The writer of Ecclesiastes spoke directly to my heart when he said, “If you see in a province the oppression of the poor and the violation of justice and right, do not be amazed at the matter…” (v.8). The passage speaks honestly about human beings, systems, and government. It speaks to reality.

I once watched a YouTube Q&A where a pastor was asked what advice he would give young clergy entering their first leadership role. His answer struck me deeply because it named a mistake I made entering my first pastorate.

He said, “The greatest mistake I made was not a particular sin or unrighteous deed. I entered my role as a leader expecting people to be perfect, to be great lovers of Jesus, and to exemplify that in the way they lived.”

That challenged my idealism. It forced me to confront reality.

People will always be people.

I expected others to meet my mystical perception of holiness, but that idealized vision is not the average reality of human life. As a pastor, my role was to challenge, encourage, exhort, and rebuke when necessary. Instead, I walked away hurt and isolated because the congregation did not think like me.

This may sound arrogant, but I mean it sincerely: I felt alone because they did not live like me.

I expected people to be head over heels in love with Jesus. I anticipated conversations about systematic theology and the nuances of Biblical Greek and Hebrew. Instead, many cared more about Trump and Fox News than exegeting Scripture. They were disciples of political commentary more than students of the gospel.

I was perplexed when people said off-the-wall things or mistreated those outside the congregation. I was shocked by racist remarks directed toward me and by those who refused to join in prayer. I did not yet understand my role as a teacher, guide, and spiritual director.

I wanted finished products. Seminary students even.

Ecclesiastes confronted my naïveté. Like the pastor in that interview, I am learning not to be surprised when people do what people often do. In systems of power and government, it should not shock us when leaders pursue ambition at the expense of justice.

As an Army chaplain, it should not surprise me when senior leaders seek career advancement over the well-being of others.

This is where unchecked idealism fails. If left untethered from reality, it drifts into daydreaming and loses the ability to advocate for the here and now. It sees the forest but overlooks the trees. It ignores red flags because it desperately wants to believe the best about people.

There is goodness in humanity. There is also something savage within us.

So I challenge myself not to be surprised when people reveal their true selves — when they neglect justice, embrace prejudice, or allow racism and sexism to rear their ugly heads. I challenge myself not to grow cynical, but to remain awake to reality while still pursuing the heavenly vision of what humanity could become.

A world where people truly love God.

A world where we respect the dignity of every human being

.

Pearls

Gold

Fur.

Books

Wine

Tea.

As I indulge, the blacker I’ll be.

So, don’t scrutinize me.

The clothes on the white woman’s back, my ancestors bled for it.

The Ivy League education and prosperity, yep they were lashed for it.

They were brutalized on all fours like that piano that plays the blues.

Black and white keys together, composing a song that depicts the melody of life.

I’d be a fool if I didn’t like these things too. Sitting back idle. No my people know nothing about that.

That bled for it. They slaved for it. They died for it.

The closer I get to whiteness, I realize that I don’t diminish my blackness. I get closer to it.

The foundation is whipped, bloody, brown bodies holding the weight of the country like an overhead press.

I stand on courage. Sacrifice. Hope. Hope that one day we can drink from a water fountain. Or read books. Or play classical. Or wear clothes that won’t rip in a few days. To wash clothes. To sit at a dinner table without fear of death lurking over our family. To make livable wages. To represent brown people in government. To dream. To breathe. To love. To be alive in the spiritual sense.

It don’t make sense to breathe if I ain’t free. So, I’m just gonna be me.

So be you

.

John 1:3–5 (NRSV)

³ All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being ⁴ in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. ⁵ The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.

This passage gives me hope and purpose. To know that the life of Christ is the light of all people. I reflect on the light that shines in dark places. As a light bearer of Christ, I accept that I am different. My motive is different. My worldview is different. My morals are different.

When the light of Christ shines through me, it creates a stark contrast to the darkness in our world. How is it that I can remain calm in chaos? When a person displays road rage, how is it that I am not retaliatory toward the individual(s) who reveal their dark character?

Society is not devoid of its darkness. There are endless school shootings, wars, and rumors of wars. There is systemic injustice, marginalization, and oppression toward specific people groups, genders, and orientations.

As a light bearer of Christ, my light shines when I welcome the marginalized. My light glows when I feed the hungry and visit the sick. My light illuminates when I walk into spaces where people are only after their own interests. Christ compels me to seek the interests of others. To serve. To love. To bless.

May you be encouraged. Dare to be different. Dare to be the one who does not carry out evil in the way our dark world does. Dare to be the person who does not revile or seek vengeance. In our ornery political climate, ask yourself this question: “Does what I am doing, or about to do, contrast with the ways of darkness? Does what I am saying, or about to say, emit the glorious light of Jesus through spirit and character?”

It is a holy, blessed, and beautiful gain to follow Christ in this dark world. I wouldn’t have it any other way, no matter the trials that may emerge.

1. Jesus is God:

John 1:1,14

Colossians 1:15-19

John 8:58

John 10:31-33

Hebrews 1:3-4

2. God Offers HIMSELF

Hebrews 9:11-12

Hebrews 7:26-28

Is James Brown’s classic paying homage to women or quietly fanning the flame of misogyny?

In “This is a Man’s World,” James Brown catalogs the accomplishments of men:

This is a man’s world
But it would be nothing
Nothing without a woman or a girl
You see, man made the cars
To take us over the road
Man made the train
To carry the heavy load

On the surface, the song sounds like reverence. Women are declared essential. The world would be “nothing” without them.

But listen closely.

Men are credited with building civilization. Cars, trains, electricity, and commerce. The public sphere belongs to them. Innovation belongs to them. Infrastructure belongs to them.

Women, however, seem to function as emotional grounding. They keep men from being “lost in the wilderness.” They give meaning to what men create.

The compliment begins to feel like containment.

Women are essential, but only in relation to men. Necessary, but not named as architects of the world itself.

I can’t help but wonder whether the song confuses appreciation with limitation. Is it gratitude or is it boundary-setting? Does it affirm women while simultaneously shrinking their field of contribution?

What if a woman’s role is not merely to keep a man balanced — but to construct the world alongside him? To invent, engineer, lead, and define the public square?

The tension in this song still feels contemporary.

⸻

Questions for Discourse
• Does dependence equal equality?
• Can a song affirm women while still centering men?
• Is this merely a product of 1966 — or a pattern that persists today?
• What would this song sound like if written from a woman’s perspective?

Thanks for reading!

In America, Black people are often vilified; portrayed like predatory, savage beasts who cannot control their impulses.

Charlie Kirk espoused the same sort of rhetoric in his arguments on his podcasts and across many college campuses in our country. The irony of Charlie Kirk’s death is not subtle; it stands in the room like an elephant we refuse to name. Un-mockingly, Charlie was killed in one of the whitest states in the nation, on a college campus that is predominantly white, by a white male, by way of gun violence.

In other words, Charlie did not die by Black gun violence. Charlie died by white gun violence. The person that unjustly killed him was not a person of color. Even the governor of Utah said, “For 33 hours, I was … I was praying that if this had to happen here, that it wouldn’t be one of us. That somebody drove from another state, somebody came from another country,” he said. “Sadly, that prayer was not answered the way I hoped for. Just because I thought it would make it easier on us if we could just say ‘Hey, we don’t do that here.’”1

He could have spent his moment on air lamenting the death of Charlie Kirk; instead, he spent his moment grieving that another white man from Utah did the crime. As if the death of Charlie Kirk would have sat right if someone else did the crime. He used his public relations moment to mend the image of white people. As if white people are not capable of gun violence or that it breaks the norm.

How many school shootings must we endure for white Americans to realize that the savages are not confined to “inner cities,” like people of color live in a zoo? Sometimes, they grow up in conservative homes, attend Sunday school, and still become the violence we pretend only lives elsewhere.

Every time a school shooting occurs, I say what I think most Black people say when it happens: “I sure hope they aren’t Black.” Now, this may sound hypocritical because I am laying into the governor of Utah, yet I feel the same way about certain crimes. Here lies the difference. I am inflicted by a stereotype about people of color, forced to clutch my pearls when something bad happens, hoping that we can dispel the harmful rhetoric.

The governor was trying to repair the false image that white people don’t commit heinous crimes as such. He was protecting a lie. I hope to disparage a lie.

Let’s not flip the script here. I am not preaching a narrative that reverses Charlie Kirk’s. I am simply making the case that white people, and people of color (not just Black people) are human. Crime is not racially exclusive. All humans commit crimes.

What happened to Charlie Kirk is horrendous. It exposes the disease that runs through the human condition. We are broken. We are traumatized. We are sick. I refuse to argue who I wish committed the crime. Nor am I “happier” that it wasn’t a person of color. I wish what happened didn’t happen, regardless of the race that pulled the trigger. I just wish MAGA faithfuls can say the same.

Or is it just a glitch in the system?

The way things are supposed to function?

What if I recalibrate my senses

To be free

To be redeemed?

Redeemed from guilt?

Like salmonella in a kitchen sink,

I have been contaminated,

My life is a wasted vapor

Adolescent confusion disguised as consent

Sent me on a lifelong spiral.

Trying to cleanse the blood on my hands,

Though the blood is on the hands that caressed my innocence.

These days, nothing truly feels right.

Only isolation.

Only the will to be free from being a fruit in the produce section.

Like finger food.

Unless I’m in the mood.

I know it is quite selfish of me

But

Can you blame me?

Or

do we blame him?

-OR-

Do we blame Him?

Restless from the lies that a consumeristic society markets.

Restless from the never-ending chatter on social platforms, where unqualified, non-credentialed individuals have professional opinions that are deemed true.

Tired of the never-ending epidemic of American selfishness.

Restless from stress about things that don’t make or break a quality life.

Exhausted from the never-ending pursuit of the American dream.

Restless from the age of content creation, where influencers present a life of pretense for views and followers.

Restless from a society that is the most connected in history, but the most stressed, anxious, depressed, and unhappy.

Restless from the idea that the lack of WiFi is suffering, while 3rd world countries struggle to find food for their families.

Restless from the hate, crime, and terrorism that plague American streets.

Restless from the American narrative that we are the hero, the good guy.

I am a little late to the “New Year’s resolution” tradition, but I found a goal that will have lifetime implications for my family, ministry, and personal life.

I want the meaning of my life to be completely defined by resting in God as the source of all my needs. I am reminded of the Psalm that reads, “ Take delight in the LORD, and he will give you the desires of your heart” (Psalm 37:4).

Therefore, I can rest from the endless pursuit of trying to make a name for myself in this generation. The world is competing for influence and notoriety. It defines success by views, followers, and achievements. Here is the catch: the New Year’s resolution should bring peace, joy, and happiness, not stress and anxiety from chasing fleeting goals.

Whether I reach my personal goals or not, God loves me either way. I am more compelled by the mission to serve others in the love of Jesus. I want to help people find their peace, joy, and deliverance.

So, I am letting go of possessions because I don’t want my possessions to possess me. I will live a quiet and devoted life to Christ and his church. I will end my addiction to material things and find solace in prayer rather than doom scrolling and overstimulation.

Scene One:

I met Henri at the local recreation department in downtown Tacoma, the sister of Seattle that rains just as much. It was a typical overcast day, the sky crying as usual.

Somehow, Henri’s golden brown, Arabian skin glistened in the absence of the sun.

He had been running routes on the soccer field, as if he were simulating a two-minute drill.

I’d been waiting thirty minutes for an open field. My stomach growled, and I kept checking the time, bouncing my heel against my cleats. Finally, he jogged over to the next bench, chest heaving.

“You play?” he asked between breaths.

I wasn’t in the mood for small talk. I just wanted to get my reps in and get on with the long list of student-athlete duties waiting for me.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Just transferred from Tumwater to Clover Park High School.” His long, black, curly hair dripped sweat with each movement.

Henri smirked. “Man, y’all suck.”

I looked up at him, surprised, but the corner of his mouth tugged like he already knew he’d hooked me.

“We’ve still got five games,” I shot back. “Could still make the playoffs.”

He dropped onto the damp turf and started unlacing his purple Nikes — gold swoosh flashing like UW colors.

“So I guess you’re telling me the field’s mine now?”

“Yeah, man. Do your thing,” he said, leaning back on his elbows. “I’m cooked.”

I grabbed my cleats. “Where do you play?”

He laughed. “See? You asking too many questions.”

As he rang out his damp, white towel, it was as if all the rain in the Pacific Northwest had been strained out.

He began wiping the mixture of misty sub-Seattle rain, sweat, and the tire beads from the turf off of his 6’3” frame.

He had the build of a tight end, lean with seemingly no fat content.

“Go, man, let me see what you got!”

Something about his demand made me feel up for this challenge. What do I have to prove to this person? I don’t know who he is, and it doesn’t even matter.

I just need to stay focused on the task at hand and eliminate any distractions.

I grabbed my AirPods from their scuffed-up case and popped them in.

“Hey Siri, start a radio station for ‘let’s grind’!”

I imagined myself playing at UW against WSU in a two-minute drill. I was gonna win this imaginary game for my team.

I tuned Henri out at this point, wearing my purple and gold uniform, soaking in the cheers of the crowd.

I was receiving no-huddle signals from the sideline. I caught imaginary passes and bounced off swift and husky defenders. It was just me, the wind, and my dreams.

In this moment, my mind was liberated from seeing my dad verbally abuse my mother after guzzling a 24-pack of beer. I was free from the intrusive thoughts of my bullies at Clover Park. I was a strong, determined Washington Husky with no worries except making the next play.

And I made it.

That was the best workout I had in a very long time. I was feeling it as I walked back over to Henri with some swag in each step I took.

Henri’s mouth was wide open, his eyes locked onto me, not breaking his gaze. “Bro, that was fire! What year are you?” It almost felt like a mic-drop moment.

“I am a senior,” I said sheepishly.

I don’t meet many friends, and I’m not the most social person. “My name is Henri, by the way.” He extended his arm to offer a handshake, the XL tag from his football gloves exposed as it rubbed against his wrist.

“I am Leonard, but you can call me Leo.” Only two people in the world call me Leo — my dad and my mom.

He started to chuckle. “So, are you too embarrassed to tell me where you play? It can’t be that bad!”

His cheeks turned red as he let off a boisterous laugh. “You are fast and funny!”

“Hey, I’m gonna send you a link. Do you have a phone?” he asked.

I pulled out my black iPhone 15 Pro Max. “Yeah, you can AirDrop it to me. My name will pop up as ‘Leo the Great.’”

He started laughing. “Man, I’m not even gonna ask.”

My iPhone made the pulsing noise to alert me that the transmission was complete. The link was a guest list for the next UW game against UCLA. Henri’s name was at the top of the form.

“No way! You play for UW?” I gave him a jab to his right pec. My jaw was probably touching the floor at this point. “Why would you send me this link?”

He leaned in closer and rested his hand on my shoulder. His eyes started to slightly water, his voice starting to crack.

“Well, I don’t start, but I am on the travel team. My family doesn’t come to my games because I guess I’m not good enough for them. So it will be you and my cousin — that is, if you accept the invite.”

“Bro! I should have known by your cleats. UW is my dream school.” I wanted to make a playing-time joke, but the moment felt too tender given the information he shared with me.

“Why me, though?” I asked. “I’m a total stranger.”

His voice regained its bass. “You seem like a cool guy. Plus, I have no one else to invite.”

“Man, I would love to go, except I don’t have a ride. Also, my parents are very strict.” For some reason I started to peel back. I wanted to create distance because this seemed too good to be true.

How does a bullied geek that happens to be good at football meet a UW player who invites him to a game? The math was off to me.

His voice started to inflect an octave higher. “My cousin can pick you up. Her name is Tracie. Put your contact in my phone and I will connect you!”

Author’s Note- This YA short story follows two young athletes—Leo and Henri—as they navigate the complexities of life, relationships, identity, and the traumas that sports alone can’t heal. New scenes drop every Saturday. Thanks for reading and being part of this journey.

What do you notice about Leo and Henry so far?

What stands out to you about their chemistry, personalities, or the direction their friendship might go?

What do you think about their family dynamics that they mentioned.

I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

Part of God’s healing process is leaning into the despair. The prophet utters this semi lament with a shear confidence in his relationship with God. Though Israel is in exile and enslaved to the nation of Babylon, the Prophet Jeremiah made a lamenting declaration that the power of healing is in the hands of God. He proclaimed that the power of salvation belongs to Yahweh.

I would to emphasize his words in verse 17. He said, "Do not become a terror to me; you are my refuge in the day of disaster.” It is evident that the prophet is leaning into the despair, trusting God despite Israel’s circumstances. The benefit of doing so is healing and salvation. The Hebrew is רָפָא, rapha. This means to be healed completely, like being healed by a physician.

I reflect on how these Hebrew words can be depicted by a story of my youth. When I was about 10 years old, I went for a ride with my three wheeler around the neighbor hood. Let me re-phrase that. I went for a bike ride in the projects, my hood. For some odd reason, I decided to ride between barely a foot of space between the building and hedges to make the apartment more aesthetically pleasing. There were all sorts of things stored in those hedges.

I remember cigaret butts, beer cans, and candy wrappers. I remember wasps nests hiding in the bushes and even dogs that relieved their bladders on the bushes, but the 10 year old version of me was determined to undermine that and make it through those bushes. Little did I know that I would end up in the emergency room for stitches because of a 4 inch deep and wide laceration in my leg that would need to be healed.

A branch from the hedges met my leg at the entrance of my path as I forced my way through as fast as I can. My saving grace was my Army combat medic uncle who cleaned my would and managed the bleeding before being rushed to Grand Strand Hospital in Myrtle Beach. Thanks to my uncle and the ER Dr., my wound is now is healed and I have a scar that reminds me of how healing is possible in moments of despair.

As a side note, I offer this as a life lesson from my ten year old decision making. Don’t be stubborn. Don’t force what doesn’t need to be forced. You may end up with painful, debilitating wounds.

The word rapha provides my soul with the image of a God who knows how to cleanse and suture a wound. If we allow the Great Physician to get his healing hands on us, he will do miraculous work. The Hebrew for the word saved is יָשַׁע, yasha. It means to save spiritually and physically. So, the prophet is not lamenting about a wound that is either or, but both and. It is not singularly spiritual or physical. It applies to both.

In this context, Israel is both in physical exile from their home land and spiritual exiled in their relationship with God. This divine distance has caused disharmony in the human soul, that burdened their emotional well being. I wonder, what soul wounds are you carrying in your current context? Are you faced with a physical ailment? Are you feeling distant, lost, or depressed?

We can glean from the prophetic poetry of Jeremiah, and find that God is a savior and a healer. He is ready to suture our emotional and physical wounds. He is ready to deliver us from the very things that cause us grief. The moments that we fear sitting,

with the despair and normalizing the emotions we feel from human suffering, God meets us there. God meets us in the moments we feel alone, hopeless, and faithless. He meets us in the darkness of our thoughts. the thoughts that tell us we will always be estranged, barely getting by, always looking at the ground.

That’s why we call him savior; not to drastically change our circumstances, but to be present in the circumstance.

The world is hurting.

I’ve been taught to pursue the joy of the Holy Spirit , to believe that the mark of a true Christian is one who carries joy. And I do believe God gives a joy that transcends earthly sorrow.

But I also believe in a season of lament.

How can someone rejoice in what God is doing in their life when the world is on fire? Distant echoes and gut-wrenching screams pierce the soul that dares to hear them.

Should I pretend that I don’t?

Are we so numb, so insulated, that we can’t feel the world’s grief? There is persistent poverty and greed at our doorsteps, yet we’re told to smile it away. Some may say, “I’m not Superman or Superwoman.” True, but the last time I checked, neither of them wore a mask.

We cannot continue to turn a blind eye to the anguish of the world, as if joy is meant to erase human suffering. What if joy is like enduring a fiery furnace and still giving God praise? What if joy coexists with grief, not masked by praise, but born of the Spirit?

Joy doesn’t live in fantasy.
Joy brings heaven to earth, especially when earth resembles hell.

I’ve come to believe these four things:

Lament Isn’t Faithlessness

Most Christians perceive sadness as a weakness. But Scripture leaves space for sorrow, weeping, and mourning. Lament is not weakenss, it’s faith that refuses to dismiss pain.

• Jeremiah cursed the day he was born.

• Job wrestled with God’s providence.

• Jesus wept so deeply that the crowd whispered, “See how he loved him.”

Faith doesn’t deny sorrow. It allows us to sit with it, speak through it, and still believe.

Holiness is often perceived as a smile that dismisses the inevitable, coerced by the fear that our emotions indicate faithlessness.
Even if we’re thrown into a lion’s den, a furnace, or an unjust cross, we cling to hope. And yes, sometimes, it hurts to do so.

Joy and grief are not enemies.
They are companions in the same soul.

The World Is Not Healed by Our Pretending

What if joy is shaped not apart from suffering, but in it?

Romans 5 tells us that suffering produces endurance, character, and ultimately, hope. The Holy Spirit meets us in our pain, not to erase it.

As Paul wrote:
“The love of God has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us.”
(Romans 5:5)

God’s love does not always change our situation. But it changes us within it.
That’s not toxic positivity. That’s hope that rises from the ruins.

The Mask We Refuse to Admit We Wear

The real mask we wear is apathy.
As selfish, entitled Americans, as long as we’re well fed, housed, and entertained, life is good. We rarely consider the pain of others. As long as my grass is green, I dont care if my neighbors grass is brown.

We perform missions in Haiti while ignoring the homeless on the same block of our elaborate churches.
We say “I’ll pray for you,” but rarely show up for the broken.

James asks:

“If a brother or sister is naked and lacks daily food, and one of you says to them,
‘Go in peace; keep warm and eat your fill,’ and yet you do not supply their bodily needs — what is the good of that?”
(James 2:16–17, NRSV)

We must take off the mask. Real faith walks. Real joy acts. Real hope feeds.

Joy That Laments

I think of my ancestors, those who endured the transatlantic slave trade.
Their grief was unspeakable.
And yet, somehow, so was their hope.

White America is often too fragile to face the music.
But my people made music through it. They inherited a colonized gospel, yet somehow that true gospel set them free.

Jesus met us there. And still does.

Our enslaved ancestors wept, wailed, and sang freedom in the fields.
Their joy did not cause them to escape reality but to endure it.
It was the same joy that:

• Sang from prison cells

• Wept over Jerusalem

• Rose with scars

The writer of Hebrews says:

“We do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses…”
(Hebrews 4:15)

Jesus suffered. Jesus died. Jesus empathized.
And still, Jesus rose.

Joy doesn’t come because we forget the pain.
Joy lives through it. And at the darkest hour, when it seems like darkness will win, somehow, the tide turns. One morning, what looked like death’s triumph and sorrow’s chronic diagnosis of the human soul came the resurrection. Death was defeated, and so was sorrow.

Today marked my first Easter service as an official Episcopalian, and I was deeply moved. I want to share three things that stood out to me:

1. The Richness of the Liturgy

This should come as no surprise, but it still left an impression. As someone who came to the Episcopal Church from an evangelical background, this was my first time experiencing Easter through the lens of ancient tradition. In evangelical spaces, worship often feels untethered from the historical church—centered around a charismatic preacher or crafted for entertainment. But the liturgy does something different: it anchors us. There is no superstar here, only Christ at the center.

What struck me most was how honest and Christ-focused everything felt. The hymns, for instance, are a lost art in much of today’s worship culture. Unlike the music geared for emotional highs or spectacle, these hymns carried uncompromised theology and sacred composition. They didn’t just sing about the resurrection—they made it come alive. They pulled the theme of Easter into our hearts with reverence and depth.

2. The Church is Still Alive

The Episcopal Church is truly a multigenerational community—proof that it is still a living force in the Kingdom of God. The sanctuary was full, including many young people, families, and children. I watched as little ones enjoyed an Easter egg hunt, and I saw families celebrating the resurrection together.

It’s true, Easter brings out those who may not attend church regularly—but even that is telling. The twice-a-year churchgoers remind us that the church still holds a place in the hearts of many. My wife offered an insightful take on this: perhaps it's not that people don’t care about church, but that American culture doesn’t allow them the space to rest. We live in a society that idolizes work and hustle. People are exhausted. Sundays become a rare window to breathe or reconnect with loved ones. It’s not always a matter of apathy—it’s survival.

My prayer is that America would once again prioritize families and communities over production and consumption. The church has a real opportunity to reimagine how it serves people—not just on holy days, but every day.

3. A Welcoming, Diverse, and Free Church

Although my children and I were the only brown faces in the room, I still felt welcomed. More than that, I felt seen. I saw something truly beautiful in the diversity of the congregation—not just in age, but in identity and expression.

In front of me sat a lesbian couple with their daughter. They showed small moments of affection—shoulder touches, hand rubs—and it was beautiful. Not because it was performative, but because it was free. They worshipped without fear. They participated in the liturgy fully, joyfully.

In front of them was a transgender woman and what seemed to be her boyfriend. They too were engaged, smiling, and present. And as I looked around the sanctuary, I was overwhelmed with emotion. Everyone—regardless of gender, orientation, or background—was focused on the one thing that makes us all common: the shed blood and broken body of Jesus Christ.

It brought to mind a familiar passage from 1 Corinthians 3:17:

“Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.”

For years, I interpreted this—as many evangelicals do—as a verse about freedom from sin, with an assumed list of what that freedom looks like. But now, I believe Paul was pointing to something deeper. Freedom in Christ is not about pretending struggle doesn’t exist. It’s about having unveiled faces, like Paul contrasts with Moses. We no longer hide fading glory. In Christ, we reflect a glory that only increases.

Today, I saw unveiled faces shining with the glory of Christ. Faces that have too often been shut out from the church. I saw them shining during the baptisms of two infants, during the Eucharist, during Rev. Marlene’s sermon. I saw the Spirit alive, and I wept with joy.

This reflection will focus primarily on the prescribed Gospel.

In this narrative, Jesus’ brothers showcase their confusion about his identity. They encourage him to attend the Feast of Tabernacles, a Jewish celebration commemorating the time when the Israelites lived in booths in the wilderness after God delivered them from Egypt.

Could it be that Jesus’ unorthodox ministry was as confusing as it was uncomfortable? I imagine his brothers understood that the sibling they grew up with was now performing spectacular acts—yet the nation was still awaiting the Messiah to come and set them free. When the community celebrated the Feast of Tabernacles, the undertone of the celebration was their anticipation of the coming Messiah, the one who would deliver them from their wandering.

When the Messiah comes, he will set all things straight. There will be no more wandering haphazardly through life. The burden will no longer be on their backs. Israel will no longer have to look over its shoulder, for it will become a national superpower, led by its King, the Anointed One. The Anointed One—the Christ—will govern Israel in peacetime. God’s promise will be fulfilled: a powerful King will rule Israel forever. David’s throne will never lack a successor.

Jesus’ brothers understood the magnitude of Messianic anticipation in a natural sense. But Jesus didn’t fit the bill. Yes, he was a miracle worker, but would he overthrow the Romans and set the nation free? Their insistence that Jesus go to the festival and reveal himself to the world seems to carry an undertone of mockery. Jesus was a radical, teaching things to the nation that were not fully or accurately interpreted.

His brothers may have been acknowledging that they saw something in Jesus they had never seen before, but to be the Divine One, he had to meet other expectations. He had to make a spectacle of himself. He had to be spectacular and do spectacular things. He had to come, defend Israel, and reclaim her glory.

But Jesus’ response was, “My time has not yet come.” His glory would be revealed at the Passover, not the Feast of Tabernacles. He would die as the sacrificial lamb, bringing eternal victory and establishing a Kingdom not of this world.

Jesus also said, “The world hates me because I testify that its works are evil.” The Jews were seeking to kill him for this very reason. Tragically, they were not truly on God’s side. They thought they were, but Jesus revealed their ugliness—their allegiance to the world. The “world” here represents a realm that lives in opposition to God: a created universe and people who choose to live without regard for God’s will.

Speaking Truth to Power in a Polarized World

Our politics are polarized in nearly every aspect, topic, and theme. One side sees the other as “too woke” and vilifies them for speaking truth to power—challenging authorities and systems that fail to benefit all Americans. Meanwhile, the other side believes they are restoring proper American order, convinced that their political mission is a godly one, untouchable and unquestionable.

If Jesus were to challenge the conservative side of the spectrum today, I believe he would be hated just as the Jews hated him for calling out their lack of diplomacy. Justice is godly. Justice, as declared in our Pledge of Allegiance, is about liberty and justice for all.

Perhaps we should follow in the footsteps of Jesus—not living in fear of being disliked but living in reverence to his mission. Liberty and justice for all people, even when their outlook on life differs from our own.

Is love a crime?

So what is the problem with

Mary and Jane

Or

Adam and Steve?

Just to express selfless love

They have to bob and weave

The insults.

The hatred.

The obstacles that stand in THEIR way.

Why does their love ruin your day?

Love is complex, yet simple

Until the simple-minded stand in its way

To go back in time.

To revisit the moments of America’s greatness.

Now, we navigate a country not so great.

Can we go back in time?

Can we experience the bliss of the past?

My country ’tis of thee

God bless America.

I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the U.S.A.

And so I thought.

I found the monster of America,

Rearing its ugly face at me.

Botched by blemishes of oppression,

She can’t hide her flaws behind cosmetics.

Underneath that paint is a layer of disease,

Deeper than the skin’s surface.

Want to erase the blemishes?

You must go deeper.

You must not hide the flaws with powder and blush.

Unless for a tentative hush.

Not to step on toes,

So, really anything goes.

As I traveled back in time,

I found my heart in disdain

For the lies I have been spoon-fed since adolescence.

I first noticed the rape and pillaging

Of the true American people.

Damn their tears.

Why are they crying?

We are only taking what’s due.

Have you heard of the survival of the fittest?

From Europe, we brought our guns and diseases that decimated a people.

People that we erased from our consciousness, and it doesn’t matter anyway because God forgave us.

We prayed to our god,

They prayed to theirs,

Our god won.

I’m not talking about Jesus,

I’m talking about our guns.

I asked myself,

Is this when America was great?

Behind me, I heard the thunderous rattling of chains,

A formation of thousands of Black slaves—

Blood dripping from their black bodies,

Tears gorging from their eyes.

Lacerations etched deep into the surface of their backs,

From the whippings fueled by hatred.

Their masters—

One hand gripping the whip,

The other clutching a Bible.

He forced himself into the vast ocean,

Once chaste,

Pure,

Loyal—

Now corrupted by power and pride.

A seed.

A spawn.

An heir— but on the wrong side.

Then the gunshots rang out.

The same guns that killed the natives.

The same guns that scared these souls into submission.

That same Bible they held in their hands,

Used to whip and bind,

Calls these masters “men stealers,”

Utterly condemned, but our preachers don’t speak of it.

Those same guns led to a civil war.

I asked myself:

Is this when America was great?

I heard a commotion at the ballot booth.

There was only one voice.

A white voice.

The voice of men.

Women were not there.

Not allowed to use the voice God gave them.

They were useless to politics and the workforce.

Only useful for Pandora’s box.

Feeding babies,

Cooking meals,

Washing clothes.

They weren’t wives.

They were full-time mothers.

Even to their overgrown, selfish, breadwinning

Babies.

They had no right to the voting booth.

They had no reason to the voting booth.

Why did they need to make their own money, call their own shots, make decisions for their own bodies?

Let’s make sure we got this right.

They are women, correct?

Doesn’t the Bible say that Adam was formed first?

So, there you have it. Case closed.

Then, I asked myself,

Is this when America was great?

I looked through the haze of history,

The chains, the blood, the screams,

I asked again, “Is this when America was great?”

And in the quiet,

The answer came like a whisper in the wind:

Not when it was built on lies,

Not when it thrived on pain.

Not when greatness was reserved for some,

While others were erased.

So I ask myself,

Can we truly go back?

Can we make a future

That dares to be great?

Not by revisiting the past,

But by changing the path we walk today.

“I was WOKE.

My eyelids wide open.

I saw the world in a new way.

Trading in red hats for rainbows.

Supporting my wife.

My neighbor’s life.

And building an America that doesn’t just suit me.

It’s a land of truth, equality, and grace—

Where freedom means freedom for all.

The divine life is about devotion to God. The story of Samuel’s mother devoting him to the Lord is both amazing and, at the same time, strange. She left her young son at the temple with Eli, and the text makes no mention of what followed immediately after. What we can glean from the story is that it is right to dedicate our children to God and to make God the center of our lives—without question or hesitation.

As we know, Samuel lived his life as a mouthpiece of God to the children of Israel. He declared God’s standard of holiness and was the instrument God used to establish the monarchy Israel had long petitioned for. Samuel was tasked with anointing Saul as Israel’s king, and later, he became the very prophet who rebuked him.

Samuel was devoted to his mission and his divine calling. I aspire to be like Samuel—one who lives for God and remains obedient to God’s instructions. How did Samuel respond when God called him to speak truth to power? When Saul disobeyed, Samuel confronted him and exposed his infraction against God. Saul’s disobedience was tied to a difficult command: God had told him to wipe out the Amalekites. I struggle with this portion of scripture, as it is difficult to reconcile with God’s love. However, the spiritual application is clear—“obedience is better than sacrifice.”

At the same time, it is evident that God had a redemptive plan, and Israel was the vessel chosen to carry it out. The Amalekites had historically sought to wipe Israel off the face of the earth. The praise of redemption that Romans 8:14-21 highlights would not be fulfilled if God did not step in as the sovereign, divine judge—preventing the Amalekites from accomplishing their mission.

I do not interpret this passage as portraying God as a bloodthirsty warlord. Rather, it reveals Him as a divine protector, intent on blessing the world through a chosen vessel. Israel was that vessel.

 Current Events

Christian leaders bear the prophetic call to speak truth to power and advocate for the less fortunate. Bishop Budde of the Diocese of Washington, D.C., displayed her love for humanity and her call to serve God when she pleaded for President Trump’s mercy on behalf of marginalized people. Though her appeal may have fallen on deaf ears, history will remember that there are Christians committed to peace—Christians who do not seek to create a war between the holy and the unholy.

You see, the prophet’s call is not about drawing a wedge between the sinful world and the holy people of God. Instead, it is a charge to all people—to treat one another with dignity and respect, to pursue justice, and to live at peace with all.

Christians can model Samuel’s prophetic boldness by following Bishop Budde’s example—speaking truth to those in power, even when it comes at great risk. Samuel had a difficult task: he was called to hold the king accountable, even though the king had the authority to do as he pleased with the prophet. Yet, Samuel remained obedient to God.

When we embrace the prophetic call, we can rest in the assurance that God has power over the powerful and is able to protect us as we stand for justice. I believe God will sustain Bishop Budde’s position and even increase her influence because she is doing great work for the marginalized. God calls us to do the same—to advocate for the oppressed and extend His love—so that all people may come into His adopted family (Romans 8:14-21).

Some may struggle to see the connection between Saul’s command to “destroy” the Amalekites and Bishop Budde’s advocacy for the marginalized. After all, one story involves judgment, while the other is about protection. However, the parallel I am drawing is in the boldness to correct and the obedience required to follow the prophetic call.

This is a difficult passage to wrestle with, but the key theme is that Saul was disobedient. His failure was not in showing mercy, but in disregarding God’s instruction for the sake of his own interests. Likewise, Bishop Budde’s version of disobedience would have been to turn a blind eye to the plight of the marginalized in order to please the president.

Samuel did not compromise his mission to appease the king. So, as Christians, will we compromise our responsibility to advocate for those who cannot advocate for themselves just to remain in the good graces of those in power?

The promise of a covenant relationship with God does not come through the Law, but through the promise God made to Abraham—400 years before the Law was even instituted. The Law was established to reveal our sinfulness and our desperate need for God. It shows us that we are imprisoned by sin, in hopes that we would cry out to God in our despair. Yet, even though the Law reveals our sin, Paul says it does not nullify the grace God bestowed through the promise to Abraham. Our sinfulness doesn’t negate God’s promise.

In fact, God solidifies His promise to bless the world through Abraham in Christ. Christ defeated death and condemned sin—the very thing that disqualified us from a fruitful covenant relationship with God. And now, we are all God’s children through the Promise Keeper.

In the Gospel passage, we see the Promise Keeper healing the sick and the injured. People laid the sick in the marketplaces just to get close to Jesus. What a mighty God we serve! A gracious healer indeed. If only I could just touch the fringe of His garment.

But how do we do that today?

We touch the hem of Jesus’ garment when we press into Him intimately. Every moment spent in prayer, every conversation with Him, every time we bring our needs before Him—this is the act of touching His hem. The scripture says that all who touched it were healed. Do you need healing today? Healing from past relationships and trauma? From the wounds of injustice? Perhaps even a physical ailment? Just one moment with Jesus can change your life forever.

Current Events:

Frankly, our government and political climate is polarized. To put it nicely—it’s a mess. But even in the midst of division, I believe God is still healing us. He is healing America from its past trauma, and let me tell you—removing DEI policies will not stop God from keeping His promise of justice and equity for all people. We serve a God who works miracles for all people.

In the Gospel passage, they brought all the sick to Jesus in the marketplace to be healed. There were no restrictions. No criteria. No exclusions.

That means it doesn’t matter if you’re red or blue, ugly or pretty (I believe you’re pretty!), gay or straight, Republican or Democrat—you are not disqualified from the grace of Jesus.

As followers of Christ, we can improve our society by advocating for all people. Let’s cheer each other on, in hopes that we all experience divine healing.

Boy, do we need our Heavenly Doctor!!!