Richard writes of conversion as an experience of participating in divine reality: 

Before conversion, we tend to think God is out there. After transformation, God is not out there, and we don’t look at reality. We’re in the middle of it now; we’re a part of it. This whole thing is what I call the mystery of participation. Paul is obsessed with the idea that we’re all participating in something bigger than ourselves. “In Christ” is his code phrase for this new participatory life. In fact, he uses the phrase “in Christ” 164 times to describe this organic unity and participation in Christ. “I live no longer, not I; but Christ lives in me” (Galatians 2:20). “In Christ” is his code phrase for this new participatory life. 

It’s a completely different experience of life. I’m not writing the story by myself. I’m a character inside of a story that is being written in cooperation with God and the rest of humanity. This changes everything about how I see my life. A participatory theology says, “I am being chosen, I am being led, I am being used.” After conversion, you know that your life is not about you; you are about life! You are about God. You’re an instance of both the agony and the ecstasy of God that is already happening inside of you, and all you can do is say yes to it. That’s conversion and it changes everything.  

After conversion, you don’t experience self-consciousness so much as what the mystics call pure consciousness. Self-consciousness implies a dualistic split, with me over here thinking about that over there. The mind remains at that dualistic, either/or, and “othering” level. When we have a mystical experience, the subject/object split is overcome. Of course, we can’t maintain it forever, but we’ll know it once in a while, and we’ll never be satisfied with anything less. In unitive experience, we’re freed from the burden of self-consciousness; we’re living in, through, and with another. It’s like the experience of truly being in love. Falling and being in love, like unitive experience, cannot be sustained at the ecstatic level, but it can be touched upon and then integrated throughout the rest of our life. 

True union does not absorb distinctions, but actually intensifies them. The more we give of ourselves in creative union with another, the more we become our authentic self. This is mirrored in the Trinity: perfect giving and perfect receiving between three persons who are all still completely themselves. The more we become our True Self, the more capable we are of not overprotecting the boundaries of the false self. We have nothing to protect after transformation, and that’s the great freedom and the great happiness we see in converted people like Paul. As Paul puts it, “Because of Christ, I now consider my former advantages as disadvantages.… All of it is mere rubbish if only I can have a place in him” (Philippians 3:7–8). 

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the shape of a soul (when the shine fades)

CHUCK DEGROATAUG 11

You’ve been told the lie
(though not in so many words)
that if you don’t shine
You’ll disappear.

That you won’t be seen
if you’re not on.
That digital space is crowded
and the algorithms demand your sacrifice.

Feed the glow, they say
Curate brilliance
(even if you don’t have it in you)
The digital egosphere requires its offering. 

So you polish your moments,
(and trim the ragged edges)
filter the light until it flatters,
until you are palatable enough to trend.

Yet in the quiet
when the screen dims
and the crowd scrolls past
You feel the hollowing.

What good is being seen
if I am no longer here?
What worth is relevance
if it costs me presence?

I want you to step back
let the glow fade
let the silence swell
until you remember the shape of your own soul.

To shine, not for them,
but because 
the light within
is enough.

Mystical Conversion

Father Richard Rohr describes the apostle Paul’s transforming encounter with the risen Christ, which changed Paul from a vengeful zealot into a universal mystic.  

Paul is probably one of the most misunderstood and disliked teachers in Christianity. I think this is largely because we have tried to understand a nondual mystic with our simplistic, dualistic minds.  

It starts with Paul’s amazing conversion experience, described three times in the Book of Acts (chapters 9, 22, and 26). Scholars assume that Luke wrote Acts around 85 CE, about twenty years after Paul’s ministry. Paul’s own account is in his Letter to the Galatians 1:11–12: “The gospel which I preach … came through a revelation of Jesus Christ.” Paul never doubts this revelation. The Christ whom he met was not identical to the historical Jesus; it was the risen Christ, the Christ who remains with us now as the Universal Christ. 

In Galatians, Paul describes his pre-conversion life as an orthodox Jew, a Pharisee with status in the Judean governmental board called the Sanhedrin. The temple police delegated him to go out and squelch this new sect of Judaism called “The Way”—not yet named Christianity. Saul (Paul’s Hebrew name) was breathing threats to slaughter Jesus’ disciples (see Acts 9:1–2). He says, “I tried to destroy it. And I advanced beyond my contemporaries in my own nation. I was more exceedingly zealous for the traditions of my fathers than anybody else” (Galatians 1:13–14). At that point, Paul was a dualistic thinker, dividing the world into entirely good and entirely bad people. 

The Acts account of Paul’s conversion continues: “Suddenly, while traveling to Damascus, just before he reached the city, there came a light from heaven all around him. He fell to the ground, and he heard a voice saying, ‘Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?’ He asked, ‘Who are you, Lord?’ The voice answered, ‘I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting’” (Acts 9:3–5). 

Paul must have wondered: “Why does he say ‘persecuting me’ when I’m persecuting these other people?” This choice of words is pivotal. Paul gradually comes to his understanding of the Body of Christ (1 Corinthians 12:12–13) as an organic, ontological union between Christ and those whom Christ loves—which Paul eventually realizes is everyone and every thing. This is why Paul becomes “the apostle to the nations” (or “gentiles”). 

This enlightening experience taught Paul nondual consciousness, the same mystical mind that allowed Jesus to say things like “Whatever you do to these least ones, you do to me” (Matthew 25:40). Until grace achieves the same victory in our minds and hearts, we cannot really comprehend most of Jesus and Paul’s teachings—in any practical way. It will remain distant theological dogma. Before conversion, we tend to think of God as “out there.” After transformation, as Teresa of Ávila wrote, “The soul … never doubts: God was in her; she was in God.

Meeting the Risen Christ

Father Richard explores how Paul’s mystical encounter with the risen Christ led him to embrace paradoxical thinking. 

Meeting the Risen Christ on the road to Damascus changed everything for Paul. He experienced the great paradox that the crucified Jesus was in fact alive! And he, Paul, a “sinner,” was in fact chosen and beloved. This pushed Paul from the usual either/or dualistic thinking to both/and mystical thinking.  

The truth in paradoxical language lies neither in the affirmation nor in the denial of either side, but precisely in the resolution of the tug-of-war between the two. The human mind usually works on the logical principle of contradiction, according to which something cannot be both true and false at the same time. Yet that is exactly what higher truths invariably undo (for example, God is both one and three; Jesus is both human and divine; bread and wine are both matter and Spirit). Unfortunately, since the Reformation and the Enlightenment, educated Western people like myself have lost touch with paradoxical, mystical, contemplative thinking. We’ve wasted at least five centuries taking sides—which is so evident in our culture today! 

Not only was Paul’s way of thinking changed by his mystical experience, his way of being in the world was also transformed. Suddenly this persecutor—and possibly murderer—of Christians is Christ’s “chosen vessel,” sent “to carry my name before the gentiles and kings and the sons of Israel” (Acts 9:15). This dissolves the strict line between good and bad, between in-group “Jews” and out-group “gentiles.” The paradox has been overcome in Paul’s very person. He now knows that he is both sinner and saint, and we too must trust the same. These two seeming contradictions don’t cancel one another. Once the conflict has been overcome in ourselves, we realize we are each a living paradox and so is everyone else. We begin to see life in a truly spiritual way.  

Perhaps this is why Paul loves to teach dialectically. He presents two seemingly opposing ideas, such as weakness and strength, flesh and spirit, law and grace, faith and works, Jew and Greek, male and female. Dualistic thinking usually takes one side, dismisses the other, and stops there. Paul doesn’t do that. He forces us onto the horns of the dilemma and invites us to wrestle with the paradox. If we stay with him in the full struggle, we’ll realize that he eventually brings reconciliation on a higher level, beyond the essential struggle where almost all of us start. [1] 

Paul is the first clear successor to Jesus as a nondual teacher. He creates the mystical foundations for Christianity. It’s a mystery of participation in Christ. It’s not something that we achieve by performance. It’s something that we’re already participating in, and often we just don’t know it. We are all already flowing in this Christ consciousness, this Trinitarian flow of life and love moving in and around and through everything; we just don’t realize it.

Dr. Gary Paul Nabhan describes how Jesus’ parables invited listeners to find wisdom in their daily agricultural circumstances: 

When we look afresh at the parables through the eyes of Middle Eastern farmers, fishers, herders, and orchard keepers … we can clearly see that Jesus was offering them both the intangible gift of hope and tangible options for survival. Jesus guided his hearers into rethinking for themselves how to survive and build community at the very moment that they felt overwhelmed by unprecedented pressures.…  

The imagery and cadence we find in the aphorisms and parables of Jesus are those of a gifted storyteller who reached his listeners through colorful but cryptic symbols, curious riddles, and circular plots that engaged listeners as participants in the process of making the story whole. There was no need for Jesus to stand behind a podium or pulpit to pontificate. Instead, he interacted with his listeners’ hearts and minds in a manner that became integral to the story itself. The only way the story could be made whole and would make wounded listeners whole was by engaging them with deep participation.  

Nabhan helps us hear Jesus’ lively, earthy storytelling in his retelling of the parable of the Sower and the Seed:  

Hey! Listen up, those of you who think you have ears!…
A farmer went out to sow,   
and from his hand he would throw…  

[Jesus] gestured with his hand, as if flinging seeds out toward them in every which way.   

…a broadcasting of the seeds,   
           but most of them landed  
far from the sower and too close to the barren road….   
           Some of the seed they cast out  
fell where bedrock reached the surface.  

He knelt upon the stony ground before them, knocking his knuckles against the hardened earth to demonstrate its impermeability. They heard a low thud. They knew all too well that seeds cannot penetrate very far into compacted earth…. 

Others of the seeds he sowed  
           landed among some thorny brush….   

He grabbed a branch of spiny, tangled crucifixion thorn and forced his fist up through its barbs until the skin on his hand dripped with blood. The people themselves had felt their own arms and legs scratched and bloodied by the piercing of these thorns….  

At last, the sower came to a place  
where the earth felt welcoming, full of tilth,   
where he could gently fling some seeds into sweet spots  
where they made their way to deeper, richer soil.  

He knelt down again and used his bloody hand as a trowel, but this time, he brought up fragrant, richly textured, glistening humus from beneath the stones on the surface. He raised it up, then he bowed to the fellaheen [food producers] who had gathered to hear him. He stretched out his other arm out toward them and opened his hand in deference, as if to remind them that they themselves were essential elements for sustaining the fecundity and generative energy of this earth.   

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Hey COfew. (from Andrew Lang) A few years ago, my partner-at-the-time came home and found me sitting on the floor of our house with papers scattered all around me.I was curplunked on the ground, my face scrunched up, with a whiteboard packed with ideas and connections and names in front of me. Being new to the city we now lived in, I was making an elaborate plan for how to plug into the activist scene and who I needed to build relationships with to understand more about Tacoma politics. It was – to quote her, even though I hated hearing it in that moment – “a lot of words.”Looking back, that moment with the whiteboard illustrates a truth I still wrestle with frequently: I’m often afraid of “getting out there;” of doing the wrong thing; of not doing enough; of using my already-limited time, energy, and money in a way that isn’t actually that impactful.And so instead, I ruminate, I whiteboard, I plan, I doomscroll, I simmer – and sometimes I boil.Does that sound familiar to you at all?It’s a frustrating dynamic – a strange combination of wanting to act, while using planning, overthinking, and “needing to learn more” to ensure I never do; of using my “lots of words” to protect me from taking a step into the possibly-uncomfortable terrain of the unknown.And when I consider the broader societal forces that work to pull us away from our communities and collective action and toward individualism, saviorism, and the status quo, this analysis paralysis and drive to think too-big-to-be-actionable feels very much by design.For me, the way I’ve learned to counter this is to 1) prioritize actions that support folks already doing amazing work, rather than starting things on my own, and 2) look for daily actions in my own life I can take that are relational and community-focused.I’m reminded of David Whyte’s words from his poem “Start Close In: ”Start close in, don’t takethe second step  or the third,  start with the first thing close in, the step you don’t want to take. Here are two questions I’m working with right now to help me take these small, “close in” steps that move me from my own thoughts and into action: Who is already working on [the issue I care about] and how can I amplify, support, or join them this week? What action can I take today that helps move my community and myself toward healing? I invite you to work with these questions for yourself this week. Or if they don’t quite connect, see if there is a unique question alive in you that might help push you into the discomfort of taking action – no matter how small.

Wisdom is another way of knowing and understands things at a higher level of inclusivity, which we call “transformation” or nondualistic thought.  
—Richard Rohr, Things Hidden 

Richard Rohr considers wisdom a path of transformation based on humility and honesty and grounded in reality.    

There is a necessary wisdom that is only available through the liminal spaces of suffering, birth, death, and rebirth (or order, disorder, and reorder). We can’t learn it in books alone. There are certain truths that can be known only if we are sufficiently emptied, sufficiently ready, sufficiently confused, or sufficiently destabilized. That’s the genius of the Bible! It doesn’t let us resolve all these questions in theology classrooms. In fact, nothing about the Bible appears to be written out of or for academic settings.  

We must approach the Scriptures with humility and patience, with our own agenda out of the way, and allow the Spirit to stir the deeper meaning for us. Otherwise, we only hear what we already agree with or what we have decided to look for. Isn’t that rather obvious? As Paul wrote, “We must teach not in the way philosophy is taught, but in the way the Spirit teaches us: We must teach spiritual things spiritually” (1 Corinthians 2:13). This mode of teaching is much more about transformation than information. That changes the entire focus and goal.  

It is very clear that Jesus was able to heal, touch, teach, and transform people, and there were no prerequisites. They didn’t need to have any formal education. His wisdom was not based on any scholastic philosophy or theology, in spite of Catholic fascination with medieval scholasticism. Jesus, as a teacher, largely talked about what was real and what was unreal, what was temporary and what would last—and therefore how we should live inside of reality. It required humility and honesty much more than education. In a thousand ways, he was saying that God comes to us disguised as our life. Later, we learned to call it the mystery of Incarnation and, as Walter Brueggemann called it, “the scandal of particularity.”  

Consider the concrete teaching style of Jesus. He teaches in the temple area several times, but most of his teaching involves walking with people on the streets, out into the desert, and often into nature. His examples come from the things he sees around him: birds, flowers, animals, clouds, landlords and tenants, little children, women baking and sweeping. It’s amazing that we made his teaching into something other than that.  

Jesus teaches with anecdote, parable, and concrete example much more than by creating a systematic theology; it was more the way of “darkness” than the way of light. Yet it was Jesus’s concrete examples that broke people through to the universal light. “Particulars” seem to most open us up to universals, which is what poets have always understood.  

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AUG 5, 2025 The First Paraclete

Although Jesus had spoken frequently to his followers about the Father throughout his ministry, it wasn’t until shortly before his arrest and execution that Jesus emphasized the role of the Holy Spirit. This makes sense because the goal of Jesus’ farewell discourse was to prepare his disciples for his departure and to reassure them that “I will not leave you as orphans” (John 14:18). He promised to send them the Spirit whom he repeatedly identifies using the Greek word Paraclete. Most English Bibles translate the word as “Helper.” While that’s certainly a fair translation, it doesn’t fully capture the meaning of paraclete or the nature of Jesus’ promise.Paraclete is a combination of two Greek words—para meaning “alongside” and kletos meaning “called.” Therefore, a paraclete is literally “one called alongside.” In some extra-biblical writings, the word was used to describe an assistant in a legal proceeding like an intercessor or attorney. That’s why some English Bibles speak of the Holy Spirit as a “Counselor.” But the meaning of paraclete is much broader than this, and its legal usage, while implied, isn’t explicitly found in the Bible itself. Within the New Testament, the most common form of the word is a verb meaning “to encourage.” Applying this to the Spirit means he is called to come alongside and encourage us. That seems consistent with Jesus’ goal in the farewell discourse of comforting and strengthening his disciples after he departs.But there’s an important detail in John 14 we cannot overlook and which profoundly impacts how we understand the Paraclete Jesus promised. He said, “I will ask the Father, and he will send you anotherParaclete…the Spirit of truth” (John 14:16-17). By speaking of “another” Jesus implies the Holy Spirit is not the first one to come alongside and encourage the disciples, and that Jesus himself was actually the first Paraclete sent by the Father. Later, in his letter to the churches, the Apostle John would also refer to Jesus as our “paraclete” (see 1 John 2:1). This means if we are to understand the role of the second Paraclete (the Holy Spirit) in our lives, we should first understand the role of the first Paraclete (Jesus).The New Testament often identifies Jesus and the Spirit as having similar functions in the life of the Christian. In fact, in the farewell discourse, Jesus assures his followers that his role in their lives would be taken up by the Spirit after his departure. For example, the Spirit would be their teacher and lead them into the truth. Like Jesus, the Spirit would convict the world of sin, and encourage and strengthen the disciples. And, like Jesus, the Spirit would be with them and empower their works. In a very real way, the Holy Spirit would take up and fill the role of Jesus in their individual and communal lives.Of course, this does not mean the Son and the Holy Spirit are the same person. As we’ve seen in our exploration of the Trinity, the Father, Son, and Spirit are distinct persons with their own roles. For example, only Jesus took on flesh, died for our sins, and defeated death. These specific functions do not belong to the Holy Spirit. Here again, we discover the mystery and beauty of the Trinity in the farewell discourse. We see the great unity that exists between the Son and the Spirit. They are both Paracletes—those called alongside to help and encourage us, and if we are to understand the work and role of the Holy Spirit in our lives it makes sense to begin with understanding the work and role of Jesus himself. On the other hand, the Son and Spirit are distinct and separate persons within the Trinity. This paradox is why Jesus can both speak of leaving his disciples and also continuing to live within us. DAILY SCRIPTURE JOHN 14:15-24 JOHN 16:12-14 WEEKLY PRAYER. From Ephrem the Syrian (306 – 378) I give you glory, O Christ, because you, the Only-begotten, the Lord of all, underwent the death of the cross to free my sinful soul from the bonds of sin. What shall I give to you, O Lord, in return for this kindness? Glory to you, O Lord, for your love, for your mercy, for your patience. Glory to you, for forgiving us all our sins, for coming to save our souls, for your incarnation in the virgin’s womb. Glory to you, for your bonds, for receiving the cut of the lash, for accepting mockery. Glory to you, for your crucifixion, for your burial, for your resurrection. Glory to you, for your resurrection, for being preached to men, for being taken up to heaven. Glory to you who sits at the Father’s right hand and will return in glory. Glory to you for willing that the sinner be saved through your great mercy and compassion. Amen.

A Wise Rabbi

CAC faculty emerita Cynthia Bourgeault understands Jesus through the lineage of Jewish wisdom teachers:  

When I talk about Jesus as a wisdom master, I need to mention that in the Near East “wisdom teacher” is a recognized spiritual occupation. In seminary I was taught that there were only two categories of religious authority: one could be a priest or a prophet. That may be how the tradition filtered down to us in the West. But within the wider Near East (including Judaism itself), there was also a third, albeit unofficial, category: a moshel moshelim, or teacher of wisdom, one who taught the ancient traditions of the transformation of the human being. 

These teachers of transformation—among whom I would place the authors of the Hebrew wisdom literature such as Ecclesiastes, Job, and Proverbs—may be the early precursors to the rabbi whose task it was to interpret the law and lore of Judaism (often creating their own innovations of each). The hallmark of these wisdom teachers was their use of pithy sayings, puzzles, and parables rather than prophetic pronouncements or divine decree. They spoke to people in the language that people spoke, the language of story rather than law….

Parables, such as the stories Jesus told, are a wisdom genre belonging to mashal, the Jewish branch of universal wisdom tradition, which includes stories, proverbs, riddles, and dialogues through which wisdom is conveyed…. Jesus not only taught within this tradition, he turned it end for end. But before we can appreciate the extraordinary nuances he brought to understanding human transformation, we need first to know something about the context in which he was working. 

There has been a strong tendency among Christians to turn Jesus into a priest—“our great high priest” (see the Letter to the Hebrews). The image of Christos Pantokrator (“Lord of All Creation”) dressed in splendid sacramental robes has dominated the iconography of both Eastern and Western Christendom. But Jesus was not a priest. He had nothing to do with the temple hierarchy in Jerusalem, and he kept a respectful distance from most ritual observances. Nor was he a prophet in the usual sense of the term: a messenger sent to the people of Israel to warn them of impending political catastrophe in an attempt to redirect their hearts to God. Jesus was not that interested in the political fate of Israel, nor would he accept the role of Messiah continuously being thrust upon him. 

His message was not one of repentance (at least in the usual way we understand it) and return to the covenant. Rather, he stayed close to the ground of wisdom: the transformation of human consciousness. He asked those timeless and deeply personal questions: What does it mean to die before you die? How do you go about losing your little life to find the bigger one? Is it possible to live on this planet with a generosity, abundance, fearlessness, and beauty that mirror Divine Being itself? These are the wisdom questions, and they are the entire field of Jesus’ concern. 

A Way of Life

To understand the world knowledge is not enough, you must see it, touch it, live in its presence. 
—Teilhard de Chardin, Hymn of the Universe  

Father Richard Rohr illustrates how Jesus’ wisdom differs from intellectual knowledge.  

Suppose a couple superstars of knowledge visit your house. With multiple PhDs, they sit at your supper table each evening dispensing information about nuclear physics, cyberspace, string theory, and psychoneuroimmunology, giving ultimate answers to every question you ask. They don’t lead you through their thinking processes, however, or even involve you in it; they simply state the conclusions they’ve reached.  

We might find their conclusions interesting and even helpful, but the way they relate to us won’t set us free, empower us, or make us feel good about ourselves. Their wisdom will not liberate us, nor invite us to growth and life; indeed, it will in the end make us feel inferior and dependent. That’s exactly how we have treated Jesus. We have treated him like a person with numerous PhDs coming to tell us his conclusions.  

This is not the path to wisdom nor is it how Jesus shared his wisdom with those who wanted to learn from him. Rather Jesus teaches his disciples through his lifestyle, a kind of “seminary of life.” He takes them with him (Mark 1:16–20) and watching him, they learn the cycle and rhythm of his life, as he moves from prayer and solitude to teaching and service in community. As Cynthia Bourgeault explains, Jesus taught as a moshel moshelim, or a teacher of wisdom. [1] He doesn’t teach his disciples mere conceptual information as we do in our seminaries. Rather, he introduces them to a lifestyle and the only way he can do that is to invite them to live with him. He invites us to do the same (see John 1:39).  

“But the crowds got to know where he had gone and they went after him. He made them welcome and he talked to them about the kingdom of God and he cured those who were in need of healing” (Luke 9:11). Can’t you just imagine the apostles standing at Jesus’ side, watching him, noticing how he does things: how he talks to people, how he waits, how he listens, how he’s patient, how he depends upon God, how he takes time for prayer, how he doesn’t respond cynically or bitterly, but trustfully and yet truthfully? Can you imagine a more powerful way to learn?  

Luke tells us that Jesus walked the journey of faith just as you and I do. That’s the compelling message of the various dramas where Jesus needed faith—during his temptation in the desert, during his debates with his adversaries, in the garden of Gethsemane, and on the cross. We like to imagine that Jesus did not doubt or ever question God’s love. The much greater message is that in his humanity, he did flinch, did ask questions, did have doubts—and still remained faithful. This is the path of wisdom.  

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Fools and Their Barns NADIA BOLZ-WEBER AUG 4 Someone in the crowd said to him, “Teacher, tell my brother to divide the family inheritance with me.” But he said to him, “Friend, who set me to be a judge or arbitrator over you?” And he said to them, “Take care! Be on your guard against all kinds of greed, for one’s life does not consist in the abundance of possessions.” Then he told them a parable: “The land of a rich man produced abundantly. And he thought to himself, ‘What should I do, for I have no place to store my crops?’ Then he said, ‘I will do this: I will pull down my barns and build larger ones, and there I will store all my grain and my goods. And I will say to my soul, Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years; relax, eat, drink, be merry.’ But God said to him, ‘You fool! This very night your life is being demanded of you. And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?’ So it is with those who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich toward God.” -Luke 12 NRSV THE GOOD PART Just to get it out of the way, I know it’s not nice to call someone a fool. I mean, I was raised right. But please tell me I’m not alone in sometimes thinking someone’s a fool. Surely some of you have thought (but politely not said) it about that relative who says, “I did my own research,” and then proceeds to spout off something totally unhinged about like, freemasons and the moon landing. The older I get the less hesitation I have about calling myself foolish – Like the other day when I actually responded to an email from someone who said they were my bishop before realizing that whoever bishop7139@ gazoogle.com is, they are for sure not actually my bishop. This is all by way of saying that there’s something particularly cathartic about the parable we just heard. It’s the one Jesus tells after saying “be on guard against all kinds of greed”. The one where a rich man has so much that he has to build bigger barns to hoard all his grain along with his new boat and vintage Harley and all those extra Rolexes and Dubai chocolate bars he bought just for himself. And then, weirdly, he talks to his own soul like he’s its financial advisor. He says, “Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years; relax.” But then right after he locks the doors of his humongous new barn with all his stuff he is trying to keep all for himself… the guy dies. Just sort of drops dead. And God says, “You fool.”  Mwah. Chef’s kiss, right? A divine smack-down always rings like good news in my ears. Unless it’s about me. Then, you know – less so. Because sure, this is a critique of greed. But not just The Real Housewives of Wall Street greed. Maybe it’s also about the kind of internal hoarding that’s way more relatable. I say this because I’m preaching this text today for Montview Church—in this gorgeous sanctuary nestled in one of Denver’s wealthiest neighborhoods—and also for New Beginnings, the congregation inside the women’s prison that meets in cinder block gym – It’s one thing to speak of hoarding wealth to we who have 401k and stock portfolios and another to those who have $3.75 in their canteen. So for today we are going to expand the lens through which we look at how greed and hoarding shows up because the temptation to store up treasures for ourselves isn’t just a rich people problem. It’s a human problem. It’s a “I’m so scared I won’t have enough” problem.  A “what if I’m not enough?” problem.  A “I have to keep as tight a grip as possible so that something I love isn’t taken from me again” problem. Because we hoard different things depending on our circumstances. Some of us hoard resources. But some of us hoard affection. Some of us hoard compassion for others, some of us hoard our talents as though we can stockpile it all in Ziplocs and store it in the freezer. And life is rough, it breaks our hearts, and people disappoint us, and every day there are new scams to avoid, so it’s understandable that we build barns to try and protect our hearts, our money, our gifts. But of course, as always, Jesus invites us to imagine a different economy than one where we hold back out of fear. In the parable God calls the dead guy with a barn full of stuff a fool. “So it is,” Jesus says, “with those who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich toward God.” What does it even mean to be “rich toward God”? Because scripture says that the Earth and everything in it is God’s. So God isn’t in like, financial trouble and needs a bailout or a payday loan. Maybe being rich toward God starts with noticing how rich God has been toward us. How “scarcity” is not in God’s lexicon, scarcity is just something we create for others and fear for ourselves. But God didn’t create the cosmos by being stingy or holding back so they didn’t run out. God created the world with wild, irresponsible generosity. I mean, Eleven thousand species of birds? Over thirteen billion light-years of stars? More kinds of flowers and kinds of landscapes and kinds of humans than we know what to do with? Abundance is written into the DNA of the universe. Which brings me back to the rich man. I’m sure he felt like he’d made it He won the game. He had more than he could ever use. But this week I wondered what he lost by winning. When the rich man died he was alone with his big useless barn of grain. Which meant He never got to meet another person’s need, or experience the freedom from self-obsession that comes from generosity. But he was stingy in more ways than just one. He withheld from his neighbors, not just the abundance of the Earth which by the way, belongs to God, but he also withheld the blessing of his neighbors getting to be of service to him. He didn’t get to experience being given to. Not a single neighbor got to show up with a loaf of Zucchini bread in August, or helped him fix a fence. He lost the chance to be generous—and to be on the receiving end of generosity. Because that’s part of it too. To be rich toward God is to know that our lives are stitched together with other people’s lives…That we were never meant to go it alone. So being rich toward God is not just about giving. It’s also about receiving. Which for some of us is harder. I don’t mind the being of service thing but I don’t love the letting other people take care of me thing. Some of you know that the first sentence I ever spoke was 3 words – Do. It. Self. I will do it myself, I do not like having to rely on anyone else, in fact most days of my life I wear a cuff bracelet inscribed with the word, “independent”. But a couple weeks ago I was inside the prison – meeting with a small group – when my blood sugar dropped. I had nothing with me and the last thing I wanted to do was ask the women for anything. I got a little shaky and light headed before finally saying “I’m so sorry to ask, but does anyone have something I could eat” – I mean, it was humbling – I have so much and they have so little but Nadine was clearly delighted that she could hand me her granola bar. For a moment I felt embarrassed until I realized it would have been stingy of me to be of service to them and withhold the opportunity for them to be of service to me. My dad is my teacher here. He has a progressive neuromuscular disease, so over the last 10 years we have watched as he slowed down a bit, then relied on a cane for support, then a walker and now for several years a wheelchair. Last Summer he took a turn and was in hospital for a week, and I got to spend a day sitting with him in his room. Now, my father was a professor and is a dignified man; tall, handsome, with a certain command of presence. So after a nurse had come to help him with toileting, I said, “Dad it must be really humbling to need other people to do so many things for you.” And to my surprise, his face lit up and he said “No kiddo. That’s the good part.” That’s the good part. The needing. The being needed. The being humbled by our own humanity. The economy of grace that God has given us to live within. Thinking of myself as so independent is a joke by the way. Because all week as I studied this text, my mind wandered to those in my life who did not withhold their gifts of attention and time and encouragement. The woman who gave me a place to live when I got sober, the friend who brought me a lasagna when I was too depressed to leave my apartment, the artist who said I told funny stories and should maybe do that on stage, the community college night class film studies teacher who told me she thought I was smart, the pastor who saw something in me that I didn’t see in myself. Each of these people could have kept their time and attention and energy stored away in a barn. I know how easy it is to default to this, trust me. But they were generous with what God entrusted to them. I don’t know what it is God has given you on behalf of others, maybe it’s money, or a killer sense of humor, or the ability to create art or music – which we really need right now, or just the sacred gift of being a really good listener. I just hope none of it ends up in a barn. “So it is with those who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich toward God”, he said. And then, just a few chapters later, Jesus gave away the last thing he had—his own life. He poured it out. Even at the end, when he could have lashed out or shut down or called ten thousand angels, he kept giving – he gave his forgiveness to those who hung him on that cross and then he gave his mother to his friend and his friend to his mother. “You belong to each other,” he said. And in a world that tries to convince us we are alone, maybe that’s all we really need to remember. We still belong to each other. That’s the good part. Amen.

The Thorn Is a Gift

Friday, August 1, 2025

Struggling to overcome her persistent envy of another writer, author Anne Lamott found comfort in St. Paul’s struggle to accept his own imperfection:  

Paul’s second letter to the Corinthians, where he talks about the thorn in his side [2 Corinthians 12:7–10], is his spiritual autobiography, his confessing out loud to how shaming life in the flesh was for him. And in his letter to the Christians in Rome, Paul wrote that he hated the things he couldn’t stop doing [Romans 7: 15, 19]…. He had what I have, something awful and broken and stained inside. He was a powerful, learned man, teaching and following the Torah, reaping power’s rewards, yet it all left him desperate….  

[Paul] asked God over and over again to remove this thorn, but God said no. God said that grace and mercy had to be enough, that nothing awful or fantastic that Paul did would alter the hugeness of divine love. This love would and will have the last say. The last word will not be our bad thoughts and behavior, but mercy, love, and forgiveness. God suggested, Try to cooperate with that. Okay? Keep your stupid thorn; knock yourself out.  

What was the catch? The catch was that Paul had to see the thorn as a gift. He had to want to be put in his place, had to be willing to give God thanks for this glaring new sense of humility, of smallness, the one thing anyone in [their] right mind tries to avoid. Conceit is intoxicating, addictive, the best feeling on earth some days, but Paul chose instead submission and servitude as the way to freedom from the bondage of self. 

Lamott explores the challenge of tolerating our imperfect selves and the mercy that saves us anyway:  

Our secrets sometimes feel so vile and hopeless that we should all jump off a cliff. Then we might remember something quirky and ephemeral once restored us or a beloved to sanity when we were in a very bad way. We remember that an unlikely invisible agency made up of love, truth, and camaraderie helped with the alcoholism or debt or heartbreak a few years ago. And we practice cooperating with that force for change, because who knows—it might help again now.  

Micah says to do justice—follow the rules, do what you’re supposed to do—but to love mercy, love the warmth within us, that flow of generosity. Love mercy—accept the acceptance; receive the forgiveness, whenever we can, for as long as we can. Then pass it on…. 

Love and mercy are sovereign, if often in disguise as ordinary people…. Over and over, in spite of our awfulness and having squandered our funds, the ticket-taker at the venue waves us on through. Forgiven and included, when we experience this, that we are in this with one another, flailing and starting over in the awful beauty of being humans together, we are saved.  

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John Chaffee 5 On Friday

August 1, 2025

1.

“For, in a word, if one thinks himself made beautiful by gold, he is inferior to gold; and he that is inferior to gold is not lord of it.”

– Clement of Alexandria, 2nd Ct. Early Church Father

We as human beings experience a sense of lack, of not being enough of ‘something.’  That elusive ‘something’ leads us down odd and sometimes terrible pathways to find something to fill that sense of lack.

But what if the Gospel is not that there is something that can fill that lack, as if there is something outside of ourselves that we can be promised to have someday, and instead is that we are loved infinitely, even with our lack.

Our lack is not something to run from or to pathologically chase after a solution for.

Our lack does not mean that we are inferior to anything.  Our lack reminds us that we are human, and that to be human implies the need for a certain amount of humility.

2.

“Hypocrisy is not a way of getting back to the moral high ground. Pretending you’re moral, saying you’re moral is not the same as acting morally.”

– Alan Dershowitz, American Law Professor

It is the second sentence here that struck me.

“Pretending you’re moral.”

Wow.  That is the temptation, isn’t it?  To project out a False Self that is more moral than we are, because we want the reputation of being moral without the responsibility or the integrity necessary to be moral?

As I have said in other newsletters, the older I get, the more I appreciate the classical virtues.  It is a lighthearted thing and eases the conscience to live a life that does not need to be hidden or defended.  It is, in my life experience, so much better to live a moral life for the benefits it gives us in the here and now.

Every so often this past week, I have thought about situations in which people in the news are not living integrated lives of virtue.  For instance, when a politician, community leader, or even a family member has their darkness unveiled for all to see, there is probably a strange sense of terror at people’s responses, but also a sense of relief that their fabricated life is no longer necessary.  This is probably also the moral of Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. 

3.

“Everyone of us is shadowed by an illusory person: a false self…  We are not very good at recognizing illusions, least of all the ones we cherish about ourselves.”

– Thomas Merton, Trappist Monk

The ability to tell ourselves the uncomfortable truths is a hallmark of maturity, and possibly also holiness.

4.

“A monk is a man who considers himself one with all men because he seems constantly to see himself in every man.”

– Evagrius Ponticus, 4th Ct. Turkish Ascetic

According to St. Paul, “There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.”  (Galatians 3:28)

The more and more we hold ourselves as separate and different and other than our neighbors or enemies, the more fractured the world becomes.

I guess what stands out to me is that for Evagrius Ponticus, a “monk” is an integrated and spiritually mature human being, and such a person identifies WITH others rather than APART from others.

5.

“The wicked flee though no one pursues,
    but the righteous are as bold as a lion.”

– Proverbs 28:1 NIV

I once had this verse come to mind in the middle of the night.

I awoke and sat up, and said to myself, “Proverbs 28:1,” and immediately fell back asleep.  In the morning, though, I remembered what I said to myself and looked up this passage.  I had no recollection of ever reading that verse.

That morning, nearly twelve years ago, was the first and only time that I think God spoke to me in a way that I could not comprehend.  A Scripture reference out of nowhere?  It was odd and yet beautiful.

The righteous person has no reason to flee, even if everyone is chasing them.  The wicked, on the other hand, will desperately run away even if no one is chasing them.

Man, I’d love to hear a whole sermon about that.

Or I’ll make a podcast about it.  Stay tuned.

Divine Perfection

Thursday, July 31, 2025

Father Richard considers how dualistic thinking is at the root of our illusions of human perfection:   

Some Navajo traditional weavers include an intentional imperfection in their weaving pattern—a space sometimes called a “spirit line.” It is said to be the place where the Spirit moves in and out of the design. The Semitic mind, the Indigenous mind, the Eastern mind (which, by the way, Jesus would have been much closer to) understands perfection in precisely that way. Eastern thought is much more comfortable with paradox, mystery, and nondual thinking than the Western mind which has been much more formed by Greek logic, which is very clear, very consistent, and very helpful by also being dualistic. It seems to me that we first have to succeed at good dualistic thinking before we can also experience its limitations. But many in the West just stop at dualism and then find themselves struggling to deal with death, suffering, the illogical nature of love, any honest notion of God, Mystery, or infinity.  

In conversation with Tami Simon on her Insights at the Edge podcast, Quaker teacher and activist Parker Palmer shared:  

It’s been a long time since I imagined that I would ever arrive at perfection in this aspect of my life or any other aspect of my life. I actually think that perfection is a kind of nightmarish wish dream. If you think of it socially, the people who promise perfection on earth are actually the totalitarian dictators who want to run everything themselves and are offering a false promise in order to seduce people into some sort of political or social pathology. And I feel the same way about spiritual teachers who promise perfection. I have never felt that wholeness, that human wholeness, a word that has meaning for me, had anything to do with perfection. Wholeness has to do with embracing the whole of who you are, which includes your shadow as well as your light. It includes the broken parts of you as well as the whole parts of you. [1]  

Richard emphasizes:  

Perfection is not the elimination of imperfection, as we think. Divine perfection is, in fact, the ability to recognize, forgive, and include imperfection!—just as God does with all of us. Only in this way can we find the beautiful and hidden wholeness of God underneath the passing human show. This is the pearl of great price (see Matthew 13:45–46) in my opinion. Nondual thinking and seeing is the change that changes everything. It makes love, mercy, patience, and forgiveness possible.  

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Sarah Young: Jesus Calling: July 31st

Trust Me in the depths of your being. It is there that I live in constant communication with you. When you feel flustered and frazzled on the outside, do not get upset with yourself. You are only human, and the swirl of events going on all around you will sometimes feel overwhelming. Rather than scolding yourself for your humanness, remind yourself that I am both with you and within you.
     I am with you at all times, encouraging and supportive rather than condemning. I know that deep within you, where I live, My Peace is your continual experience. Slow down your pace of living for a time. Quiet your mind in My Presence. Then you will be able to hear Me bestowing the resurrection blessing: Peace be with you.

RELATED SCRIPTURE:

Colossians 1:27 (NLT)
27 For God wanted them to know that the riches and glory of Christ are for you Gentiles, too. And this is the secret: Christ lives in you. This gives you assurance of sharing his glory.

Additional insight regarding Colossians 1:26-27: Through Christ, God’s “message” was made open to all. God’s secret plan is “Christ lives in you” – God planned to have his Son, Jesus Christ, live in the hearts of all who believe in him – even Gentiles like the Colossians. Do you know Christ? He is not hidden if you will come to him.

Matthew 28:20 (NLT)
20 Teach these new disciples to obey all the commands I have given you. And be sure of this: I am with you always, even to the end of the age.”

Additional insight regarding Matthew 28:20: How is Jesus “with” us? Jesus was with the disciples physically until he ascended into Heaven and then spiritually through the Holy Spirit (Acts 1:4). The Holy Spirit would be Jesus’ presence that would never leave them (John 14:26 – “But when the Father sends the Advocate as my representative—that is, the Holy Spirit—he will teach you everything and will remind you of everything I have told you.”). Jesus continues to be with us today through his Spirit.

John 20:19 (NLT)
Jesus Appears to His Disciples
19 That Sunday evening the disciples were meeting behind locked doors because they were afraid of the Jewish leaders. Suddenly, Jesus was standing there among them! “Peace be with you,” he said

Richard Rohr explains the necessity of moving beyond a relationship with God that is based on morality and law: 

Religion is ultimately not a moral matter; it’s a mystical matter. While most of us begin focused on moral proficiency and perfection, we can’t spend our whole lives this way. Paul calls this first-half-of-life approach “the law”; I call it the performance principle. We think, “I’m good because I obey this commandment, because I do this kind of work, or because I belong to this group.” That’s the calculus the ego understands. The human psyche, all organizations, and governments need this kind of common-sense structure at some level. But that game has to fall apart, or it will kill us. Paul says the law leads to death (see Romans 7:5; Galatians 3:10). Yet many Christians are still trapped inside the law, believing that by doing the right things, they’re going to somehow attain worthiness or acceptance from God. The ways in which we’ve defined ourselves as successful, moral, right, good, on top of it, number one … have to fail us! [1]  

Pastor Juanita Campbell Rasmus describes how having a rules-based approach to religion left her feeling hollow and out of touch with God’s love:  

As a child, rules kept me safe from judgment and harm, safe from breaking any of God’s do-not-cross-this-line rules. I thought the rules worked: I didn’t drink, I didn’t smoke, I didn’t steal, I didn’t gamble, I didn’t … and so on, my little checklist of righteousness went. And yet I was aware that my life had a certain quality of hollowness to it…. 

Understanding began to come to me one day while I was lying on the sofa in the living room…. The room was filled with the warm midday sun. As I lay there, the Lord said, You have built a life filled with rules. Your rules have boxed you in, and they have boxed me out.  

I didn’t get it. Wasn’t the God-life all about following rules? Isn’t Christianity rooted in Thou shalt not? Had I gotten what it meant to be a Christian totally wrong? If it wasn’t about the rules, then what had I wasted my time and life doing all these years? And if I had gotten this all wrong, what else had I gotten wrong about God? Even more, what would it take to get it right?…

Rules alone had left me hollow inside, but the sense that the Spirit was freeing me to be in relationship was so life-giving that all I could call it was joy. Something about this new awareness began to fill some of the emptiness that I had been feeling…. I have found that relationship with God and my practice of abiding with God, being joined with God, are what make me solid inside and out…. Perhaps the word love best describes what seemed to be flowing into me; yes, a deep knowing that I was loved.

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From Andrew Lang, a guy who shows up occasionally in my email box.

Hey CO few, A couple days after Heather and I got back from our mini-moon (mini-honeymoon), I stumbled upon the beautiful poem below from Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer.In a very personal way, it speaks to what I’m feeling as I try to hold the big emotions of our wedding and re-enter my workplace with its spreadsheets, meetings, and silly little emails.But in a more expansive way, it reminds me of the ongoing challenge of living in the both/and of what it means to be an informed human in a globalized world right now:Of witnessing the joys of my kids running around while knowing Palestinian children are being intentionally starved to death in Gaza; of enjoying dinner with friends while knowing many folks five blocks away can’t afford even a portion of the meal we’re enjoying; of having hope for the future while not yet seeing how we might possibly get there.Or, to borrow a phrase from the poem, being absolutely “devastated and stunned with joy” at the same time…and maintaining a tender connection with each. As you read, I invite you to feel for how it connects with your story and how you’re experiencing the tension of the both/and in your own life and communities. For When People Ask I want a word that means okay and not okay, more than that: a word that means devastated and stunned with joy. I want the word that says I feel it all all at once. The heart is not like a songbird singing only one note at a time, more like a Tuvan throat singer able to sing both a drone and simultaneously two or three harmonics high above it—a sound, the Tuvans say, that gives the impression of wind swirling among rocks. The heart understands swirl, how the churning of opposite feelings weaves through us like an insistent breeze leads us wordlessly deeper into ourselves, blesses us with paradox so we might walk more openly into this world so rife with devastation, this world so ripe with joy.

Worthiness is Not the Way

It is in the process of embracing our imperfections that we find our truest gifts: courage, compassion, and connection. —Brené Brown 

Father Richard shares how the teachings of the 19th-century French nun Thérèse of Lisieux have supported his own spiritual journey:  

Thérèse humbly trusted her own experience and taught the spirituality of imperfection which was so radical in her time (and our own). Thérèse may be one of my favorite saints because I tend to be a perfectionist. In the popular personality typing system known as the Enneagram, I’m a Type One. [1] The trap for the One is the ideal of perfectionism (for which we are responsible). This makes us dissatisfied and disappointed by nearly everything, starting with ourselves.  

Thérèse has helped me to embrace my own imperfection and that of others. When her sister Céline was saddened by her own faults, Thérèse advised her to seek peace even when she felt displeasing to herself as she “hits against the stones in the night.” [2] If we pay attention even for an hour, we observe how hard it is to be “displeasing” to ourselves! To resolve this problem, Thérèse teaches us to let go of the very need to “think well of ourselves” to begin with! That’s our ego talking, not God. [3] 

Worthiness is not the issue; the issue is trust and surrender. As Thérèse understood, “Jesus does not demand great actions from us but simply surrender and gratitude.” [4] Let’s resolve this once and for all: You’re not worthy! None of us are. That worthiness road is a game of denial and pretend. We’re all saved by grace. We’re all being loved in spite of ourselves. That’s why I can also say, “You’re all worthy!” But your worthiness has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with the goodness of God. [5] 

Author Dr. Brené Brown teaches about the gifts that come with embracing our imperfection: 

When we can let go of what other people think and own our story, we gain access to our worthiness—the feeling that we are enough just as we are and that we are worthy of love and belonging. When we spend a lifetime trying to distance ourselves from the parts of our lives that don’t fit with who we think we’re supposed to be, we stand outside of our story and hustle for our worthiness by constantly performing, perfecting, pleasing, and proving…. 

There is a line from Leonard Cohen’s song “Anthem” that serves as a reminder to me when … I’m trying to control everything and make it perfect. The line is, “There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”… This line helps me remember the beauty of the cracks (and the messy house and the imperfect manuscript and the too-tight jeans). It reminds me that our imperfections are not inadequacies; they are reminders that we’re all in this together. Imperfectly, but together.

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Let There Be Gaps: A Ministry Philosophy. By Anthony Parrott • 29 Jul 2025  I caught this image at Westminster Abbey in London. I thought it was wonderful that the seat of the Church of England can also have technical issues. They chided me for taking this picture.

One Sunday, the slides didn’t work. Or, more accurately, there was no one to run the slides. I watched from the back as the congregation fumbled for their phones, squinting at tiny screens to find the second verse to “How Great Thou Art.” A few people just sang from memory, their voices carrying the melody while others hummed along uncertainly. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t seamless. It was beautifully, messily human. And it was exactly what needed to happen. A Theology of Imperfection”Let there be gaps” has become one of my core ministry philosophies—a deliberate choice to prioritize people over performance, souls over systems. It can sound nearly heretical in a church culture obsessed with ✨excellence✨, where we’ve bought into the lie that God’s love somehow depends on our ability to deliver a flawless Sunday morning experience. But ministry is too precious, too holy, too sacred to treat volunteers like cannon fodder. As my old boss Pastor John Messer used to say, “We don’t throw people into the breach—and yet that’s exactly what happens when we prioritize institutional perfection over human dignity. We create a system where the same faithful few run slides every single week, make coffee every single Sunday, staff the nursery until they’re running on nothing but fumes and resentment.We might tell ourselves it’s for the good of the congregation. We convince ourselves that gaps would hurt people’s experience. But what we’re really doing is participating in a consumerist theology that says the church exists to be purveyors spiritual goods and services rather than to form a community of mutual care and shared responsibility. The Crisis of False Abundance. Here’s what I’ve learned: when the same two people handle the slides every week without fail, the congregation assumes everything is fine. They hear announcements about needing volunteers, but their eyes tell them a different story. The slides are up. The coffee is hot. The nursery is staffed. Clearly, they don’t really need help.This is where some HBR change management wisdom intersects with Gospel truth—sometimes you have to let the status quo reveal its own unsustainability. When people show up and there are no slides, when the coffee station sits empty, when childcare isn’t available because we’re giving our volunteers the sabbath they deserve, suddenly the invisible labor becomes visible. The need becomes real. Sometimes you have to let the status quo reveal its own unsustainability. I’m not talking about manufactured crises or manipulatively withholding care. I’m talking about an honest acknowledgment that we cannot and should not expect a handful of people to carry the entire burden of communal worship. When gaps appear, they create space for new voices, new hands, new hearts to join the work. Beyond the Consumer Church The resistance to this philosophy reveals how deeply we’ve internalized a consumer model of faith. We’ve divided our communities into producers and consumers, where a dedicated few work tirelessly to provide a five-star spiritual experience for everyone else. It’s Burger King theology. Have it your way—fast, convenient, consistent, and utterly devoid of the messy beauty of authentic community.But the early church looked nothing like this. In those house churches scattered across the Roman Empire, everyone contributed something. Everyone brought their gifts, their resources, their presence to the common table. The community’s wellbeing was a shared responsibility, not the burden of a pastoral staff and a small group (usually 20% of the congregation) of the loyal volunteers.This is koinonia—the kind of fellowship that says we are all producers and consumers simultaneously. We all contribute to and benefit from the community’s life together. It’s a radically different vision from the church-as-vendor model that has infected so much of American Christianity.The Art of Sacred DisruptionLetting gaps show can be an (albeit risky) act of prophetic imagination. It disrupts the fantasy that churches run on pastoral magic and volunteer martyrdom. It forces us to confront the question: what are we actually here for? Maybe folks aren’t coming for your artisanal coffee or your perfectly timed slide transitions. Maybe they’re coming for something deeper—connection, meaning, a place to wrestle with the holy mysteries. When you strip away the non-essentials— what my Old Testament professor called the “butt-naked essentialism”—you discover what actually matters to your community.I’ve seen churches panic about nursery coverage, only to discover that families are (occasionally!) happy to worship together, children included. I’ve watched congregations survive electricity failures and realize that singing together, voices mingling without the crutch of perfect technology, actually created more intimacy than any polished presentation ever could. Sabbath for the Servants At its foundation, this philosophy is about extending sabbath rest to those who serve. It’s recognizing that everyone—including your most dedicated volunteers—deserves to sit in the pew, to receive rather than give, to be ministered to rather than always ministering.If I as the pastor refuse to let the gaps show, I’m essentially saying that the comfort of the many matters more than the wellbeing of the few who serve. I’m prioritizing institutional appearance over individuals. I’m perpetuating a system where faithfulness is rewarded with endless obligation. Ew.But what if I trusted that God’s work doesn’t depend on my ability to maintain perfect systems? What if I believed that the Spirit moves just as powerfully—maybe more powerfully—in the spaces between our carefully planned programs? The Beautiful Breakdown. That Sunday when there was no one behind the iMac keyboard, something beautiful happened in the breakdown. People looked up from their phones and made eye contact. They listened more carefully to the words they were singing. They helped each other find the page numbers in hymnals we hadn’t used in months.And by Tuesday, three people had volunteered to join the tech team.The gap had done its work—not through manipulation or manufactured crisis, but through honest acknowledgment of our limitations and trust in the community’s capacity to respond. It was a tinsy-tiny resurrection, the kind that happens when we stop trying to control every outcome and start believing in the church’s ability to be the church. What gaps might your community need to see? What would happen if you trusted your congregation with the truth about your needs rather than maintaining the illusion of perfect systems? Sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is admit we can’t do it all—and create space for others to discover their own calling in the work of love.

Father Richard Rohr dispels the long-lasting myth that our efforts to be perfect make us more loveable or valuable to God.  

There is a common misperception that deeply distorts the reading of the Scriptures and much spirituality. I call it “spiritual capitalism,” which centers around a common philosophy of “I can do it, and I must do it, and I will do it.” This is the mindset of early-stage ego consciousness. It puts all the emphasis and total reliance on “me,” my effort, and my spiritual accomplishments. It has little active trust in God’s grace and mercy. Unfortunately, the driving energy is fear and more effort, instead of quiet confidence and gratitude. It becomes about climbing instead of surrendering. The first feels good, while the second feels like falling, failing, or even dying. Who likes that? Certainly not the separate self. The ego always wants to feel that it’s achieved salvation somehow. Grace and forgiveness are always a humiliation for the ego.  

The movement known as Jansenism in the 17th and 18th centuries is one theological distortion that emphasized moral austerity and fear of God’s justice more than any trust in God’s mercy. God was understood to be wrathful, vindictive, and punitive, and all the appropriate Scriptures were found to make these very points. It’s hard to find a Western Christian—Catholic or Protestant—who has not been formed by this theology. Most mainline Christians pay sincere lip service to grace and mercy, but in the practical order believe life is almost entirely about performance and moral achievement.  

The common manifestation of this ever-recurring pattern might simply be called perfectionism. The word itself is taken from a single passage in Matthew 5:48, where Jesus tells us to “be perfect as your heavenly Father is perfect.” Of course, perfection as such is a divine or mathematical concept and has never been a human one. Jesus offers it as guidance for how we can love our enemies, of which he has just spoken (5:43–47). He is surely saying that we cannot obey this humanly impossible commandment by willpower, but only by surrendering to the Divine Perfection that can and will flow through us. In other words, we cannot be perfect of ourselves—but God can. Yet we used this one passage to give people the exact opposite impression—that they could indeed be perfect in themselves! 

In his proclamation of St. Thérèse of Lisieux as a Doctor of the Church, Pope St. John Paul II said, “She has made the Gospel shine appealingly in our time…. She helped to heal souls of the rigors and fears of Jansenism, which tended to stress God’s justice rather than [God’s] divine mercy.” [1]

Thérèse rightly named this spirituality her “Little Way.” It was nothing more than a simple and clear recovery of the pure gospel message! It was she (and Francis of Assisi) who gave me the courage as a young man to read the Scriptures through this primary lens of littleness instead of some possible bigness.  

Perfectionism: The Enemy of Goodness and Grace

The greatest enemy of ordinary daily goodness and joy is not imperfection, but the demand for some supposed perfection.
—Richard Rohr, Eager to Love 

Richard Rohr discovered the writings of Saint Thérèse of Lisieux (1873–1897) during his first year as a Franciscan. Richard describes Thérèse’s teaching as “a spirituality of imperfection”:  

Thérèse of Lisieux was a French Carmelite nun with minimal formal education, who in her short, hidden life of only twenty-four years captured the essence of Jesus’ core teachings on love. Thérèse was declared a Doctor of the Church, which means her teaching is seen as thoroughly reliable and trustworthy. She “democratized holiness,” as Brother Joseph Schmidt said, “making it clear that holiness is within the reach of anyone willing to do God’s will in love at each successive moment as life unfolds.” [1]  

Thérèse came into a nineteenth-century Catholic Church that often believed in an angry, punitive God, perfectionism, and validation by personal good behavior—which is a very unstable and illusory path. In the midst of this rigid environment, Thérèse was convinced that her message, taught to her by Jesus himself, was “totally new.” [2] The gospel of radical grace had been forgotten by many Christians so much so that Thérèse had to call it “new.” 

Thérèse called this simple, childlike path her “little way.” It is a spirituality of imperfection. In a letter to priest Adolphe Roulland, she writes: “Perfection seems simple to me, I see it is sufficient to recognize one’s nothingness and to abandon oneself as a child into God’s arms.” [3] Any Christian “perfection” is, in fact, our ability to include, forgive, and accept our imperfection. As I’ve often said, we grow spiritually much more by doing it wrong than by doing it right. That might just be the central lesson of how spiritual growth happens, though nothing in us wants to believe it.  

If there is such a thing as human perfection, it seems to emerge precisely from how we handle the imperfection that is everywhere, especially in ourselves. What a clever place for God to hide holiness, so that only the humble, “little,” and earnest will find it! A “perfect” person ends up being one who can consciously forgive and include imperfection rather than the ones who think they are totally above and beyond imperfection. It becomes rather obvious once we say it out loud. [4] 

Near the end of her life, Thérèse explained her little way to her sister, and this became part of her autobiography Story of a Soul. In contrast to the “big way” of heroic perfectionism, she teaches, in essence, that as a little one “with all [her] imperfections,” God’s love is drawn toward her. God has to love her and help her because she is “too small to climb the rough stairway of perfection.” [5] With utter confidence, she “believed herself infinitely loved by Infinite Love.”

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What Does it Mean to Do “Greater Works” than Jesus? Skye Jethani

During his farewell discourse with his apostles, Jesus makes one of the more shocking—and misunderstood—promises found anywhere in the gospels. He said, “Truly, truly, I say to you, whoever believes in me will also do the works that I do; and greater works than these will he do, because I am going to the Father” (John 14:12). This verse provokes an obvious and important question—what are the “greater works” Jesus’ followers will do?We’ve already looked at our culture’s fixation on all things spectacular and the way it causes us to mistakenly focus on Jesus’ power rather than on Jesus himself. This same cultural bias has also warped the way many have misunderstood this verse. For those shaped by pop consumer Christianity, “greater works” is automatically assumed to mean more spectacular works. This view believes that because Jesus walked on water, healed the sick, and calmed storms, then to do greater works means the true disciples of Jesus will accomplish even more astonishing signs and wonders. In a culture drawn to the spectacular, and in church traditions dedicated to attracting crowds, it’s obvious why this interpretation is appealing. However, there are a few problems with understanding “greater” to mean more astonishing. First, it is plainly obvious that most of those who follow Jesus are not doing more spectacular works than he performed. It’s hard to be more spectacular than raising the dead, which Jesus did on multiple occasions, and the last time I checked, most Christians were not emptying the cemeteries. Therefore, this interpretation would immediately call into question the authenticity of the faith of nearly every Christian alive, and indeed the faith of every Christian who has ever lived. Second, throughout the history of the church, most have not interpreted this verse to mean we would do more spectacular miracles than Jesus. This is a rather late interpretation that gained traction with the arrival of the charismatic movements—particularly in the United States and in the global south—in the twentieth century.Rather than understanding “greater works” to mean more spectacular, most throughout Christian history have understood Jesus to mean his followers would do more works.  In this case, “greater” means greater in quantity, scale, and influence. Remember, Jesus’ public ministry was amazingly brief—approximately three years, and it was confined to a geographic area about the size of New Jersey. Before they died, the apostles Jesus was speaking to in John 14 would preach the gospel and start churches throughout the ancient world from the Iberian peninsula to the Indian subcontinent. Even in the Book of Acts, we see more people put their faith in Christ through the ministry of the apostles than ever responded to the preaching of Jesus himself. In this regard, their works were greater than Jesus’.Later generations of believers would go on to invent hospitals, educate countless millions, and mobilize efforts to feed, clothe, and comfort more people than any movement in history. Although it may sound blasphemous it is nonetheless true that today alone the followers of Jesus will impact more lives than Jesus impacted during his entire earthly ministry. We lose sight of this remarkable fact when we focus only on the method of our works rather than on their outcome. We assume that to be “greater works” than Jesus’ they must be accomplished through some supernatural agency rather than human ingenuity. This is, of course, ridiculous.In the end, what matters is that we feed a hungry child—not whether the food appeared miraculously or arrived on the back of a truck. And maybe we need to rethink what qualifies as a miracle to begin with. After all, which is the greater wonder—Christ’s power to transform water into wine, or his power to transform hearts to be generous, merciful, and loving? We should remember that God desires to do a great work in us, not merely through us. DAILY SCRIPTURE JOHN 14:12-17 ACTS 4:32-37 WEEKLY PRAYER From George Cotton (1813 – 1866) O God, who has made of one blood all nations of men to dwell on the face of the earth, and sent your blessed Son, Jesus Christ, to preach peace to those that are far off, and to those that are near; grant that all peoples of the world may feel after you and find you; quicken, O God, the fulfillment of your promise to pour out your Spirit upon all flesh, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.