionary, and more. It was all new to us and very life-giving. Mostly though, new and better teachers were everywhere. Messiah, even though it was Episcopal, was still pretty evangelical and even charismatic (for many, not all) and we learned from many teachers and friends within the church through their friendship and mentorship, and through their teaching and preaching. This was especially true for our pastor, Ron Spann, the tall, deep-voiced African American priest who led our community. Through the Peace Community we were introduced to Dorothy Day and the Catholic Worker movement, the works of Bill Stringfellow and Daniel Berrigan (both of whom preached at Messiah), the theology of direct political action through Bill and Jeanne Wyle-Kellermann and others, the writings of (now disgraced due to sexual abuse) Mennonite John Howard Yoder with his classic book The Politics of Jesus, and so much more. The intersection of faith and politics was an everyday part of our lives. We have many critiques of our years at Messiah as community on this level was intense, boundaries were not always clear, personal choice was often sacrificed for community consensus, and old friendships and family ties became frail due to all of the above. Nevertheless, Messiah formed much of who are as adults, particularly impacting how we approach justice and racism.

I directed the Messiah Day Care Center for five of those years, which baptized me in meaningful ways into our African American neighborhood, and then moved on to direct the Jesuit Volunteer Corps: Midwest (JVC) for the next 8 years. My immersion into Jesuit spirituality and with the Jesuit Volunteers, as a non-Catholic leading a Catholic organization, was life-changing for me. Again, I found new and better teachers and JVC proved to be the next major expansion of my understanding of Christian faith. JVC is a peace-corps-style program for Catholic young people, mostly recent college graduates, who give one year in service in marginalized communities. It is marked by four core values: simple lifestyle, social justice, community, and spirituality. Jesuit Volunteers (JVs) lived in community with each other and worked in soup kitchens, domestic violence shelters, community-based organizations, housing programs, and so much more. Jesuit priests and local lay people supported them in their work and served as mentors and role models. We held five retreats a year for them to learn and share about their experiences in JVC, and we were privileged to have great speakers, many of whom were Jesuits, present at those retreats. Jesuit core values such as “finding Christ in all things” and a “faith that does justice” found their way into our lives. I was with JVC when the six Jesuit Priests, along with their cook and her daughter were executed by American-backed soldiers in El Salvador, and I got to witness the incredible sadness and grief of my Jesuit friends, as well as their pride in their brothers who had been killed for walking alongside the poor of that country. The work and witness of Oscar Romero and the teachings of Liberation Theology with its “preferential option for the poor” became central for us. Those Jesuit connections were very meaningful but so were the connections with the Jesuit volunteers, most of whom were only 10-15 years younger than me and Tess. The JVs were a delight for me and I treasure them to this day. They are the reason I have those wonderful connections to what is happening in Minneapolis as I write this. They were the kids we were taught as youths to fear. They loved to party and dance. The loved to celebrate. They were not afraid of their bodies and their sexuality. And yet, they were thoughtful, contemplative in ways that I could never approach, smart and questioning, serious in liturgy, and committed to learning from the co-workers with whom they worked, and the people they served. I stay in touch through Facebook and emails to well over 150 JVs, who are now in their 50’s and 60’s, and have watched them as they married, had families, settled into communities and churches (or not), pursued careers, and more. I have seen the work they have done and are doing. I have seen the communities in which they live. I have seen the values with which they have raised their kids. They taught me much more than I could have ever taught them, as evidenced by my Minneapolis friends. I have often said that the Jesuits and JVs saved whatever fragile faith I still have. I am so grateful.

After JVC I worked in anti-racism work for 3 years, then spent the last 24 years of my work-life at the Neighborhood Service Organization (NSO), a fairly large non-profit in Detroit that worked in behavioral health (mental health and intellectual/developmental disabilities), suicide prevention, youth leadership and workforce development, community organizing, homelessness prevention, housing, and more. For the last 15 or so years of my time at NSO, I served as the Chief Operating Officer, providing program leadership for all of the work we did. Most significant to me was my immersion as a white middle class man into a mostly African American and mostly female workforce. My CEOs were all African American women and my partnership for the last 20 years of my time at NSO with Sheilah Clay, my long-time CEO, was deep and meaningful. My work in this environment combined with our move to the westside of Detroit after 18 years at Messiah, and my serving as a coach for my sons in basketball, soccer, and especially baseball with mostly African American kids and coaches, provided opportunities for even greater immersion into the African American community. I am grateful for all the co-workers, coaches, and parents who accepted me into their world. This is more than a white, Plymouth Brethren kid had any right to expect.

After our move to the west side of Detroit we found our way, to our surprise, to Trinity Church, a small Evangelical Covenant Church in the suburbs of Detroit. We went because we had a few new friends there, and because of the brilliant teaching of the pastor, Michael Van Horn. We were also drawn by the gathering of visual artists and talented musicians who worshipped there, bringing a great sense of creativity to the life of that church. The music at Trinity, in which I and my kids participated, was the best we ever experienced. At Trinity we were introduced to Reformed theology and found much of it to be refreshing. Reformed theology starts with the creation story, and the fact that God saw it as a good thing. This contrasted greatly with how we grew up where the emphasis was on the fall and how sinful we were. Reformed theology emphasizes that we are all created in the image of God, Imago Dei. This theological core belief drives many of religious people today, even right now in Minneapolis, who are working to resist ICE. All people, including immigrants, are worthy of dignity and respect, and legal rights. Reformed theology rejects dualism and says that all of creation is sacred and good. We should not fear the world, rather we should immerse ourselves in it, in our careers, in our families, in our institutions, because God is there. But, in spite of the close friendships we had developed there, our time at Trinity ended badly. Michael, in his 40’s, became very ill and never recovered. We tried to keep the church alive for a few years, but for me the final straw was the Sunday after the killing of Trayvon Martin when the interim pastor never mentioned his death. I was seething with anger and left the church that day asking what the fuck was I doing in a white suburban church where his death was ignored, while almost every Black church in America was grieving that day.

Thus began, in earnest, our decent into Stage 3 of McLauren’s stages, where everything to do with church is shit (my words, not McLaren’s). In Stage 3, one distrusts those in authority, confronts dishonesty and hypocrisy in the church, and begins to doubt much of what they had believed. An easy example today is looking at the role that sexual abuse and assault in churches, and the cover-ups that followed, plays in destroying any sense of trust in church for so many victims. Stage 4 for McLaren is moving to a holistic and inclusive spirituality based on finding connections, valuing questions and doubt, making contributions to the greater good, learning a deeper compassion, all the while acknowledging our own complicity and struggles. It is a theology, in the end, based on love and welcoming. These stages are clearly not stagnant and one can move in and out of them, which is where I suspect Tess and I will be for the rest of our lives, particularly with stages 3 and 4. Stage 4 is what we strive for, but Stage 3 is where we often find ourselves. Our spiritual and church journeys have always been something we have done together, but that time seems to have come to an end. After Trinity we attended Gesu, a Jesuit (Catholic) church in Detroit for our last 10 or so years in the city and valued it greatly. But it was not the center of our lives as our previous churches had often been. It was, and is, very racially integrated which is such a rare gift. But, as a Catholic church, patriarchy is etched into the institution and Tess, though she appreciated the church, could never fully commit. The same is true for how the church relates to the LGBTQ+ community. They are as welcoming and affirming as they can be….for a Catholic church. Still, we greatly value the people of Gesu who are working so diligently to be a welcoming and loving community in Detroit and who are strongly committed to the Jesuit ideal of living a faith that does justice.

When we moved to Grand Rapids, we began looking for a new church that was oriented to justice, ordained women, and was welcoming/affirming of the LGBTQ+ community, but COVID brought that search to an end. Post-COVID I began looking again, but Tess was done. The wounds of our past are not easily healed and often appear out of nowhere. Tess began to be triggered by talk of going to church, by songs from our past, by phrases Christians use in speaking, and so much more. Her responses were often visceral. So, she made the healthy decision to end her relationship with church, a decision that I do not think will change over time. I am with her on much of this. Both of us question and doubt much of what we have been taught about our faith. We are more comfortable with doubt than with belief. We are more comfortable with people who share our commitment to the common good, whether religious or agnostic or atheist, than we are with many Christians, especially white Christians. We are more comfortable with uncertainty than we are with certainty. Certainty scares us. In spite of that, I still go to church. Church, for me, can be a place of resistance to the violence and racism of the world and a place of community and celebration for those who long for something different. Praying a confession, praying the Lord’s prayer, saying the Apostles Creed, sharing the Eucharist - all in common with a local group of people and with people all over the world - is meaningful to me. I may not believe all of it anymore but participating in this in the midst of community still brings me hope. I am more of an observer now as I stay on the fringes. I appreciate the many young people in my church and all their many kids!!! I appreciate a good sermon on scripture from the lectionary. I value the attempt to be anti-racist. I affirm the way the church supports and welcomes its LGBTQ+ members. I appreciate their commitment to caring for creation. I see their attempts to build community with each other. So, I will probably continue to attend church on Sunday mornings while Tess takes a nice long walk and listens to thoughtful political podcasts. We both look for hope in our own way. That is not all bad.

The privilege that I draw out of this, the honor that I draw out of this, is not that things will necessarily be better in my lifetime, but that I will make the contribution that I am supposed to make. Ta-Nehisi Coates on “Bridging Gaps vs Drawing Lines;” Ezra Klein’s podcast on 9/28/25.

We have a brand-new grandson! He joins his two older cousins in bringing tremendous joy to our family. We just returned from a 12-day visit to see him and his parents, and we could not be happier.

Yet, the world into which he enters is dark these days. In September, environmentalist Bill McKibbons summarized the challenges we face by writing:

“Eight months into the second Trump administration, what are we? The president and his minions have been enriching themselves and doing it by stripping the state that better women and men had built in the decades before. Our scientific and medical prowess? Our great universities? Our shared culture, from public broadcasting to the NEA to the Kennedy Center? Even our history, as the Smithsonian comes under attack.”

You can add to that the brutal treatment of immigrants, many of whom have been here for over 20 years, many of whom are here legally or in legal processes to gain legal status, many of whom are afraid to even attend church because they could be taken from their families while worshipping. Or the attacks on LGBTQ+ people. Or the rise of antisemitism and the US funding of mass killings in Gaza. Or the constant weakening of democratic norms. Or the federal threats to states who wanted to continue SNAP support for hungry families during the shutdown. Or the catering to the fossil fuel industry, one of the greatest supporters of Trump, by shutting down research and funding for solar and wind energy. Or the tearing down of the East Wing of the White House without any appropriate approval processes so that Trump can build a huge golden ballroom, and name it after himself. Or the fact Trump’s family fortune is being enriched by his deals in crypto currency and through business partnerships with Middle Eastern princes and kings. Or his threatening of those who wanted the Epstein files released until public clamor forced his hand. We could go on and on.

A friend recently asked me if living through these times was hard for Tess, my wife of almost 50 years, and me after spending a lifetime trying, in our own modest ways, to contribute to building a more just world. Yes, it is hard. For many of my generation, the “arc toward justice” as MLK and others have preached, seems a little distant. At times, we battle discouragement and depression as we are in the last third of our lives, for sure, and don’t want to leave this mess for our kids and grandkids. But then Ta-Nehisi Coates reminds us of what is important. His words encourage us and center us on values that last, values that our families and friends can embrace: “making the contribution that we are supposed to make.” Later in that same interview, Coates was asked how he deals with the idea that we are losing, that the forces of evil are coming out ahead. He said:

“It’s not that you know what is going to happen…it’s that you don’t underestimate what you are up against…People get activated by hate. It’s a very, very strong force, but I don’t think it requires you to feel that you will eventually lose. On the contrary, I think it requires you to feel that even if you do lose you have this steadfastness to keep going.”

So, we keep going with steadfastness, even with joy when we can find it.

How do we keep going? Where do we look for and find joy? A Mumford and Sons song says “In these bodies we will live. In these bodies we will die. Where you invest your love, you invest your life. Awake my soul.” So, we choose to invest our love where we can. We spend lots of time with our kids and grandkids. We have dinner or go to a play with friends. We are at protests once, sometimes twice most weeks. We walk our kids’ dogs. We exercise, walk and care for our health. We read and read and read, mostly fiction but some more serious stuff (I finally read Howard Thurman’s classic “Jesus and the Disinherited.” Great read!). I still look for community by attending church (Tess does not), but the church I attend recently disaffiliated from the Christian Reformed Church due to my church’s support for LGBTQ people. We make modest contributions to local community organizations, environmental groups, and political candidates. We vacation and love going on mountain hikes. We watch TV and movies together. I still watch a lot of sports and love playing fantasy baseball, basketball and football with my sons and their friends. Tess volunteers at our daughter-in-law’s third grade class in a public school a few miles from our house. I continue to volunteer for the local coalition to end homelessness by reviewing grant proposals to HUD and other government entities, and I serve on a committee for the local mental health association. We continue to deeply value and find joy in live music, both with local artists and with two trips to Nashville this past year to see David Gray and Allison Krause – both great shows! Tess loves cooking, caring for her 40+plants and playing word games on her iPad. We decorate our house for the holidays and enjoy our wonderful neighbors. I still travel to the Jesuit retirement/nursing center across the state every 6 weeks or so to visit an old Jesuit (Catholic priest) friend who over many years was the friend and spiritual director who helped me make sense of my faith. Soon we will be gearing up for our 50^th wedding anniversary! We will have an open house/party of some sort in our daughter’s back yard in July or August. And, for me, I started writing this Substack blog. I hope that there is both steadfastness and joy in all of that.

In his “Letters and Papers from Prison” Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote: “The ultimate responsible question is not how I extricate myself heroically from a situation, but [how] a coming generation is to go on living.” Tess and I are trying to live lives that bring hope to the “coming generation.” We keep going, trusting that our children and grandchildren, that your children and grandchildren, can build on the little bits of grace that we all offer to each other. Our hope is that our kids and grandkids will live lives of kindness that bend the arc of history toward justice, that they will embody the words of Bishop Tutu who encouraged us all to “do your little bits of good where you are: It’s those little bits of good put together that overwhelm the world.”

In this Christmas season of hope, let’s overwhelm the world together.

I am also aware that these issues are not what drive most people. The successful recent Democratic victories were not centered on authoritarianism or immigration (except in specific Latino districts which saw a large swing away from Trump to the Democratic candidate). They were centered, instead, on kitchen-table issues, on the economy, on inflation. I think it is safe to say that most people base their vote on what they feel is good for their families, not out of concern for the greater common good. Knowing this, Democrats across the ideological spectrum ran the same kinds of campaigns. Moderates, progressives, and even New York’s Democratic-Socialist mayoral candidate all ran on kitchen-table issues, and it worked. There has been a debate in progressive circles about whether to focus on threats to democracy or on the economy as the Dems prepare for the upcoming campaigns to try to re-take the House or even the Senate. Clearly, economic issues are the most effective.

Yet, we stand week after week with signs that are not about the economy but instead focus on moral issues in our country. I think that’s ok. As a person of faith, even if my faith is fragile and uncertain, I want to keep moral issues front and center as much as possible. Politically, I see the wisdom of the focus on people’s pocketbooks. I’m fine with that. People care about their families and bank accounts and we need to speak to them where they are. But I hope to encourage all of us to be about more than that. Most faith traditions, including Christianity, center on love of God and love of neighbor. Good theology focuses on the common good. The suffering caused by this administration, particularly toward people of color and LGBTQ+ people, is a moral issue. The fact that attendance in Latino churches is down because people are afraid of being taken from their families while at church is a moral issue. The constant weakening of democratic norms is a moral issue. The threats to states who wanted to continue SNAP support for hungry families is a moral issue. The catering to the fossil fuel industry, one of the greatest supporters of Trump, by shutting down research and funding for solar and wind energy is a moral issue. The tearing down of the East Wing of the White House without any appropriate approval processes so that Trump can build a huge golden ballroom, and name it after himself, is a moral issue. The deaths in the Ukrane, Gaza and the West Bank are moral issues. Trump’s family fortune being enriched by his deals in crypto currency and through business partnerships with Middle Eastern princes and kings is a moral issue. His threatening of those who wanted the Epstein files released is a moral issue. His very manner of using power by threatening and bullying, which he does very well, is a moral issue. I could go on and on.

The signs we hold at our protests, I hope, spur conversations in cars between parents and children. Our signs, I hope, encourage people who feel overwhelmed by the “shock and awe” attacks which are designed to discourage resistance and demoralize us. Our signs, I hope, give others some confidence that they are not alone. John Calvin said, “We should ask God to increase our hope when it is small, awaken it when it is dormant, confirm it when it is wavering, strengthen it when it is weak, and raise it up when it is overthrown.”

Many practice resistance every day in their jobs, their volunteer work, their preaching, their parenting, their sharing of their resources, their lives of simplicity, and more. In our senior years, we try to do much of that as well. I don’t necessarily have Gandhi’s confidence that we are “in Gods’ work” as that seems a bit arrogant to me. Still, I hope we are doing God’s work. Not confidence, but hope. All I can do, it seems to me, is to act out of my understanding of Gospel values. Barbara Brown Taylor paraphrases the Beatitudes as “Excessive Love, flagrant mercy, radical affection, exorbitant charity, immoderate faith, intemperate hope, inordinate love.” Holding signs only scratches the surface of that. Yet, we hope that our disciplined presence of bearing witness on freeway overpasses, at ICE offices, at the airport, or at larger gatherings with so many others who also value the common good, can bring hope to others. Resistance comes in many forms.

I’m at a particular low point with it right now and have been thinking about it for the past few days. We went to a wedding recently for a friend of our son and daughter-in-law, and we went to dinner the other night with some friends who we are enjoying getting to know better as they have recently moved to Grand Rapids. Both nights should have been times of relaxation and joy as one thing I miss as I age in a relatively new city is the opportunity to be with friends. And they were good nights in many respects. But, both nights were also struggles for me as my stuttering was pretty severe, even more so than usual.

It could be argued that my stuttering never really held me back. I was a well-liked kid, captain of the safety patrol, a leader in my church youth group, president of my high school choir, and more. My professional life was a journey of ever-increasing leadership roles in the non-profit world. My colleagues always told me that they never “hear” the stuttering because it is simply a part of me. But, I always hear it. I see everyone else around me speaking fluently without any effort and I marvel at how easy it is for them. I envy the ease with which people talk, even if most people take it for granted. I know that my friends and work colleagues have their own struggles and personal issues and that speaking fluently does not make for a stress-free life, but I confess to being jealous.

I thought, actually, that in retirement my stuttering would be less of a struggle for me as my life is more relaxed and stress-free in so many ways. Yet, maybe because we still feel new to this city (even after 6 years), and we don’t have that many “friends” here, the pressure to interact easily with others presses on me. We have developed a few good friendships here, but I do long for more friends like the ones I had in Detroit with my old card game crew where we shared stories, laughter and struggles. Still, for many of those nights, even that setting was stressful for me. I was sometimes one of the quiet ones because talking on that particular evening was difficult. Other nights were better. There is no rhyme or reason to it.

Now, for the most part, when I go to church (by myself, as Tess has given up on church, but that is a story for another time) I sit with my sister and brother-in-law, or by myself if they are not there. I listen to the prayers. I join in with the liturgy, I sing some songs and just listen to others. I listen to the sermon. I take the eucharist, but then I leave. I do not join others for coffee after church. I do not stand around and chat. I do not make plans for dinner, or coffee, or a beer. Talking to people I don’t know, most of whom are much younger than me, is too difficult.

I go to the homeless coalition meetings for Grand Rapids where I serve on a committee to review grant proposals to HUD, the city and the state. While there I engage in a bit of small talk, but dread, as any stutterer would, the introductions where we have to go around and say who we are and describe our connection to the coalition. I listen to the presentations and think about how impressed I am with all of these relatively young people who work so hard to end homelessness. But I am not in the struggle anymore. My contribution is important, but small. To be honest, one of the most painful parts of aging for me is the feeling of not mattering. Another older friend recently said that he is invisible to young people. I get that. I want to matter, but “mattering” would mean more output, more talking, more stuttering. Most of us “matter” through our work, and I do not want to work professionally again. I volunteer some, but that is done quietly. I miss problem solving, the feeling of camaraderie, the joy of finishing a project, and more, but I do not miss the stress, the daily grind, the HR issues, the pressures of leadership, and all the talking (which for me is trying not to stutter) that goes along with that. I know that I do not have the energy for all of that anymore. Aging is no joke.

Don’t misunderstand me. I have a good, even great life, mostly centered around family. My Grand Rapids kids and grandkids could not be any more loving or inclusive of us in their lives. My granddaughters are teenagers now yet still seem to like having us around! My east coast son and his wife just had our first grandson, and we are already enjoying spending time with this new family! Our kids love us and are intentional in caring for us as we age. Tess and I love retirement. We wake up when we wake up (!), we exercise regularly, we walk most every day, we watch TV and movies together, we go out to eat with each other or friends, we love our home and neighborhood, we go to our grandgirl’s school and sporting events, we go to protests once or twice most weeks, I watch lots of sports, we love seeing local singer/songwriters, we travel some, and we read, and read, and read. It’s a great life, but the talking part of it still takes it out of me. I didn’t go with Tess to a regular protest we attend the other day because we had no other commitments and I wanted a day without having to talk to anyone. I did break that vow and called a friend who recently lost a buddy of his to see how he was doing. Our talk was good, and brief, but still stressful as my speech was a bit tough. And I wrote this piece.

My stuttering is a constant presence in my life that, frankly, I could do without. But, still, I know that I have a good life, and that I have had a life that mattered. Resting in that knowledge, however, is not always easy.