Revelation and Transformation

Wednesday, January 7, 2026 

Father Richard Rohr describes the Bible as a source of ongoing revelation and transformation:

This marvelous anthology of books and letters called the Bible is for the sake of divine transformation (theosis), not intellectual or “small-self” coziness or even righteousness. The biblical revelation invites us into a genuinely new experience. Wonderfully enough, human consciousness in the twenty-first century is, more than ever, ready for such an experience—and also very much in need of it! The trouble is that we have made the Bible into a bunch of ideas—about which we can be right or wrong—rather than an invitation to a new set of eyes. Even worse, many of those ideas are the same old, tired ones, mirroring the reward-and-punishment system of the dominant culture, so that most people don’t even expect anything good or new from the momentous revelation that we call the Bible.

The very word that the four evangelists (Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John) and the apostle Paul chose to name this new revelation was a strange one. Gospel, which we now translate as “good news,” was actually a word taken from a world dominated by wars and battles. A “gospel” was a returning message of victory, announcing a new era to the winning party. Obviously, Jesus’s message was seen as something genuinely good and genuinely new. This is still true today—if we are asking the right questions and have a “poverty of spirit” (Matthew 5:3).

I’m sure there are times when many of us wish the Bible were some kind of “seven habits for highly effective people.” Just give us the right conclusions, we’ve perhaps thought, instead of all these books of kings, Levitical teachings, chronicles of various battles, and those Pauline letters that so many of us don’t like. “What does all this monotonous history, out-of-date science, and flat-out violence have to do with anything that matters?” That’s why an awful lot of people give up on the Bible.

But the genius of the biblical revelation is that it doesn’t just give us the conclusions! It gives us both the process of getting there and the inner and outer authority to trust that process. Life itself—and Scripture too—is always three steps forward and two steps backward. It gets the point and then loses it or doubts it. In that, the biblical text mirrors our own human consciousness and journey.

We always need what Jesus described as the beginner’s mind of a curious child. What some call a constantly renewed immediacy is the best path for spiritual wisdom. If our only concerns are for the spiritual status of our group, or our private “social security” plans, the Scriptures will not be new, nor will they be good, or even attractive. We will proceed on cruise control, even after reading them. They will be “religion” as we have come to expect it in our particular culture, but not any genuine “good news” with the power to rearrange everything.

Dear friend, As we stand at the beginning of a new year, many of us are asking familiar questions—sometimes quietly, sometimes urgently.  What do I want this year to bring?What needs to change?What should I resolve? Often, our resolutions are attempts to name our thirst. And thirst has a way of clarifying things. When you are utterly parched, the answer to the question “What do you want?” does not require much reflection. Thirst narrows our focus. It reminds us of what is essential—of the life-giving water we usually take for granted until we begin to run dry. Not surprisingly, this is also the very first question Jesus asks in the Gospel of John. When Jesus turns to the disciples of John the Baptist and asks, “What do you want?” he assumes something important about them—and about us. He assumes that we are people of desire. Of longing. He does not shame this or attempt to correct it. He simply names it. How could we not be people of desire? Jesus himself tells us that if we are to enter the kingdom of heaven, we must become like little children. And children have no lack of wanting.Every baby enters the world hungry and thirsty—for nourishment, yes, but also for comfort and connection. Newborns, infants, and toddlers are unselfconscious bundles of desire. And this depth of wanting does not fade with age. It only becomes quieter, more hidden, more carefully managed. Desire itself does not disappear until we are dead. So the question is not whether we want. The question is what we want. But here is something we often miss: no matter what children ask for—milk, a toy, a set of car keys, or the love of their beloved—the object of their desire is almost always a bid for loving attachment. Beneath the request is a longing to be received, to be responded to with attunement. Even when the answer must be “no,” what matters is that the wanting itself is honored. As Dan Siegel reminds us, these longings can be named with four simple words. We want to be seen, soothed, safe, and secure. These four “S” words describe what children—and adult children like us—desire more than anything else: to be known. And to be known in this way is to be loved. Loved with the joy that says, “You’re here!” every time we enter the room or cross someone else’s mind—even, and especially, on our worst days. And yet, most of us are not very skilled at being known. Which means we are not very skilled at receiving love. This does not mean we are incapable of loving others—though we all have room to grow there. It means that for many reasons, we struggle to let love actually reach us. And because we cannot give what we have not received, we turn to substitutes. Busyness. Achievement. Technology. Money. Control. Anxiety. These are the familiar stand-ins we have been perfecting since the Garden of Eden. For many of us, our lives have been so full that we barely noticed how much we relied on these things to make up for the emptiness that only love can fill. A new year has a way of exposing this. We hope that better habits or clearer goals will finally satisfy us. But resolutions alone cannot meet the longing to be seen, soothed, safe, and secure. Which brings us back—again—to Jesus’ question: What do you want?If we are honest, many of our answers are simply translations of a deeper plea. Just as it was when we were toddlers, telling Jesus what we want is another way of telling him how desperately we want to be loved. To be known. Jesus does not force us to say this. He waits. He waits for us to grow tired of our substitutions, to become honest enough to receive what we cannot manufacture. Jesus is not impatiently waiting for the right answer before he acts. He is waiting for us to allow him to love us. And when we do—something far easier said than done—we discover that the true object of our desire is not a what after all. It is a who. So how do we practice receiving the love we long for? Here are four straightforward, not-so-easy steps you might carry into this new year:  Twice each week, tell someone you genuinely love that you love them, and give them two concrete reasons why. Take at least ten minutes, and schedule the time.  Once a week, ask someone you trust to tell you why they love you, offering specific examples. This may feel uncomfortable—and that discomfort is part of the work. Receiving love is a skill we must practice.  Three times a week, choose a Gospel story in which Jesus demonstrates love. Imagine yourself there. Imagine Jesus including you in the conversation. Write down what he says to you and reflect on it.  Two to three times a week, meditate on Luke 3:22. Allow yourself to sit in the Father’s presence as he delights in being with you—without striving or earning. As this year unfolds, my hope is not simply that we would become better versions of ourselves, but that we would become people more deeply rooted in love. Because when we dare to receive that love, we may discover that what we desire—living, breathing, embodied joy—is also what we are becoming.And we will know that it is what we have always wanted. Warmly, Curt

Discussion Questions:

1. Rohr talks about the Bible as invitation to “a new set of eyes” rather than ideas to be right or wrong about. Curt talks about practicing the skill of receiving love. How do these two approaches—seeing differently and receiving differently—relate to each other? Where have you experienced this connection in your own journey?
2. Both readings acknowledge our tendency toward substitutes: Rohr mentions our desire for “seven habits” conclusions instead of the biblical process, while Curt names busyness, achievement, and control as stand-ins for love. What substitute are you most aware of relying on right now? What would it look like to trade that substitute for the real thing—whether it’s a new way of seeing Scripture or a new capacity to receive love?

Good News for a Fractured World

Revelation Calls Us to Act

Tuesday, January 6, 2026 

Feast of the Epiphany

Religious historian Diana Butler Bass invites readers to take a clear-eyed look at the world around us and how we participate in its healing or harm: 

Right now, we think it is hard to look at the world. It is difficult to watch the news, open social media, read a newspaper. All that division and anger and confusion and suffering and fear and pain. Authoritarianism, injustice, mass murder, starvation, war, genocide … every single day I fear what I may see. 

But if being a follower of Christ invites us to be Christ’s hands and feet, are we not also Christ’s eyes?

What does God see when God looks at the world?

Certainly, God sees sin, sorrow, the shame, the pity, the terror, and the sheer horror of it all. The pathos of the world….

God sees beyond, through, and past the covering of the fig leaves. God sees creation “without deceit.” God beholds the world as it really is, a beloved community, a feast of abundance, sparkling in the light and glory of love.

And God invites us to see that goodness also—with our own eyes. To see differently, looking beyond, under, through, and past the shadows.

There are some among us who see the world—those prophets, saints, and heroes we admire—the visionaries in history and the rare ones in our midst. People like Martin Luther King Jr., a follower, a dreamer, a man with vision.

When they ask us to come and see, many respond. And then we go and do. Come and see. Go and do likewise.

But seeing isn’t only for visionaries. Every person called to follow is called, first and foremost, to come and see. The Light dwells with all of us, opening our eyes. The Light widens the circle of welcome. We are all seers. The Light beckons: Come and see.

What do you see today? [1]

Butler Bass connects our ability to see and to act with the Christian celebration of the Epiphany:

January 5 is the twelfth and final day of Christmas. On January 6, the Christian calendar turns to a new season: Epiphany….

The Wise Men awaited a sign in the sky—a star—to guide them on this journey. Revelations break in, signs appear in dreams, light shines forth, and glory hovers all around. Such things are from the realms of miracle, awe, and wonder. They surprise and disrupt the normal course of existence. Epiphanies are not of our making.

But it would be a mistake to believe that we are only passive recipients of epiphanies. We need to be alert for their arrival…. Revelations can be missed if one isn’t attentive or attuned to the possibilities of sacred surprise….

We cannot create epiphanies, but, like the Wise Men, we can respond to them. Epiphanies grab a hold of us; we can’t shake them. Epiphanies beckon. The star invites; it calls to the attentive to do something—to act.

The Magi and I

A Post for Epiphany

BRIAN ZAHND

JAN 06, 2026

Today is the Epiphany—the commemoration of the revelation of Christ to the Gentiles in the persons of the Magi. I thought I’d share a favorite poem with you (T.S. Eliot’s Journey of the Magi) and my own semi-poetic reflection upon it.

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Journey of the Magi
by T.S. Eliot

A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times when we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities dirty and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wineskins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.

The Magi and I
by Brian Zahnd

An old Magi remembers his difficult journey from long ago.
A hard time we had of it
He doesn’t regret it. He says—
I would do it again
But…

Finding the King of the Jews came with a price.
To be a witness of this Birth was to also experience a particular Death.
(The Magi had thought birth and death were different, but came find out otherwise.)
Once you get even an inkling of what it really means that Jesus is King—
Nothing is ever quite the same. Some things will die. For sure.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensations,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
Ain’t it the truth!

I know that when I really began to see the Kingdom of God for what it is—
Cherished assumptions about the nation and life I call mine had to die.
I was no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation.

When the Magi made their way home, we’re told they went by “another way.”
Of course they did.
Once you see the King, once you have the Epiphany—
You have to travel through this life by “another way.”
(Or betray all you have been granted to see.)
And to an “alien people clutching their gods”—
You will seem at best odd, and at worse…well, something quite bad.
Truth doesn’t come cheap.
The hard journey to a real Epiphany will cost you more than some…
Gold, frankincense and myrrh.
It will cost you the way you look at the world.
Something will have to die. And you may well mourn it.
To really see the birth of Christ for what it is,
Will bring you face to face with death—
Death to what you were once so comfortable with.

Eliot’s Magi concludes his memoir with this enigmatic line—
I should be glad of another death.
What does Eliot mean by that?
I’m not entirely sure, but I think he means his Magi to say something like this:
I’m ready even for more,
More Epiphanies,
More Births,
More Stars in the East…
Which will of course lead to more Deaths.
That’s the way it works.
The birth of truth is death to the lie—
And there are a lot of lies we’ve leaned to love and cherish.
The price of truth may be the willingness to endure a certain sorrow—
The sorrow that comes from the death of a loved and cherished lie.

Do you have any idea what I’m saying?
If you think finding Christ means nothing more than adding him to your life—
(as one would add an insurance policy with death benefits to their life)
—you haven’t yet had the real Epiphany, the Epiphany the old magi speaks of.

Christ is not something that will nicely accommodate your cherished assumptions.
Christ is the most radical thing that has ever happened to this world.
To see Christ as Christ, the King of the Jews who is now King of the World—
Is to realize that Caesar is not Lord, Pharaoh is not Lord, but Jesus is Lord.

Jesus cannot be owned or incorporated or subsumed into any other nation—
Not Babylon, not Egypt, not Rome, not Russia, not England, not America.
Jesus is building his own nation (kingdom)—it’s the Kingdom of God.
Christ does not come to endorse any nation—he comes to set up his own.
But the nations of the world—all of them!—will resist this.

Because every nation insists that national sovereignty trumps everything.
As long as nations believe that their national sovereignty trumps everything—
They’ll be at war with Christ. Christ insists that his lordship trumps everything!

So to see the birth of Christ for the Epiphany it is—
Is not only to witness a Birth, it is to encounter a Death:
The death of loved and cherished lies. (Oh yes, there are lies we dearly love!)

What are these lies? I can’t tell you. You love them too much.
You have to see these lies as lies for yourself.
But I can tell you what will happen when you see the lies…

When you see the lies, you’ll no longer be at home in Babylon.
(All the nations of the world insisting on their own sovereignty add up to one big Babylon.)
To have the Epiphany of which I speak will make you an alien in your own land.

As Eliot said, you will no longer be at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
The old magi says, “I should be glad of another death.”
What about you? Are you ready for the Birth of the New?—
If it means the Death of the Old?

BZ

Reflective Questions:

1. What “cherished lies” or “things of earth” have grown strangely dim for you as your eyes have turned more fully toward Jesus? What has this cost you, and what has it given you?
2. Butler Bass asks, “What do you see today?” when you look at the world with Christ’s eyes. Zahnd reminds us that this seeing makes us aliens in our own land. How are you being called to both see and act on what you see, even when it disrupts your comfort or belonging?

Sunday, January 4, 2026

READ ON CAC.ORG

CAC faculty member Brian McLaren introduces the 2026 Daily Meditationstheme: “Good News for a Fractured World.”

Our world is deeply fractured. We see the symptoms all around us. We see it in politics. We see it in social media. We see it in our families and denominations. Those fractures couldn’t come at a worse time. We need to come together as never before to address our environmental and climate crises, to resist authoritarian movements that have the power of billionaires, the power of social media and AI, at their disposal to divide us further and further. We need to come together to explore better ways of living with ourselves, with one another, and with this sacred beautiful earth.

But just when we need to come together, we see ourselves fracturing and retreating into our opposite corners of isolation, our little echo chambers, where we only hear what we want to hear, which often is the opposite of what we need to hear. These fractures make us feel afraid and sometimes depressed, reactive, and paralyzed, and soon we feel ourselves being sucked into being part of the disease instead of part of the healing.

For spiritually alive people, for people of deep and genuine faith, we don’t want to surrender to despair and cynicism, reactivity and fragmentation. We want to be healed and empowered, so we can participate in healing and empowering other people.  [1]

Many people today feel disillusioned by the divisions that Christianity has helped create. Yet even amid this fracturing, faithful people are reimagining what it means to follow Jesus with compassion and courage.

Across every traditional Christian denomination, there are widespread calls for change. Imaginative scholars, liturgists, organizers, networkers, and pastors are creating resources and spaces for beautiful new things to be born….

These redeemers of Christianity are out there, by the hundreds, thousands, and tens of thousands. Catholic and Protestant, Pentecostal and Mainline, Eastern Orthodox and other … I know them. Some are heads of communions, bishops, seminary presidents, and professors, with well-known names, with best-selling books and big platforms. Some are pastors and church planters, leading and forming faith communities of all shapes, sizes, and denominations. Some are nuns, friars, Catholic workers, organizing for the common good. Some are podcasters, publishers, bloggers, producing creative content to help in the transition process. Some are artists, integrating needed truth with arresting beauty. Most are quiet people, living ordinary lives of extraordinary love and grace. When they’re attacked, they keep moving forward with humble, gracious confidence. When they’re discouraged, they find new inner strength. When they think about leaving Christianity, which probably happens quite often, they say, “Not today. Not me.” You know this is true, because there’s a good chance that you’re one of them….

It will never be perfect. Of course. It’s a human enterprise, and we humans complicate everything. But at least this emerging Christianity could become humble and teachable, curious and self-critical, creative and humane, diverse and harmonious.

——————————–

Finding Good News in the Bible

Monday, January 5, 2026

READ ON CAC.ORG

The good news or the living “Word of God” is personified in Jesus but is communicated throughout Scripture.
—Richard Rohr, The Great Themes of Scripture: Old Testament

For many of us, the Bible has been both a source of wisdom and a source of wounding. It has inspired liberation and love, just as it has also been used to justify domination and division. In 2026, we’ll return to this ancient text with open hearts and new eyes, exploring how it might again speak good news to a fractured world. Brian McLaren shares:

One of the weapons we see people use in our hostilities and fragmentation is the Bible. Many of us have been wounded by the Bible wielded as a weapon. Many of us have wielded the Bible as a weapon ourselves and wounded others. Many of us have just stayed away from the Bible entirely because it feels like something dangerous—a sharpened sword, a loaded gun, a ticking time bomb, a toxic recipe…. But if we learn to read the Bible in conversation with our honest experience and in light of our living traditions, we can learn and model a better way.  

Throughout the 2026 Daily Meditations, we will be looking at the Bible in new and fresh ways—as good news for a fractured world. Let me mention three of those new and fresh ways. First, we won’t read the Bible as if it were a divinely dictated book that descended out of heaven on a parachute. Instead, we will be reading the Bible as a set of precious literary artifacts that emerge in the unfolding story of humanity. We will take seriously the historical, social, ecological, economic, and political context of the Bible, and we will dig deep for needed ancient wisdom to help us today.  

Second, we won’t read the Bible as if it were a manual to help people dominate and exploit the earth and other people. It certainly has been and is being used in that way, but we will instead explore the Bible for inspiration—for creative and nonviolent resistance to that kind of domination and exploitation.  

And third, we won’t read the Bible as if it were an evacuation plan, preparing us to give up on the earth and be beamed up to heaven. Instead, we will explore the Bible as a prompt for both deep contemplation and for deep, loving action.

We will approach the Bible contemplatively, quieting our kneejerk reactions, exposing our deep-seated biases, challenging our untested assumptions, and leading us to see the divine in creation, in our own hearts, and in one another. And, especially in the life and teaching of Jesus, we will see a call to special kind of action in the world—nonviolent action, creative action, Christlike action where leadership looks like service and where the power of love outlasts and overcomes the love of power.

Discussion Questions for CoFew:

1. McLaren describes people who, when tempted to leave Christianity, say “Not today. Not me.” What keeps you showing up, even when the fractures feel overwhelming? When have you most needed to say those words?

2. The devotionals talk about reading the Bible with “open hearts and new eyes” – not as a weapon but as inspiration for nonviolent resistance. Where have you experienced the Bible being wielded as a weapon? How might we model that “better way” McLaren describes?

Dignity Is Non-Negotiable

Friday, January 2, 2026

Carlos Rodríguez, founder of The Happy Givers nonprofit based in Puerto Rico, shares how he was challenged to be salt and light for an elderly man:

Don Héctor was at the hospital. He had pneumonia and it was terrible… While he was at the hospital, a combination of my fear and my pride led me to not going to visit Don Héctor for a week as he was nearing the end of his life.

Don Héctor was an invitation that I was ignoring, so after a week of this internal struggle—of not being salt, of not being light—I challenged myself with some stern internal pastoring, some loving correction. I felt the invitation of the Spirit, not as accusation, not as condemnation, but as a frustration that became an invitation.

I went to see Don Héctor at the hospital. He was so happy to see us, and he immediately began to share the reality of being an elderly person in a hospital in Puerto Rico where we’re lacking doctors and nurses. The main thing he was frustrated with was the fact that he hadn’t had access to a shower for that whole week, and he took great pride in his appearance. I had this moment where his frustration became my invitation. I thought, “Okay, well, it’s time to give him a shower.” I was not honest with Don Héctor that day. I lied to him, and I said, “Don’t worry about it. I’m a pro at this. That’s part of what we do at the nonprofit.”

I took off his clothes, asked the nurse to show me what to do, and led him to a shower that was available. In what was quite possibly the most beautiful, the most awkward, and the holiest moment of my last year, I gave Don Héctor a shower. From the shame, it moved to a connection that was so meaningful to me. That in his most vulnerable moment, I was able to honor him….

There’s nothing like being salt and light. As Father Richard has said many times, “The best criticism of the bad is the practice of the good.” And giving Don Héctor a shower and spending time with him was the good….

We keep finding God in those showers. We keep finding God in these [things] that remind us of our childhood and our brokenness, but that also invite us into generational healing and transformation. There are so many good ethics and teachings and books, and there are so many good people speaking into microphones, but there’s nothing like just being present with the ones who need presence.

And so, for Don Héctor, who passed away a couple of weeks after that shower, and for every elderly person that we serve, and for every person in your community who is marginalized, who has been abandoned, who has been rejected, the invitation is to be salt and light. Salt, which both gives flavor and preserves, and light, which always shines brightest in the darkness.

________________________________________________

John Chaffee 5 On Friday

1.

“To follow Jesus is to be a wholemaker, essentially to love the world into new being and life.”

– Ilia Delio, Franciscan Theologian

Several years ago, I underwent a theological shift, seeing Jesus as a “whole-maker.”

Yes, Jesus secures our forgiveness on one level, but that happens along the way to wholeness.

In essence, my theological framework shifted from forgiveness to renewal, reconciliation, and restoration.  That which is broken can be made whole again; THAT became the focus.

This was a significant shift because it allowed me to begin noticing how particular interpretations of Christianity seek to fracture the world into parts, rather than seeing it as one seamless whole that God loves.  It allowed me to finally be able to name and critique how well-intentioned Christians are hurting the world by constantly falling into tribalism.

If any of us are going to follow Jesus, it must include being about the same goals as Christ, who sought to make the world whole again.

2.

“Some elders visited Abba Poeman and said to him, ‘What do you want us to do?  If we see brothers who are nodding off during synaxis, do we nudge them to keep them watchful during the night vigil?’

He said to him, ‘For my part, if I see a brother nodding off, I put his head in my lap and let him rest.'”

– Tim Vivian in Becoming Fire

This is from the book Becoming Fire.  It is a daily reading devotional-type book that compiles stories of the early desert mothers and fathers of the Church.  So far, it has been an enriching read.

What I enjoy about this story is that you might expect Abba Poeman to tell the elders to keep the other monks awake during service, but instead, he encourages them toward mercy.

3.

“Each organized religion comes with its own images of god full-blown.  They may inspire awe, love, fear, guilt, or doubt.  They may carry potent and life-restoring energies for a believer, or they may remain lifeless and inert for a skeptic.”

– Connie Zweig, Retired Psychotherapist

I remember hearing someone say that the image of God we carry in our heads can either terrify or comfort us.  That image is fascinating because it can both inspire us and judge us…  It can give us something to live up to, and at the same time, it can be something we feel condemns us for not living up to.

And this is where Christianity is groundbreaking: Our image of God does not condemn us for not living up to it; it forgives and reconciles us.

I don’t know how to communicate this any other way.  It is truly ground-breaking.  This God is far less concerned with judgment and condemnation than he is with restoration.

4.

“The monk is (at least ideally) a man who has responded to an authentic call of God to a life of freedom and detachment, a ‘desert life’ outside normal social structures.”

– Thomas Merton, Trappist Monk

It likely comes as no surprise to you that I have a part of my soul that feels rather monastic.  As an Enneagram 5, I am already prone to withdrawing in social situations and preferring the solace of solitude.

However, as a graduate of Eastern University, I have also been greatly influenced by Shane Claiborne and The Simple Way.  They are based in North Philly and seek to do “urban monasticism.”  Rather than seclude themselves from the rest of society, they seek to be monks in the center of a city.

Jim Finley, a former Trappist monk under Merton, has posited it this way: “Is there a way that I can maintain the internal posture of the monastery while living outside of its walls?”

I love that question.

I may not be a monk, but I can organize my life in a way that lends itself toward soulful reflection and a particular attentiveness to the subtlety of divine encounter.

5.

“The denunciation of injustice implies the rejection of the use of Christianity to legitimize the established order.”

– Gustavo Gutierrez, Peruvian Priest

This could also go well with the first quote from today.

Somewhere along the way, I started to see Christianity as a rebellious religion.  It has no affinity for or allegiance to any status quo.  No matter who is in power, it has a spiritual responsibility to speak truth to power and to push back against all the dehumanizing ways that we treat one another.

A Little Salt Goes a Long Way

Thursday, January 1, 2026

New Year’s Day

Salt is good, but if it loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again? It is fit neither for the soil nor for the manure pile; it is thrown out.
—Luke 14:34–35

Author Margaret Feinberg writes of the collective impact of bringing forward our own “salty” flavor for the healing of the world:

As the salt of the earth, we are agents of human flourishing. Jesus is calling us to be fertilizer in his kingdom. We are the salt poured on that which is foul in order to foster fresh, new life. We are created to help others blossom and bud as they pursue the life God intends. Flourishing lives demonstrate evidence of the kingdom of God.…

Sometimes the places Christ sends you will feel manure-like—the last places, the last people, the last situations you’d ever want to engage. Like Jonah, you may be tempted to resist the hardship, the discomfort, the awkwardness and stinkiness, to stay in your comfort zone. Yet, it’s your salty fertilizer that brings salvation to a dysfunctional and dying world.

And don’t forget the kind of salt the disciples used was harvested with its surrounding minerals. Those trace elements gave the salt its uniqueness. In the same way, God uses you with all your naturally harvested “minerals”—your specific upbringing and personality and giftings and weaknesses and quirks. God leverages everything from your past wounds to your everyday work as [God] sprinkles you … throughout the world.

Feinberg offers encouragement when the suffering of the world feels overwhelming:

For me, it’s hard to know where to begin some days. I become overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of needs that flood my inbox and mailbox, my texts and social media feeds. In search of how to find a way forward, I once stumbled on wisdom tucked into some ancient Jewish writings known as the Talmud. There it says that if someone is suffering and in need, and you can take away 1/60 of their pain, then that is goodness, and the call to help is from God. This is a powerful expression of our being the salt—the preservers, the flavorers, the fertilizers—of the earth.

The fraction—1/60—is loaded with freedom. This liberates us from the pressured thinking that whispers, Everything depends on you. Your one little grain of salt can help with something someone else’s grain can’t. And when all the grains get mixed and sprinkled together, preserving and flavoring and helping others flourish occurs everywhere.

None of us are meant to preserve the whole earth, flavor the whole world, flourish the entire planet on our own. Yet you can begin today by simply asking God to bring to mind someone for whom you can ease 1/60 of their pain.

________________________________________________

Sarah Young Jesus Calling

  Be still in the Light of My Presence, while I communicate Love to you. There is no force in the universe as powerful as My Love. You are constantly aware of limitations: your own and others’. But there is no limit to My Love; it fills all of space, time, and eternity.

    Now you see through a glass, darkly, but someday you will see Me face to Face. Then you will be able to experience fully how wide and long and high and deep is My Love for you. If you were to experience that now, you would be overwhelmed to the point of feeling crushed. But you have an eternity ahead of you, absolutely guaranteed, during when you can enjoy My Presence in unrestricted ecstasy. For now, the knowledge of My loving Presence is sufficient to carry you through each day.

RELATED SCRIPTURE: 

1st Corinthians 13:12 NLT

12 Now we see things imperfectly, like puzzling reflections in a mirror, but then we will see everything with perfect clarity. All that I know now is partial and incomplete, but then I will know everything completely, just as God now knows me completely.

Ephesians 3:16-19

16 I pray that from his glorious, unlimited resources he will empower you with inner strength through his Spirit. 17 Then Christ will make his home in your hearts as you trust in him. Your roots will grow down into God’s love and keep you strong. 18 And may you have the power to understand, as all God’s people should, how wide, how long, how high, and how deep his love is. 19 May you experience the love of Christ, though it is too great to understand fully. Then you will be made complete with all the fullness of life and power that comes from God.

[Jesus] burnt himself out totally, like a candle, to give light to the people living under the power of darkness
—Choan-Seng Song, Jesus, The Crucified People

Father Richard encourages us to find the wisdom revealed in the paradoxical nature of reality. 

On the last day of the year, I generally withdraw to pray. A few years ago, I asked myself: What should I pray for this year? What do we need in these turbulent times? Naturally, I was strongly tempted to pray for more love. But it occurred to me that I’ve met so many people in the world who are already full of love and who really care for others. Maybe what we lack isn’t love but wisdom. 

We all want to love, but as a rule we don’t know how to love rightly. How should we love so that life will really come from it? The answer to that question requires wisdom. I’m very disappointed that the Church has passed on so little wisdom. We’ve typically taught people to think that they’re right—or that they’re wrong. We’ve mandated things or forbidden them, but we haven’t helped people enter upon the narrow and dangerous path of true wisdom. On wisdom’s path we take the risk of making mistakes. On this path we take the risk of being wrong. That’s how wisdom is gained.

It looks as if we will always live in a world that is a mixture of good and evil. Jesus called it a field in which wheat and weeds grow alongside each other. We say, “Lord, shouldn’t we go and rip out the weeds?” But Jesus says: “No, if you try to do that, you’ll probably rip the wheat out along with the weeds. Let both grow alongside each other in the field till harvest” (Matthew 13:24–30). We need a lot of patience and humility to live with a field of both weeds and wheat in our own souls.

Jesus came to teach us the way of wisdom. He brought us a message that offers to liberate us from both the lies of the world and the lies lodged in ourselves. The words of the Gospels create an alternative consciousness, solid ground on which we can really stand, free from every social order and from every ideology. Jesus called this new foundation the reign of God, and he said it is something that takes place in this world and yet will never be completed in this world. This is where faith comes in. It’s so rare to find ourselves trusting—not in the systems and -isms of this world—but standing at a place where we offer our bit of salt, leaven, and light. Even then, we have no security that we’re really right. This means that we have to stand in an inconspicuous, mysterious place, a place where we’re not sure that we’re sure, where we are comfortable knowing that we do not know very much at all.

New Year’s Longings

Leaving “Resolutions” Behind | Listening From The Heart

CHUCK DEGROATDEC 31

Every January, we’re handed the same script.

Lose weight.
Drink less.
Pray more. 

I’ve already received an email asking, “Chuck, what do you resolve to do beginning on January 1?” And they’ll gladly sell me their book on bettering myself. 

New Year’s resolutions are often built on sheer willpower, even mind over matter.

YOU CAN DO THIS the headline reads, with 20 people on gym bicycles at 5:30am. But you’re just trying to catch a few extra minutes of sleep at that time after your kid comes wandering in saying, “Mommy, is it morning yet?” 

And the subtle message if you fail at resolving to be your best you? Shame on you for not trying harder. 

This can’t be it, friends. 

What if the deeper invitation of the new year isn’t exhausting effort, but attunement?

Not pushing through, but listening deeply?

From Resolutions to Longings

Resolutions ask: What should I do differently this year?
Longings ask: What is stirring within me?

And that’s not a small shift.

In the Gospels, Jesus doesn’t offer transformation-by-checklist. Rather, he offers a Beatitude vision of the kind of happy (read: flourishing and whole)person you can become by taking the unlikeliest path: surrender, grief, humility, desire, mercy, integrity, shalom, and security. And throughout his public ministry, Jesus asks one sort of question, over and over—a question so simple and so disarming that you might miss it while looking for to-do lists:

“What do you want?”

No, it’s a not a ‘what do you want for Christmas’ kind of question. It’s asking: At your depths, what you most deeply long for? 

And it’s an invitation to begin anew, not in wearying willpower but soul-empowering grace. 

Grace and Desire

The great early church saint Augustine once mused, “The desire for grace is the beginning of grace.” I read it like this: Grace isn’t passive. 

We too often juxtapose will and grace, as if the latter is passive. It’s not. Augustine reminds us that the wide open field of grace reveals itself in-and-through our desires. After all, as he famously said elsewhere, “Our hearts are restless until they find their rest in God.” 

CS Lewis said something similar: longing is a signal, a homing beacon, an echo of Eden. It’s a reminder that your heart still pulses within, that beneath the mad and mundane of your everyday life is a hunger for goodness. 

Grace awakens in your heart as desire, as you tap into an underground current, one that never stops flowing even if you live unaware of it. 

What if tuning in was the call of the new year? 

Working With the Body, Not Against It

This posture of longing doesn’t just make theological sense, it makes physiological sense.

So much of our resolution-making assumes that our bodies are obstacles to overcome. If we could just outthink our anxiety, override our exhaustion, or push past our limits, then we’d finally become the people we want to be. 

“Where there’s a will there’s a way,” my Mom used to say. By late January or early February, however, we’ve only lost momentum and found exhaustion. 

But our nervous systems don’t change through force. And our longings don’t awaken in the fight-or-flight hustle of chronic sympathetic nervous system activation. 

Our hearts awaken amidst the tender conditions of safety, attunement, and connection, as I’ve written about in Healing What’s Within. Here, connected to our nervous system’s “Home” state, as I call it, psyche and soma unite in a dance of desire, opening us to goodness, to hope, even to the kinds of internally-aligned choices that manifest in deep and lasting change. 

How do I retune to Home? you ask. Consider:

• Where do I notice a gentle inner yes…in my body, not just my thoughts?
• What does my heart most need right now…connection, rest, belonging, meaning, dignity?
• What relationships or practices give me life…and which quietly drain it?
• Which choices reflect my truest self, and which are coping strategies in disguise?
• What is the one core thing I long for amidst the many things that demand my attention? 
• What is one small, faithful step today that honors my heart, body, and mind?

Not ten sure-fire steps. Not a mind-over-matter plan to change your life in 30 days. 

But tender, gentle, attuned movements of listening attentively and acting intentionally. 

This is the kind of inner spiritual and emotional formation that works with us in both body and soul, not against us.

A Different Way Into the New Year

Like some of you, I live under the weight of all the should’s. 

I should put that Planet Fitness membership we have to good use and get to the gym more regularly, I should manage my time better, I should clean up my inbox every week, I should stop snacking in the evenings, I should commit to justice-keeping and peace-making in concrete ways, and I should save more money. 

I feel the anxious churn underneath, even the whispers of, “The calendar is turning—now’s your chance, Chuck!” 

Resolutions often collapse under the weight of unrealistic expectations. Longings, by contrast, are sustainable. They meet us where we actually are. This is reflected in the spiritual practice of creating a Rule of Life, which (ironically) isn’t about hard-and-fast rules at all, but about stepping into what we long for and what aligns most deeply with our hearts and values in various areas—our relationships, our work, our justice-keeping, our body-tending, our everyday spending, our hobbies, and more. 

Imagine that list I just shared articulated as longing:

• I long to inhabit my body with greater care and vitality, moving in ways that help me feel grounded and alive.
• I long for my days to feel more spacious and intentional, rather than hurried and fragmented.
• I long for clarity and lightness in my work life, releasing what no longer needs my constant attention.
• I long to end my days feeling settled and nourished, not reaching for food to soothe exhaustion or unease.
• I long to live with a steady commitment to justice and peace, expressed through faithful, concrete practices rather than abstract ideals.
• I long for a deeper sense of sufficiency and trust, so that money becomes a tool for freedom rather than a source of anxiety.

Imagine, then, awakening each day to these longings, with attention and intention given to living in alignment with them. Instead of awakening to a list, I’m awakening to my heart. 

If, as Augustine says, “the desire for grace is the beginning of grace,” then when my actions don’t match my deepest longings, I don’t beat myself up—I return to my longings. 

It’s a posture I adopted for myself more than 25 years ago, not after reading some self-help book, but after reading theologian Cornelius Plantinga’s stirring book on sin, of all things. There are few passages I’ve quoted more over the years than this one from the book:

“What does a spiritually whole person look like? A spiritually whole person longs in certain classical ways. She longs for God and the beauty of God, for Christ and Christlikeness, for the power of the Holy Spirit and spiritual maturity. She longs for spiritual health itself—and not just as a consolation prize when she cannot be rich and envied instead. She longs for other human beings: she wants to love them and to be loved by them. She hungers for social justice. She longs for nature, for its beauties and graces, for the sheer particularity of the way of a squirrel with a nut. As we might expect, her longings dim from season to season. When they do, she longs to long again.” – Cornelius Plantinga, Not The Way It’s Supposed To Be: A Breviary On Sin

It’s an extraordinary vision. But notice what he doesn’t say—he doesn’t say, “When her longings dim, she beats herself up for not doing better.” Rather, Plantinga says, “she longs to long again.” 

Such grace. Even for you, and even when the best laid plans seem to fail. 

Perhaps the most faithful question in this season isn’t: What should I change? 

But rather:

What is my heart quietly longing for?

---

READ IN APP

Every January, we’re handed the same script.

Lose weight.
Drink less.
Pray more. 

I’ve already received an email asking, “Chuck, what do you resolve to do beginning on January 1?” And they’ll gladly sell me their book on bettering myself. 

New Year’s resolutions are often built on sheer willpower, even mind over matter.

YOU CAN DO THIS the headline reads, with 20 people on gym bicycles at 5:30am. But you’re just trying to catch a few extra minutes of sleep at that time after your kid comes wandering in saying, “Mommy, is it morning yet?” 

And the subtle message if you fail at resolving to be your best you? Shame on you for not trying harder. 

This can’t be it, friends. 

What if the deeper invitation of the new year isn’t exhausting effort, but attunement?

Not pushing through, but listening deeply?

From Resolutions to Longings

Resolutions ask: What should I do differently this year?
Longings ask: What is stirring within me?

And that’s not a small shift.

In the Gospels, Jesus doesn’t offer transformation-by-checklist. Rather, he offers a Beatitude vision of the kind of happy (read: flourishing and whole)person you can become by taking the unlikeliest path: surrender, grief, humility, desire, mercy, integrity, shalom, and security. And throughout his public ministry, Jesus asks one sort of question, over and over—a question so simple and so disarming that you might miss it while looking for to-do lists:

“What do you want?”

No, it’s a not a ‘what do you want for Christmas’ kind of question. It’s asking: At your depths, what you most deeply long for? 

And it’s an invitation to begin anew, not in wearying willpower but soul-empowering grace. 

Grace and Desire

The great early church saint Augustine once mused, “The desire for grace is the beginning of grace.” I read it like this: Grace isn’t passive. 

We too often juxtapose will and grace, as if the latter is passive. It’s not. Augustine reminds us that the wide open field of grace reveals itself in-and-through our desires. After all, as he famously said elsewhere, “Our hearts are restless until they find their rest in God.” 

CS Lewis said something similar: longing is a signal, a homing beacon, an echo of Eden. It’s a reminder that your heart still pulses within, that beneath the mad and mundane of your everyday life is a hunger for goodness. 

Grace awakens in your heart as desire, as you tap into an underground current, one that never stops flowing even if you live unaware of it. 

What if tuning in was the call of the new year? 

Working With the Body, Not Against It

This posture of longing doesn’t just make theological sense, it makes physiological sense.

So much of our resolution-making assumes that our bodies are obstacles to overcome. If we could just outthink our anxiety, override our exhaustion, or push past our limits, then we’d finally become the people we want to be. 

“Where there’s a will there’s a way,” my Mom used to say. By late January or early February, however, we’ve only lost momentum and found exhaustion. 

But our nervous systems don’t change through force. And our longings don’t awaken in the fight-or-flight hustle of chronic sympathetic nervous system activation. 

Our hearts awaken amidst the tender conditions of safety, attunement, and connection, as I’ve written about in Healing What’s Within. Here, connected to our nervous system’s “Home” state, as I call it, psyche and soma unite in a dance of desire, opening us to goodness, to hope, even to the kinds of internally-aligned choices that manifest in deep and lasting change. 

How do I retune to Home? you ask. Consider:

• Where do I notice a gentle inner yes…in my body, not just my thoughts?
• What does my heart most need right now…connection, rest, belonging, meaning, dignity?
• What relationships or practices give me life…and which quietly drain it?
• Which choices reflect my truest self, and which are coping strategies in disguise?
• What is the one core thing I long for amidst the many things that demand my attention? 
• What is one small, faithful step today that honors my heart, body, and mind?

Not ten sure-fire steps. Not a mind-over-matter plan to change your life in 30 days. 

But tender, gentle, attuned movements of listening attentively and acting intentionally. 

This is the kind of inner spiritual and emotional formation that works with us in both body and soul, not against us.

A Different Way Into the New Year

Like some of you, I live under the weight of all the should’s. 

I should put that Planet Fitness membership we have to good use and get to the gym more regularly, I should manage my time better, I should clean up my inbox every week, I should stop snacking in the evenings, I should commit to justice-keeping and peace-making in concrete ways, and I should save more money. 

I feel the anxious churn underneath, even the whispers of, “The calendar is turning—now’s your chance, Chuck!” 

Resolutions often collapse under the weight of unrealistic expectations. Longings, by contrast, are sustainable. They meet us where we actually are. This is reflected in the spiritual practice of creating a Rule of Life, which (ironically) isn’t about hard-and-fast rules at all, but about stepping into what we long for and what aligns most deeply with our hearts and values in various areas—our relationships, our work, our justice-keeping, our body-tending, our everyday spending, our hobbies, and more. 

Imagine that list I just shared articulated as longing:

• I long to inhabit my body with greater care and vitality, moving in ways that help me feel grounded and alive.
• I long for my days to feel more spacious and intentional, rather than hurried and fragmented.
• I long for clarity and lightness in my work life, releasing what no longer needs my constant attention.
• I long to end my days feeling settled and nourished, not reaching for food to soothe exhaustion or unease.
• I long to live with a steady commitment to justice and peace, expressed through faithful, concrete practices rather than abstract ideals.
• I long for a deeper sense of sufficiency and trust, so that money becomes a tool for freedom rather than a source of anxiety.

Imagine, then, awakening each day to these longings, with attention and intention given to living in alignment with them. Instead of awakening to a list, I’m awakening to my heart. 

If, as Augustine says, “the desire for grace is the beginning of grace,” then when my actions don’t match my deepest longings, I don’t beat myself up—I return to my longings. 

It’s a posture I adopted for myself more than 25 years ago, not after reading some self-help book, but after reading theologian Cornelius Plantinga’s stirring book on sin, of all things. There are few passages I’ve quoted more over the years than this one from the book:

“What does a spiritually whole person look like? A spiritually whole person longs in certain classical ways. She longs for God and the beauty of God, for Christ and Christlikeness, for the power of the Holy Spirit and spiritual maturity. She longs for spiritual health itself—and not just as a consolation prize when she cannot be rich and envied instead. She longs for other human beings: she wants to love them and to be loved by them. She hungers for social justice. She longs for nature, for its beauties and graces, for the sheer particularity of the way of a squirrel with a nut. As we might expect, her longings dim from season to season. When they do, she longs to long again.” – Cornelius Plantinga, Not The Way It’s Supposed To Be: A Breviary On Sin

It’s an extraordinary vision. But notice what he doesn’t say—he doesn’t say, “When her longings dim, she beats herself up for not doing better.” Rather, Plantinga says, “she longs to long again.” 

Such grace. Even for you, and even when the best laid plans seem to fail. 

Perhaps the most faithful question in this season isn’t: What should I change? 

But rather:

What is my heart quietly longing for?

Every January, we’re handed the same script.

Lose weight.
Drink less.
Pray more. 

I’ve already received an email asking, “Chuck, what do you resolve to do beginning on January 1?” And they’ll gladly sell me their book on bettering myself. 

New Year’s resolutions are often built on sheer willpower, even mind over matter.

YOU CAN DO THIS the headline reads, with 20 people on gym bicycles at 5:30am. But you’re just trying to catch a few extra minutes of sleep at that time after your kid comes wandering in saying, “Mommy, is it morning yet?” 

And the subtle message if you fail at resolving to be your best you? Shame on you for not trying harder. 

This can’t be it, friends. 

What if the deeper invitation of the new year isn’t exhausting effort, but attunement?

Not pushing through, but listening deeply?

From Resolutions to Longings

Resolutions ask: What should I do differently this year?
Longings ask: What is stirring within me?

And that’s not a small shift.

In the Gospels, Jesus doesn’t offer transformation-by-checklist. Rather, he offers a Beatitude vision of the kind of happy (read: flourishing and whole)person you can become by taking the unlikeliest path: surrender, grief, humility, desire, mercy, integrity, shalom, and security. And throughout his public ministry, Jesus asks one sort of question, over and over—a question so simple and so disarming that you might miss it while looking for to-do lists:

“What do you want?”

No, it’s a not a ‘what do you want for Christmas’ kind of question. It’s asking: At your depths, what you most deeply long for? 

And it’s an invitation to begin anew, not in wearying willpower but soul-empowering grace. 

Grace and Desire

The great early church saint Augustine once mused, “The desire for grace is the beginning of grace.” I read it like this: Grace isn’t passive. 

We too often juxtapose will and grace, as if the latter is passive. It’s not. Augustine reminds us that the wide open field of grace reveals itself in-and-through our desires. After all, as he famously said elsewhere, “Our hearts are restless until they find their rest in God.” 

CS Lewis said something similar: longing is a signal, a homing beacon, an echo of Eden. It’s a reminder that your heart still pulses within, that beneath the mad and mundane of your everyday life is a hunger for goodness. 

Grace awakens in your heart as desire, as you tap into an underground current, one that never stops flowing even if you live unaware of it. 

What if tuning in was the call of the new year? 

Working With the Body, Not Against It

This posture of longing doesn’t just make theological sense, it makes physiological sense.

So much of our resolution-making assumes that our bodies are obstacles to overcome. If we could just outthink our anxiety, override our exhaustion, or push past our limits, then we’d finally become the people we want to be. 

“Where there’s a will there’s a way,” my Mom used to say. By late January or early February, however, we’ve only lost momentum and found exhaustion. 

But our nervous systems don’t change through force. And our longings don’t awaken in the fight-or-flight hustle of chronic sympathetic nervous system activation. 

Our hearts awaken amidst the tender conditions of safety, attunement, and connection, as I’ve written about in Healing What’s Within. Here, connected to our nervous system’s “Home” state, as I call it, psyche and soma unite in a dance of desire, opening us to goodness, to hope, even to the kinds of internally-aligned choices that manifest in deep and lasting change. 

How do I retune to Home? you ask. Consider:

• Where do I notice a gentle inner yes…in my body, not just my thoughts?
• What does my heart most need right now…connection, rest, belonging, meaning, dignity?
• What relationships or practices give me life…and which quietly drain it?
• Which choices reflect my truest self, and which are coping strategies in disguise?
• What is the one core thing I long for amidst the many things that demand my attention? 
• What is one small, faithful step today that honors my heart, body, and mind?

Not ten sure-fire steps. Not a mind-over-matter plan to change your life in 30 days. 

But tender, gentle, attuned movements of listening attentively and acting intentionally. 

This is the kind of inner spiritual and emotional formation that works with us in both body and soul, not against us.

A Different Way Into the New Year

Like some of you, I live under the weight of all the should’s. 

I should put that Planet Fitness membership we have to good use and get to the gym more regularly, I should manage my time better, I should clean up my inbox every week, I should stop snacking in the evenings, I should commit to justice-keeping and peace-making in concrete ways, and I should save more money. 

I feel the anxious churn underneath, even the whispers of, “The calendar is turning—now’s your chance, Chuck!” 

Resolutions often collapse under the weight of unrealistic expectations. Longings, by contrast, are sustainable. They meet us where we actually are. This is reflected in the spiritual practice of creating a Rule of Life, which (ironically) isn’t about hard-and-fast rules at all, but about stepping into what we long for and what aligns most deeply with our hearts and values in various areas—our relationships, our work, our justice-keeping, our body-tending, our everyday spending, our hobbies, and more. 

Imagine that list I just shared articulated as longing:

• I long to inhabit my body with greater care and vitality, moving in ways that help me feel grounded and alive.
• I long for my days to feel more spacious and intentional, rather than hurried and fragmented.
• I long for clarity and lightness in my work life, releasing what no longer needs my constant attention.
• I long to end my days feeling settled and nourished, not reaching for food to soothe exhaustion or unease.
• I long to live with a steady commitment to justice and peace, expressed through faithful, concrete practices rather than abstract ideals.
• I long for a deeper sense of sufficiency and trust, so that money becomes a tool for freedom rather than a source of anxiety.

Imagine, then, awakening each day to these longings, with attention and intention given to living in alignment with them. Instead of awakening to a list, I’m awakening to my heart. 

If, as Augustine says, “the desire for grace is the beginning of grace,” then when my actions don’t match my deepest longings, I don’t beat myself up—I return to my longings. 

It’s a posture I adopted for myself more than 25 years ago, not after reading some self-help book, but after reading theologian Cornelius Plantinga’s stirring book on sin, of all things. There are few passages I’ve quoted more over the years than this one from the book:

“What does a spiritually whole person look like? A spiritually whole person longs in certain classical ways. She longs for God and the beauty of God, for Christ and Christlikeness, for the power of the Holy Spirit and spiritual maturity. She longs for spiritual health itself—and not just as a consolation prize when she cannot be rich and envied instead. She longs for other human beings: she wants to love them and to be loved by them. She hungers for social justice. She longs for nature, for its beauties and graces, for the sheer particularity of the way of a squirrel with a nut. As we might expect, her longings dim from season to season. When they do, she longs to long again.” – Cornelius Plantinga, Not The Way It’s Supposed To Be: A Breviary On Sin

It’s an extraordinary vision. But notice what he doesn’t say—he doesn’t say, “When her longings dim, she beats herself up for not doing better.” Rather, Plantinga says, “she longs to long again.” 

Such grace. Even for you, and even when the best laid plans seem to fail. 

Perhaps the most faithful question in this season isn’t: What should I change? 

But rather:

What is my heart quietly longing for?

READ IN APP

Every January, we’re handed the same script.

Lose weight.
Drink less.
Pray more. 

I’ve already received an email asking, “Chuck, what do you resolve to do beginning on January 1?” And they’ll gladly sell me their book on bettering myself. 

New Year’s resolutions are often built on sheer willpower, even mind over matter.

YOU CAN DO THIS the headline reads, with 20 people on gym bicycles at 5:30am. But you’re just trying to catch a few extra minutes of sleep at that time after your kid comes wandering in saying, “Mommy, is it morning yet?” 

And the subtle message if you fail at resolving to be your best you? Shame on you for not trying harder. 

This can’t be it, friends. 

What if the deeper invitation of the new year isn’t exhausting effort, but attunement?

Not pushing through, but listening deeply?

From Resolutions to Longings

Resolutions ask: What should I do differently this year?
Longings ask: What is stirring within me?

And that’s not a small shift.

In the Gospels, Jesus doesn’t offer transformation-by-checklist. Rather, he offers a Beatitude vision of the kind of happy (read: flourishing and whole)person you can become by taking the unlikeliest path: surrender, grief, humility, desire, mercy, integrity, shalom, and security. And throughout his public ministry, Jesus asks one sort of question, over and over—a question so simple and so disarming that you might miss it while looking for to-do lists:

“What do you want?”

No, it’s a not a ‘what do you want for Christmas’ kind of question. It’s asking: At your depths, what you most deeply long for? 

And it’s an invitation to begin anew, not in wearying willpower but soul-empowering grace. 

Grace and Desire

The great early church saint Augustine once mused, “The desire for grace is the beginning of grace.” I read it like this: Grace isn’t passive. 

We too often juxtapose will and grace, as if the latter is passive. It’s not. Augustine reminds us that the wide open field of grace reveals itself in-and-through our desires. After all, as he famously said elsewhere, “Our hearts are restless until they find their rest in God.” 

CS Lewis said something similar: longing is a signal, a homing beacon, an echo of Eden. It’s a reminder that your heart still pulses within, that beneath the mad and mundane of your everyday life is a hunger for goodness. 

Grace awakens in your heart as desire, as you tap into an underground current, one that never stops flowing even if you live unaware of it. 

What if tuning in was the call of the new year? 

Working With the Body, Not Against It

This posture of longing doesn’t just make theological sense, it makes physiological sense.

So much of our resolution-making assumes that our bodies are obstacles to overcome. If we could just outthink our anxiety, override our exhaustion, or push past our limits, then we’d finally become the people we want to be. 

“Where there’s a will there’s a way,” my Mom used to say. By late January or early February, however, we’ve only lost momentum and found exhaustion. 

But our nervous systems don’t change through force. And our longings don’t awaken in the fight-or-flight hustle of chronic sympathetic nervous system activation. 

Our hearts awaken amidst the tender conditions of safety, attunement, and connection, as I’ve written about in Healing What’s Within. Here, connected to our nervous system’s “Home” state, as I call it, psyche and soma unite in a dance of desire, opening us to goodness, to hope, even to the kinds of internally-aligned choices that manifest in deep and lasting change. 

How do I retune to Home? you ask. Consider:

• Where do I notice a gentle inner yes…in my body, not just my thoughts?
• What does my heart most need right now…connection, rest, belonging, meaning, dignity?
• What relationships or practices give me life…and which quietly drain it?
• Which choices reflect my truest self, and which are coping strategies in disguise?
• What is the one core thing I long for amidst the many things that demand my attention? 
• What is one small, faithful step today that honors my heart, body, and mind?

Not ten sure-fire steps. Not a mind-over-matter plan to change your life in 30 days. 

But tender, gentle, attuned movements of listening attentively and acting intentionally. 

This is the kind of inner spiritual and emotional formation that works with us in both body and soul, not against us.

A Different Way Into the New Year

Like some of you, I live under the weight of all the should’s. 

I should put that Planet Fitness membership we have to good use and get to the gym more regularly, I should manage my time better, I should clean up my inbox every week, I should stop snacking in the evenings, I should commit to justice-keeping and peace-making in concrete ways, and I should save more money. 

I feel the anxious churn underneath, even the whispers of, “The calendar is turning—now’s your chance, Chuck!” 

Resolutions often collapse under the weight of unrealistic expectations. Longings, by contrast, are sustainable. They meet us where we actually are. This is reflected in the spiritual practice of creating a Rule of Life, which (ironically) isn’t about hard-and-fast rules at all, but about stepping into what we long for and what aligns most deeply with our hearts and values in various areas—our relationships, our work, our justice-keeping, our body-tending, our everyday spending, our hobbies, and more. 

Imagine that list I just shared articulated as longing:

• I long to inhabit my body with greater care and vitality, moving in ways that help me feel grounded and alive.
• I long for my days to feel more spacious and intentional, rather than hurried and fragmented.
• I long for clarity and lightness in my work life, releasing what no longer needs my constant attention.
• I long to end my days feeling settled and nourished, not reaching for food to soothe exhaustion or unease.
• I long to live with a steady commitment to justice and peace, expressed through faithful, concrete practices rather than abstract ideals.
• I long for a deeper sense of sufficiency and trust, so that money becomes a tool for freedom rather than a source of anxiety.

Imagine, then, awakening each day to these longings, with attention and intention given to living in alignment with them. Instead of awakening to a list, I’m awakening to my heart. 

If, as Augustine says, “the desire for grace is the beginning of grace,” then when my actions don’t match my deepest longings, I don’t beat myself up—I return to my longings. 

It’s a posture I adopted for myself more than 25 years ago, not after reading some self-help book, but after reading theologian Cornelius Plantinga’s stirring book on sin, of all things. There are few passages I’ve quoted more over the years than this one from the book:

“What does a spiritually whole person look like? A spiritually whole person longs in certain classical ways. She longs for God and the beauty of God, for Christ and Christlikeness, for the power of the Holy Spirit and spiritual maturity. She longs for spiritual health itself—and not just as a consolation prize when she cannot be rich and envied instead. She longs for other human beings: she wants to love them and to be loved by them. She hungers for social justice. She longs for nature, for its beauties and graces, for the sheer particularity of the way of a squirrel with a nut. As we might expect, her longings dim from season to season. When they do, she longs to long again.” – Cornelius Plantinga, Not The Way It’s Supposed To Be: A Breviary On Sin

It’s an extraordinary vision. But notice what he doesn’t say—he doesn’t say, “When her longings dim, she beats herself up for not doing better.” Rather, Plantinga says, “she longs to long again.” 

Such grace. Even for you, and even when the best laid plans seem to fail. 

Perhaps the most faithful question in this season isn’t: What should I change? 

But rather:

What is my heart quietly longing for?

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Every January, we’re handed the same script.

Lose weight.
Drink less.
Pray more. 

I’ve already received an email asking, “Chuck, what do you resolve to do beginning on January 1?” And they’ll gladly sell me their book on bettering myself. 

New Year’s resolutions are often built on sheer willpower, even mind over matter.

YOU CAN DO THIS the headline reads, with 20 people on gym bicycles at 5:30am. But you’re just trying to catch a few extra minutes of sleep at that time after your kid comes wandering in saying, “Mommy, is it morning yet?” 

And the subtle message if you fail at resolving to be your best you? Shame on you for not trying harder. 

This can’t be it, friends. 

What if the deeper invitation of the new year isn’t exhausting effort, but attunement?

Not pushing through, but listening deeply?

From Resolutions to Longings

Resolutions ask: What should I do differently this year?
Longings ask: What is stirring within me?

And that’s not a small shift.

In the Gospels, Jesus doesn’t offer transformation-by-checklist. Rather, he offers a Beatitude vision of the kind of happy (read: flourishing and whole)person you can become by taking the unlikeliest path: surrender, grief, humility, desire, mercy, integrity, shalom, and security. And throughout his public ministry, Jesus asks one sort of question, over and over—a question so simple and so disarming that you might miss it while looking for to-do lists:

“What do you want?”

No, it’s a not a ‘what do you want for Christmas’ kind of question. It’s asking: At your depths, what you most deeply long for? 

And it’s an invitation to begin anew, not in wearying willpower but soul-empowering grace. 

Grace and Desire

The great early church saint Augustine once mused, “The desire for grace is the beginning of grace.” I read it like this: Grace isn’t passive. 

We too often juxtapose will and grace, as if the latter is passive. It’s not. Augustine reminds us that the wide open field of grace reveals itself in-and-through our desires. After all, as he famously said elsewhere, “Our hearts are restless until they find their rest in God.” 

CS Lewis said something similar: longing is a signal, a homing beacon, an echo of Eden. It’s a reminder that your heart still pulses within, that beneath the mad and mundane of your everyday life is a hunger for goodness. 

Grace awakens in your heart as desire, as you tap into an underground current, one that never stops flowing even if you live unaware of it. 

What if tuning in was the call of the new year? 

Working With the Body, Not Against It

This posture of longing doesn’t just make theological sense, it makes physiological sense.

So much of our resolution-making assumes that our bodies are obstacles to overcome. If we could just outthink our anxiety, override our exhaustion, or push past our limits, then we’d finally become the people we want to be. 

“Where there’s a will there’s a way,” my Mom used to say. By late January or early February, however, we’ve only lost momentum and found exhaustion. 

But our nervous systems don’t change through force. And our longings don’t awaken in the fight-or-flight hustle of chronic sympathetic nervous system activation. 

Our hearts awaken amidst the tender conditions of safety, attunement, and connection, as I’ve written about in Healing What’s Within. Here, connected to our nervous system’s “Home” state, as I call it, psyche and soma unite in a dance of desire, opening us to goodness, to hope, even to the kinds of internally-aligned choices that manifest in deep and lasting change. 

How do I retune to Home? you ask. Consider:

• Where do I notice a gentle inner yes…in my body, not just my thoughts?
• What does my heart most need right now…connection, rest, belonging, meaning, dignity?
• What relationships or practices give me life…and which quietly drain it?
• Which choices reflect my truest self, and which are coping strategies in disguise?
• What is the one core thing I long for amidst the many things that demand my attention? 
• What is one small, faithful step today that honors my heart, body, and mind?

Not ten sure-fire steps. Not a mind-over-matter plan to change your life in 30 days. 

But tender, gentle, attuned movements of listening attentively and acting intentionally. 

This is the kind of inner spiritual and emotional formation that works with us in both body and soul, not against us.

A Different Way Into the New Year

Like some of you, I live under the weight of all the should’s. 

I should put that Planet Fitness membership we have to good use and get to the gym more regularly, I should manage my time better, I should clean up my inbox every week, I should stop snacking in the evenings, I should commit to justice-keeping and peace-making in concrete ways, and I should save more money. 

I feel the anxious churn underneath, even the whispers of, “The calendar is turning—now’s your chance, Chuck!” 

Resolutions often collapse under the weight of unrealistic expectations. Longings, by contrast, are sustainable. They meet us where we actually are. This is reflected in the spiritual practice of creating a Rule of Life, which (ironically) isn’t about hard-and-fast rules at all, but about stepping into what we long for and what aligns most deeply with our hearts and values in various areas—our relationships, our work, our justice-keeping, our body-tending, our everyday spending, our hobbies, and more. 

Imagine that list I just shared articulated as longing:

• I long to inhabit my body with greater care and vitality, moving in ways that help me feel grounded and alive.
• I long for my days to feel more spacious and intentional, rather than hurried and fragmented.
• I long for clarity and lightness in my work life, releasing what no longer needs my constant attention.
• I long to end my days feeling settled and nourished, not reaching for food to soothe exhaustion or unease.
• I long to live with a steady commitment to justice and peace, expressed through faithful, concrete practices rather than abstract ideals.
• I long for a deeper sense of sufficiency and trust, so that money becomes a tool for freedom rather than a source of anxiety.

Imagine, then, awakening each day to these longings, with attention and intention given to living in alignment with them. Instead of awakening to a list, I’m awakening to my heart. 

If, as Augustine says, “the desire for grace is the beginning of grace,” then when my actions don’t match my deepest longings, I don’t beat myself up—I return to my longings. 

It’s a posture I adopted for myself more than 25 years ago, not after reading some self-help book, but after reading theologian Cornelius Plantinga’s stirring book on sin, of all things. There are few passages I’ve quoted more over the years than this one from the book:

“What does a spiritually whole person look like? A spiritually whole person longs in certain classical ways. She longs for God and the beauty of God, for Christ and Christlikeness, for the power of the Holy Spirit and spiritual maturity. She longs for spiritual health itself—and not just as a consolation prize when she cannot be rich and envied instead. She longs for other human beings: she wants to love them and to be loved by them. She hungers for social justice. She longs for nature, for its beauties and graces, for the sheer particularity of the way of a squirrel with a nut. As we might expect, her longings dim from season to season. When they do, she longs to long again.” – Cornelius Plantinga, Not The Way It’s Supposed To Be: A Breviary On Sin

It’s an extraordinary vision. But notice what he doesn’t say—he doesn’t say, “When her longings dim, she beats herself up for not doing better.” Rather, Plantinga says, “she longs to long again.” 

Such grace. Even for you, and even when the best laid plans seem to fail. 

Perhaps the most faithful question in this season isn’t: What should I change? 

But rather:

What is my heart quietly longing for?