Author: Searching For Jesus in America

We're a family of six on a quest to find the Jesus we read about in the Bible, but don't necessarily see much of in the Church today.

Week 43: Is Genesis a Blueprint for All People?

by Searching For Jesus in America

Before I dive into this week’s post, I think it’s important to state my position on a particular topic: Unity in the Church. If you know me, you know that John 17:20–23 is a passage I hold dear for one simple, but profound reason: 

Unity does not mean uniformity.

In this prayer, Jesus doesn’t ask the Father to make His followers identical in thought, background, or expression—He asks that we would be one in love and purpose, just as He and the Father are one. This unity is not about sameness; it’s about connection rooted in mutual respect, compassion, and a shared calling. Unfortunately, too often, the Church has confused unity with forced agreement, demanding theological or cultural conformity that leaves no room for diversity of experience, perspective, or identity. The result is not the oneness Jesus prayed for, but a brittle kind of uniformity that excludes, wounds, and silences.

True unity invites us to sit at the same table with our differences intact, to listen without fear, and to love without condition. It requires humility—the kind that values people over positions and sees the image of God in every human being. This kind of unity is hard. It’s messy. But it’s also beautiful. And I believe with all my heart that it’s the unity Jesus imagined when He prayed for us.

But can that unity exist around the topic of LGBTQ+ inclusion? More acutely, can we, as the ‘Big C Church,’ interpret the Bible differently on this issue and still respect one another, holding space for diverse convictions without sacrificing the dignity and belonging of those most affected?

A modern implication: Can someone who affirms same-sex marriage sit at the same table as someone who doesn’t—and can both come not to erase their differences, but to elevate the shared belief that every person is worthy of love, belonging, and respect? True unity doesn’t require unanimous agreement on every theological point. It requires the willingness to remain at the table, to choose compassion over contempt, and to trust that God is big enough to hold the tension between us as we walk this road together.

And the answer… I’m not sure. Honestly, I don’t know if I could sit at a table with someone who doesn’t affirm my existence—someone who, whether consciously or not, views my identity, or my dignity, as up for debate. That kind of exclusion cuts deep. It’s not just theological disagreement; it’s personal. It’s about the very core of who someone is and whether they are seen, valued, and loved without condition.

I want to believe in a unity that is big enough to hold our differences, but I also believe that unity cannot come at the expense of someone’s humanity. There is a difference between disagreeing over doctrine and denying someone’s right to belong. And so I wrestle with this, because while I believe in grace and the wideness of God’s love, I also believe that any table where people are harmed, diminished, or silenced is not the table Jesus set.

For those like me who grew up in churches where the idea of being open and affirming wasn’t just absent—it was actively condemned—let me invite you to consider a different perspective.

The creation account in Genesis is a theological narrative, not a biology textbook or relationship manual. Its purpose is to tell us something about the nature of God, humanity, and relationship—not to limit all human relationships to one template. Adam and Eve’s union symbolizes connection, mutual care, and the image of God reflected through relationship. That truth isn’t exclusive to heterosexual couples.

Just as Genesis says, “It is not good for man to be alone,” it reveals a divine desire for companionship—but doesn’t specify that every expression of that must be procreative or heterosexual. In fact, when we look at Genesis 2:20 and the reference for Adam’s need for a “helper”, the Hebrew word is ʿēzer, a masculine noun. Later in Genesis 2:22, we learn that God created a “woman”, the Hebrew word ‘iššâ, a feminine noun.

For me, this was the first step in taking a closer look at what I had been taught and realizing how much of my theology had been shaped not by the original languages, cultural context, or deeper exegesis, but by modern assumptions layered over ancient text. I had been handed interpretations that insisted Genesis set a fixed blueprint for gender, sexuality, and marriage—yet when I returned to the text itself, I found something far more expansive, poetic, and relational than the narrow frameworks I had grown up with.

The use of ʿēzer (a term elsewhere used to describe God as our helper) suggests something far beyond mere gender roles or reproductive utility—it speaks to the human need for partnership, support, and mutual care. The emphasis in the Genesis story is not on anatomical difference or procreative capacity, but on relationship and shared humanity. It opened my eyes to the possibility that faithful, loving relationships—whether same-sex or opposite-sex—can equally reflect the heart of God when they are rooted in covenant, respect, and love.

Yes, Eve was a woman (‘iššâ), but the use of ʿēzer does not limit the gender of that helper.

Additionally, not all relationships are about procreation and the Bible honors that. If procreation were the defining marker of a godly relationship, where would that leave infertile couples, older adults, or people called to a life of singleness? The Bible honors all these paths. Jesus himself never married or had children—and yet his life was the fullest expression of love and purpose.

Marriage in Scripture is often about covenant, not just children. And in the New Testament, Paul actually encourages people not to marry unless they feel called to, because the value of a person’s life isn’t determined by family structure or ability to procreate—but by faith, love, and how we treat one another.

God’s Creation Is More Expansive Than a Binary Model

Adam and Eve represent the beginning of the human story—not the boundary of it. Creation continues to unfold in diversity: in ecosystems, personalities, cultures, and yes, in gender and sexual identities. (And maybe this is one of the reasons why “diversity” is seen as such a negative word in evangelical circles today. We are still learning about the depth and beauty of human experience.

Jesus said, “You will know them by their fruit.” When LGBTQ+ relationships bear the fruit of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control (Galatians 5:22–23)—those are signs of the Spirit. And, if I can say it plainly, I know more than a few heterosexual relationships that don’t line up with this.

Again, I’m not here to change anyone’s mind. I just want to share a little bit about my journey, my research, and my experiences. Faith and theology are note cultivated in an echo chamber—they grow through honest wrestling, open-hearted listening, and the willingness to sit with tension and complexity.

I believe we honor both Scripture and the Spirit when we allow space for questions, for nuance, and for the lived realities of those who have so often been pushed to the margins. My hope is simply that these reflections invite curiosity, compassion, and perhaps a wider vision of the God who is always bigger than our boxes.

Week 42: How a Single Word Shakes the Church

by Searching For Jesus in America

What does it actually mean to be (open and) affirming?

In the context of church, “affirming” refers to a clear and public stance of full inclusion and support for LGBTQ+ individuals in all aspects of church life. While “open” often means that LGBTQ+ people are welcome to attend and participate, “affirming” goes further—celebrating LGBTQ+ identities as God-given and fully valid. Affirming churches allow LGBTQ+ individuals to lead, serve, marry, and be ordained without restriction, and they reject the belief that being LGBTQ+ is sinful or something to be changed.

This stance often involves interpreting what many consider traditional readings of Scripture through the lens of Jesus’ love, justice, and radical inclusion. It emphasizes the dignity and sacred worth of all people and sees gender and sexual diversity as part of God’s good creation. However, not all churches that say they are “welcoming” are affirming—some stop short of full inclusion. That’s why the word “affirming” matters: it signals a commitment not just to hospitality, but to belonging without condition.

I also think it’s important to point out that some churches are “affirming” to a point… and that point is typically marriage. For the purposes of this post, we’re not discussing the concept of marriage. (I’ll dive into that topic in the next post, so please don’t come at me with the ‘God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve’. We’re saving that discussion for next week.)

Now that we’ve established the difference between the terms open and affirming, it’s worth asking: How did the church come to believe that LGBTQ+ identity was incompatible with faith in the first place? Much of that belief is rooted in how certain passages of Scripture have been interpreted—and, in some cases, mistranslated.

And my ask is simple: Be patient with me as I try to unpack this—because it’s layered and deeply shaped by years of personal wrestling, learning, and unlearning.

I know the “But what about…?” questions are coming. I’ve asked many of them myself. And they matter. But I invite you to hold off—for just a moment. Let’s start by listening. Let’s start by holding space for complexity without rushing to debate or defend. Sometimes the most faithful response isn’t having all the answers, but being willing to sit with the tension long enough to truly hear the heart behind the words.

One of the most pivotal shifts came in 1946, when the word “homosexual” was first introduced into the English Bible in the Revised Standard Version. Before that, terms used in the original Greek—like arsenokoitai and malakoi—were translated with meanings more closely tied to exploitative or abusive sexual behavior, not consensual same-sex relationships as we understand them today. For centuries, the church did not read the Bible as condemning LGBTQ+ people broadly; rather, it focused on issues of power, lust, and injustice.

Understanding this change in language matters—because when a single word is introduced into sacred text with modern assumptions behind it, it can alter not only theology, but people’s lives. So let’s look more closely at how we got here—and why revisiting these translations is not about “changing the Bible,” but about a contextually honest reading of it.

The BIG question here is WHY was the word “homosexual” added in 1946?

This shift didn’t happen in a vacuum. It occurred during a time when homosexuality was being newly defined—and pathologized—in Western culture. In the mid-20th century, being gay was still classified as a mental disorder and criminalized in many places. The cultural lens through which translators approached Scripture was already clouded with fear, misunderstanding, and moral panic. As a result, when they encountered ancient Greek words whose meanings were debated or unclear, they made interpretive choices that aligned with the prejudices of their time—not necessarily the intent of the text.

The danger of this is profound.

When theology is shaped more by cultural bias than by contextual integrity, it ceases to be liberating and becomes weaponized. The inclusion of the word “homosexual” in modern Bibles gave religious language to a rising cultural stigma, reinforcing systems of exclusion and justifying harm under the guise of holiness. For decades, that mistranslation has been used to shame, silence, and push LGBTQ+ people out of churches—and, in many cases, out of their families and communities as well.

I also think it’s important to underscore this fact:

The man who oversaw the translation team for the Revised Standard Version (RSV), Dr. Luther Weigle, eventually acknowledged the mistake of introducing the word “homosexual” into the Bible in 1946. After correspondence with concerned scholars, the committee reviewed the historical and linguistic evidence.

By 1971, 25 years later, the translation team quietly corrected the error in the updated edition of the RSV, replacing “homosexuals” with a more accurate phrase: “sexual perverts”- an admission that the original translation had imposed a modern concept onto ancient texts.

But by that time, the damage had largely been done.

The 1946 RSV version had already influenced many subsequent English translations, including the NIV, ESV, NASB, and others, which adopted and solidified the term “homosexual” in verses like 1 Corinthians 6:9 and 1 Timothy 1:10. This single word, inaccurately inserted and later quietly revised, became a theological cornerstone for exclusion—used by churches, denominations, and institutions as a doctrinal basis for condemning LGBTQ+ people.

Yet there has always been another thread within Christian history: one that prioritizes justice, compassion, and faithful interpretation. Scholars, theologians, and pastors have done the careful, sacred work of returning to the original texts, reclaiming their meaning, and asking the deeper questions. Because when we approach Scripture, not to defend our assumptions but to seek truth, we find a Gospel that calls us to inclusion, restoration, and dignity for all.

This isn’t about rewriting the Bible—it’s about unlearning what was never actually there. And it’s about taking seriously the responsibility we have when we read, teach, and preach sacred text, knowing that the way we interpret Scripture shapes not only beliefs, but lives.

So, what does the Bible actually say?

The original words—arsenokoitai and malakoi, for example—don’t neatly translate to “homosexuals,” and in fact, their meanings were debated even in the early church.

The handful of verses often cited—like those in Leviticus, Romans, or 1 Corinthians—are addressing specific cultural practices: exploitative sexual behavior, temple prostitution, and systems of power and dominance that had little to do with mutual, committed love between equals. What’s clear is that these passages were never intended to be blanket statements about LGBTQ+ identity or relationships.

(I also think this is a great time to point out the obvious: Many of the exploitive sexual abuses addressed in Scripture—such as coercion, infidelity, objectification, and the misuse of sex for power—have occurred within heterosexual contexts throughout history and still do today. The Bible consistently condemns sexual behavior that dehumanizes, manipulates, or harms others—regardless of the genders involved.)

When we step back and look at the broader narrative of Scripture—its heartbeat is not exclusion, but liberation. Jesus himself never mentions homosexuality, but he consistently lifts up those pushed to the margins and confronts the religious gatekeepers who weaponize Scripture for control. So no, the Bible doesn’t “clearly” condemn queer people, as so many have argued. What it does clearly condemn is violence, exploitation, hypocrisy, and the misuse of religion to burden others.

The purpose of this post was to give some historical reference points to how the word “homosexual” was added to the Bible… centuries later. But, that’s only one part of the conversation. Next week I’ll dig a little deeper. Specifically, does the presence of Adam and Eve in the garden really mean God excluded everyone else from the story that followed?

You know… easy stuff.

Week 41: Pentecost, PRIDE Month, and the Table Big Enough for Us All

by Searching For Jesus in America

Who: Rachel and Mariko

Church: Northminster Presbyterian

Lunch: Ankar’s Hoagies

Topic: Community and Inclusion

This week’s post is yet another example of the intersection between my personal journey and professional life. And if you’re reading this without much context, here’s a little backstory: this 52-week project was born out of a realization I had a couple of years ago—something both simple and deeply revealing.

As Sydney and I continued to grow Be The Change Youth Initiative, we couldn’t help but notice a pattern. With very few exceptions, nearly every person who felt deeply connected to our mission—whether as a supporter, volunteer, donor, or partner—shared one thing in common: they identified as Christian at some point in their faith journey. And that didn’t just include the folks who followed our work; it extended to the leaders of nearly every organization we tried to build meaningful partnerships with.

At first, this felt like a coincidence. But over time, it became undeniable: something about the way we framed our work, told our stories, and invited people in seemed to strike a chord with those shaped by Christian values and communities—whether they were actively involved in a church or not.

This week’s reflection continues that conversation.

I met Rachel last year. She works for a mental health organization in Chattanooga and was featured in one of our youth mental health videos. At one of our meetings, she told me about her church and invited me to attend with her family. And after several attempts to get it on the calendar for months, we finally made it happen… during PRIDE month.

It wasn’t planned.

Well… it wasn’t in MY plan.

The purpose of this post isn’t to critique or dissect the sermon—I’m not here to give a theological play-by-play. That said, I do want to acknowledge something that struck me as I sat in the service. If I had visited this church during the height of my evangelical conservative era, I probably would have walked away… disappointed. Not because anything was lacking, but because there was nothing to nitpick, nothing to fuel my confirmation bias or trigger a sense of theological superiority in the sermon.

It was thoughtful, grounded, and theologically sound—a clear and faithful reflection on the meaning of Pentecost. And in a strange way, that made me pause. It reminded me just how much I had once relied on disagreement to feel spiritually anchored, and how much my understanding of faith has shifted since then.

So what DID stand out?

Quite a lot, actually. From the moment I arrived—and even before I stepped through the doors—I was met with warmth and welcome. This church community was, without question, the most hospitable I’ve encountered in all 41 weeks of this journey. And what made it even more remarkable was, despite being a smaller congregation, it’s beautiful diversity—both generationally and ethnically. I saw grandparents worshiping beside young children, people of different cultural backgrounds sharing stories over coffee, and a deep sense of unity that didn’t feel forced or performative. It felt real—rooted in shared values and an intentional commitment to building community.

Hymns were sung. The Word was preached. Prayers—both petitions and praises—were lifted together in community. And somewhere in the stillness of that shared liturgy, it hit me.

Over the past twenty years, I’ve been part of many churches. Our family even helped plant one in Rhode Island. Some vibrant, some growing, some rooted in tradition, and all of them chasing relevance. If I’m honest, many of them—no matter how well-intentioned—felt performative. The lights, the transitions, the carefully timed emotional manipulation tempos… it was more production than proclamation. The sermon often felt like an accessory to the experience, not the heart of it.

But here, in this moment, surrounded by people who weren’t performing but simply participating, I was reminded of what church was always meant to be: a gathered body of believers, coming as they are, to remember, to worship, and to be formed—not entertained.

After the service, most of the congregation lingered outside, gathering around tables of snacks and joining in unhurried conversations. What struck me almost immediately was the way children were not only present in these spaces—but genuinely included. They weren’t shuffled off to the side or treated as background noise. They were invited into conversations, asked questions, and listened to with care. Their presence was seen as valuable, their voices as worth hearing. It was a subtle yet powerful reflection of a community that doesn’t just make room for children, but embraces them as full participants in the life of the church.

After the service, I joined Rachel’s family for lunch and had the opportunity to learn more about the church’s history—its values, its evolution, and the community it has cultivated over the years. One moment that stood out was hearing that Rachel and Mariko were the second gay couple to be married at the church. That detail wasn’t shared as a political statement or a theological debate; it was shared as a simple, beautiful part of their story—woven into the fabric of a community that fully embraces them.

In that moment, what I felt most wasn’t controversy or tension—it was reverence. A sacred recognition that the Spirit is alive and moving in this place, breathing new life into what the Church can be. It reminded me of Pentecost: how the fresh wind of God’s Spirit didn’t speak in just one tongue or to just one people, but was poured out in many voices, across lines that had once divided. That’s what I witnessed—diversity not just tolerated, but celebrated as holy. As Rachel spoke, I saw Christ in her, and in the story she and Mariko carry. Their love wasn’t presented as an exception to be explained, but as a reflection of a community shaped by grace, truth, and the radical welcome of Jesus. It was a moment of deep peace—of being held in the light, not in spite of who they are, but because of who they are.

I’ll explore more about the distinctions between the “Big C” Church (the global body of believers) and the “little c” church (individual local congregations) in my next post, especially around their varying stances on LGBTQ+ inclusion. But as we talked, there was a moment that transported me—viscerally and emotionally—back to a conversation in Austin in 2019, when I sat across the table from Jason. It was that same feeling of being gently but profoundly confronted with someone’s lived experience—one that challenged everything I had once believed about who could fully belong in the church.

I recently had a conversation with a friend who asked how I engage with people—especially those who are unwavering in their belief that someone cannot be both a member of the LGBTQ+ community and a follower of Christ. Honestly, I’m not sure I have a perfect answer for that. But over the years, I’ve come to think of these conversations less like debates to be won and more like those “choose your own adventure” books I read as a kid. Except in this case, it’s not about choosing the next plot twist—it’s about tracing where someone’s theology is actually leading them.

When someone holds a rigid theological view on any topic, I try not to start by pushing back directly. Instead, I ask questions that uncover the roots of their belief: What do they think salvation is? Who do they believe Jesus came for? What role does grace actually play? These questions aren’t just rhetorical—they’re intended to move the conversation toward something deeper than rules or doctrine. They help both of us wrestle with what the gospel actually means.

At the end of the day, my hope is always the same: to guide the conversation toward the heart of Jesus. Not a theological system, not a proof text war—but Jesus. The one who continually defied expectations, welcomed the outsider, challenged the self-righteous, and made belonging the starting point, not the reward for good behavior. If we’re not centering our conversations there, I’m not sure we’re really talking about the gospel at all.

Week 40: Is There Room at the Table? Exploring LGBTQ+ Identity and Christian Faith

by Searching For Jesus in America

This week, I’m visiting an “open and affirming” church in Chattanooga. And to be honest, I’ve gone back and forth for weeks about how to share this experience—not because I’m unsure of my thoughts, but because I understand how layered and deeply personal this topic is for so many. Talking about LGBTQ+ inclusion in the church isn’t just a theological discussion; it’s a conversation that cuts straight to people’s sense of belonging, identity, and worth.

It’s also one of the most divisive topics in the modern church. Lines have been drawn, congregations have split, and entire denominations have redefined themselves around it. But I believe that if we’re going to talk about the church being a place of love, grace, and welcome, we can’t ignore the people who have often felt the most excluded.

So this week’s post is simply an invitation—to listen, to sit with my story, and maybe even to reflect on your own, especially if you were raised in a conservative Christian church. Over the past seven years, my theology has shifted—not because I was looking for a loophole, not to accommodate culture, and not because one of my children identifies as a member of the LGBTQ+ community. They don’t. (It’s honestly surprising how often that question comes up whenever I share about the evolution of my beliefs.)

The truth is, my theology changed because I started asking deeper questions. I began listening—really listening—to the lived experiences of others. I paid attention to the fruit in their lives, to their love for Jesus, and to the way they embodied grace, even when the church withheld it. My faith didn’t unravel—it expanded. And in that expansion, I’ve discovered a deeper, more compassionate, more Christlike understanding of both God and humanity.

What I’ve come to realize is that theology isn’t static—it grows and it deepens when we let it be shaped by love and lived experience… and, yes, a deeper understanding of scripture. My journey hasn’t always been neat or easy, and I still have questions. So many questions. But one thing I’m certain of: real love doesn’t require someone to change who they are in order to belong. It welcomes them as they are and walks with them from there.

So if you’re curious, skeptical, or somewhere in between, I hope you’ll stick around—not for a debate to win, but for honest conversation to better understand one another, hold space for nuance, and make room for the kind of faith that wrestles, listens, and grows.

Rather than rambling, I want to share a few key moments—specific, personal experiences—that challenged me to pause and reevaluate what I had been taught about the LGBTQ+ community. These stories aren’t abstract or hypothetical; they’re deeply personal, and they’ve significantly shaped how I follow Jesus.

And I want to be clear about this: I absolutely believe in the conviction of the Holy Spirit. But I also believe the Spirit—while never contradicting the nature of God—can lead sincere, faithful people to different understandings, different convictions, and different journeys. That’s not a sign of compromise. Sometimes, it’s a sign of humility and growth and, from my experience, it has been an indicator of purpose and calling.

  • About seven years ago, I was introduced to a transgender man who spoke openly and passionately about his deep faith in Jesus and his experience with gender dysmorphia. I remember feeling deeply conflicted. Up until that point, everything I had been taught—both directly and indirectly—had convinced me that someone’s gender identity and a sincere relationship with Christ couldn’t coexist. That moment shook something in me. It didn’t just make me uncomfortable—it forced me to confront the fact that I hadn’t been thinking critically or asking meaningful questions. I had been blindly following a narrative handed down by voices who, in most cases, were less informed than I was—and who showed little interest in truly listening, learning, or understanding. That conversation marked the beginning of a long, uncomfortable, but necessary unraveling.
  • After this conversation, I sat down with a friend in Maine, who’s also a doctor, to see if there were medical explanations for what this transgender man shared with me. And while I don’t have the time to outline that entire conversation, here are a few points that caused me to start asking more questions. Please note, I have linked citations:
    • Brain structure and function: Some studies using MRI scans have found that certain brain regions in transgender individuals more closely resemble the structure or function of the gender they identify with, rather than their assigned sex at birth. This is particularly observed in areas involved in body perception and self-identity.
    • Hormonal influences in utero: During fetal development, sex hormones (like testosterone and estrogen) play a major role in shaping the brain. If there’s an atypical exposure or sensitivity to these hormones during critical periods of brain development, it may result in a brain-gender mismatch—where the brain develops traits more typical of the opposite sex.
    • Timing matters: The development of the genitalia and the brain occurs at different stages in fetal growth. It’s possible for these to diverge if hormone exposure isn’t typical during those critical windows, potentially leading to a mismatch between biological sex and experienced gender.
  • When we lived on the road, our family visited a different church almost every Sunday. One of those churches was Austin New Church, in Austin, Texas. (If you’re interested in reading about that particular visit, you can scroll WAY DOWN on this blog! But, I think it’s important to note that I initially didn’t want to go and I ACTIVELY looked for every reason to call them heretical. Confirmation bias is very real.) In yet another irony, Sydney and Brayden wrote a song with the worship leader of ANC, who has actually become a dear friend. And he connected us with the pastor who took me and my husband out to breakfast one morning, where we had a long conversation about the church’s outreach to the immigrant community at the border in Texas. Listening to Jason (the pastor) talk about their work, it was undeniable that they were truly being the hands and feet of Jesus to the people the Lord calls us to uplift. And, honestly, I was having a hard time reconciling what I was seeing and hearing with what I had been taught for so many years.
    • At the tail end of our breakfast, Jason made what was probably meant as a flippant comment, saying that people from Dallas Theological Seminary, where I received my Masters, and leaders at Dallas Bible Church, constantly called him a heretic because of his views on homosexuality and gay marriage. (Also, important to note, our family was spending the night with leaders at Dallas Bible Church that night!) When I told him my connection to both institutions, I literally saw the blood drain from his face as his mouth dropped open. He then asked why I would even want to sit down and talk with him.

Soon after this experience, we were notified by several friends back home that a young man who was a part of my discipleship group was on the front page of the Portland Press Herald, our local newspaper—wearing all black, holding a Bible, and yelling at participants of a PRIDE parade… telling them to repent or they were going to hell.

I was physically ill. It was a visceral reaction.

And even with my conservative theological views, I never would have condoned that kind of behavior. I had taught him about the love of Jesus, about compassion, about grace—but I was not the only voice in his life. For whatever reason, he had come to believe that standing on a street corner and shouting condemnation was righteous. And he’s not alone.

It shook me to my core. Because if someone I had poured into could so completely miss the heart of Christ, I had to ask—what had I missed? What had I modeled? What had I allowed to go unquestioned?

That moment wasn’t just about him—it was a mirror held up to my own faith journey. And I didn’t like what I saw.

Here’s one of the biggest lessons I learned during that season: It’s easy to label someone a heretic when you live in a bubble, intentionally creating distance, and only listening to certain voices. It’s a lot harder when they’re a person, sitting across from you, sharing stories about pain and rejection and a GENUINE faith that has been tested in fire and testifies to Jesus.

And the mental gymnastics you go through when you SEE the spiritual fruit of someone’s faith, but can’t fathom the possibility of them being “real” Christians because of their “sexual ethics”… it shakes you. It forces you to confront the uncomfortable truth that maybe your theology was built more on fear and tradition than on the actual life and teachings of Jesus. (And, yes, I will get to what the Bible says, and doesn’t say about homosexuality.) It challenges the categories you were handed—categories that can’t account for the grace, humility, and integrity you see in someone you were taught to dismiss, or outright hate.

Jesus didn’t shy away from messy conversations or complicated people. And if I truly believe in the transformative power of grace, then maybe the most Christlike thing I can do isn’t debating theology—but listening, learning, and staying at the table.

I stayed at the table for the entirety of our cross country adventure. I’m still at the table now… asking hard questions.

Week 39: The Body of Christ Online

by Searching For Jesus in America

Who: Me, Myself, and I

Church: Red Bank and The Point Church

Lunch: Our Airbnb in Pikesville, Tennessee

Topic: Is “online church” an oxymoron?

Online churches surged in popularity during the pandemic. As in-person gatherings were restricted, many congregations transitioned to virtual services to maintain community and worship. As restrictions eased, in-person attendance began to rebound and by May 2023, 26% of U.S. adults attended religious services in person, while virtual attendance decreased to 5%.  This indicates a preference among many for the traditional, communal aspects of worship.*

While two-thirds of those who regularly attend virtually report being “extremely” or “very” satisfied with online services, only 28% feel a strong connection to fellow worshipers.* This underscores the tension many people experience and the frustration many others express:

What is the purpose of the Sunday morning service?

I think most of us will agree that church isn’t about a building; it’s about a community of people committed to following Jesus. I will go a step further and say that the gathering of the church is about creating space to be shaped—together—by worship, teaching, service, and authentic relationships. It’s where we’re reminded of who God is, who we are, and what it means to live out the way of Jesus in a world that often pushes against it. In theory, it’s not just about consuming content or checking a spiritual box—it’s about showing up for one another, being transformed in community, and carrying that transformation into our everyday lives.

There are a lot of strings I could pull here, and maybe I will pull on more of them over the next three months. (Today’s post means I’m 75% through this little experiment.) But, for now, I want to focus on the tension points:

  • Incarnation vs. Information: Jesus came in the flesh, so some argue that church should reflect that physical, embodied reality.
  • Accessibility vs. Accountability: Online formats increase access (for the sick, disabled, isolated), but can decrease spiritual accountability and depth of connection.
  • Community vs. Consumption: Are we participating in the life of a church, or consuming content like a podcast?

Incarnation vs. Information: Why Embodied Community Still Matters

At the heart of Christianity is the Incarnation— Jesus came in person, in the flesh, and dwelt among us. His ministry wasn’t abstract or theoretical—it was deeply personal, physical, and rooted in human experience. He touched the sick, shared meals with strangers, wept with friends, and walked miles alongside his disciples. That embodied presence was central to how he revealed God’s love.

So when we talk about what church is meant to be, many argue that it should reflect that same incarnational reality—not just transferring information about Jesus, but modeling his way of being with people.

This doesn’t mean digital resources, online sermons, or Zoom small groups are inherently bad or unspiritual. They can serve powerful purposes—especially for people who are homebound, marginalized, or living in spiritual deserts. But if we reduce church to just information we consume—one-way teaching, disembodied worship, a curated online experience—we risk missing something vital: presence. The awkward, beautiful, sometimes inconvenient realness of being with other people in a room. In an age of endless content and screens, maybe the most countercultural, Christlike thing we can do is to show up. Physically. Consistently. Incarnationally.

Accessibility vs. Accountability in Online Church

One of the greatest strengths of online church is accessibility. For people who are homebound due to illness, disability, caregiving responsibilities, or social anxiety, digital services offer a lifeline—an invitation to stay connected to a faith community when showing up in person simply isn’t possible. It can also serve as a bridge for those exploring faith or recovering from spiritual trauma, providing a lower-barrier entry point into communal worship. In this sense, online church reflects a deep compassion, extending the reach of the gospel in ways that were once unimaginable.

But with that accessibility comes a potential trade-off: accountability.

Church isn’t just about watching a sermon. At its core, it’s about being formed in community—practicing forgiveness, sharing burdens, and being sharpened through real relationships. These are hard to replicate when your primary connection to the body of Christ is a screen and a live chat.

I also think it’s important to note that attending an in-person “church” doesn’t inherently equate to these things. There’s a strong argument to be made this also doesn’t exist in many traditional church settings either.

Regardless, when church becomes something we consume rather than a community we participate in, spiritual depth can suffer. There’s no one to ask the hard questions, to notice when you’re drifting, or to challenge you when your life doesn’t reflect your faith. It becomes easier to hide, to disengage, or to simply watch passively without engaging in transformation.

So while online church meets a real need—and absolutely has a place in our modern expressions of faith—we must ask how we’re reinforcing connection and accountability in those digital spaces. Accessibility and accountability aren’t enemies, but holding both in tension is essential for a church that both reaches people and roots them.

Community vs. Consumption: Is Church Something We Join or Just Something We Watch?

We live in a culture built on consumption. Streaming platforms serve us curated content 24/7. Podcasts, audiobooks, newsletters, and even spiritual resources are on demand—tailored to our preferences, available at our convenience, and consumable in isolation. So it’s no surprise that this mentality has crept into how we approach church.

When we reduce church to something we watch—a sermon on YouTube, a worship set on Instagram, a Bible verse in our feed—we risk turning something meant to be participatory and communal into something passive and individualistic.

We consume rather than commune. We observe rather than engage.

But the church was never meant to function like a podcast or a weekly broadcast. It’s not a spiritual TED Talk. To participate in the life of a church means to show up and be known—to offer your gifts, your presence, your voice, your story. It means being a part of something that shapes you, even when it’s uncomfortable or costly.

So the real question isn’t “Did I enjoy that sermon?” or “Did the music move me?” The question is: Am I being formed by community, or just entertained by content?

Church was never meant to be consumed. It was always meant to be lived.

And the hard truth is very simple, attending an in-person service on Sunday mornings doesn’t mean we’re living it either. We can sit in a pew, sing the songs, nod along to a sermon—and still remain disconnected, guarded, unchanged.

Living as the church means engaging with others beyond the sanctuary walls. It means pursuing relationships that sharpen us, serving in ways that stretch us, and choosing presence even when it’s inconvenient. It means asking hard questions, embracing accountability, and walking with people through joy and grief—not just for an hour on Sunday, but in the everyday.

So yes, online church has its limitations. But so does in-person attendance when we treat it like just another task to check off.

Church is not a product we consume or a building we visit.
It’s a people we belong to, a mission we step into, and a way of life we embody—together.

Week 38: The Religious Elite Will Hate You

by Searching For Jesus in America

Who: Hope

Church: Resurrection Church

Lunch: Potluck at the church

Topic: Being Present and Being Persecuted

This has been a pretty wild week for me—but not in the typical, overbooked-calendar kind of way. It’s more about life nudging me in unexpected directions, like threads being pulled together for a reason I don’t fully understand yet.

There’s not a whole lot of “normal” in my life… whatever that even means. But, this past week I found myself face-to-face with reminders of why I do what I do. Conversations I didn’t expect. Opportunities I didn’t seek. People who, in big and small ways, made me stop and say, “Okay, God. I see what you’re doing.” It’s been humbling, a little exhausting, and oddly energizing all at once. So if I seem a little more reflective, that’s why.

Things are shifting—and I’m trying to pay attention.

This week, I attended Resurrection Church in downtown Chattanooga with my new friend Hope. She’s such a great example of someone trying to be fully present in her life, embracing the ups and down. Hope is a beautiful example of someone learning to live inside the messiness, embracing both the joy and the struggle with a kind of honesty that’s rare.

What stands out to me about Hope is how she’s not just adapting to life—she’s actively choosing to engage with it. Whether it’s wrestling with hard questions, grieving something deeply, or laughing until she cries over something simple, she shows up fully. Watching someone walk through life that way—open, vulnerable, and grounded—is a beautiful reminder of the kind of person Christ calls us to be.

Attending church with her this week didn’t just feel like checking off a box or doing something “spiritual.” It felt like a reminder: faith isn’t about performance, and presence isn’t about perfection. It’s about showing up—wherever we are, however we’re feeling—and trusting that God is there, too.

And it needs to be said that the community at Resurrection Church was, by far, the most welcoming I’ve experienced to date. So many people introduced themselves and took the time to not only say hello, but engage in more than a one minute conversation. This should be the normative behavior in every faith community—but sadly, it isn’t.

Too often, churches become places of polite greetings and surface-level interactions, where visitors can walk in and out without ever feeling truly seen. But this place was different. People weren’t just friendly—they asked thoughtful questions, remembered my name (not an easy task), and genuinely wanted to connect. It wasn’t performative hospitality; it was intentional community.

And honestly, that kind of warmth and openness makes a lasting impression. It breaks down walls and reminds people that they belong, even if they’re still figuring things out. We don’t need perfection in our churches—we need people who show up with open hearts, willing to make space for others. Resurrection Church lived that out on Sunday, and I’m still thinking about what it means to carry that same spirit into the spaces I lead.

But, I also want to spend some time talking about the sermon, because I think it’s important, especially now. Their pastor spent some time talking about persecution and the expectation we SHOULD have when it comes to being persecuted for our faith in Jesus. The church often misunderstands persecution—framing it as something inflicted by the “world,” when in truth, much of the resistance and harm comes from within the religious system itself.

When we look at the life of Jesus, it wasn’t the Roman government that plotted his death. It was the religious elite. The Pharisees and teachers of the law—the gatekeepers of moral authority—felt threatened by his challenge to their power, his inclusion of the marginalized, and his insistence on mercy over sacrifice. Jesus wasn’t killed for being “too worldly.” He was executed for disrupting religious systems that had become more about control than compassion.

And today, history repeats itself.

Many modern Christians equate pushback on Christian nationalism or calls for accountability in the church as “persecution.” But critique isn’t persecution—it’s often the prophetic voice trying to call the church back to the way of Jesus. When people raise questions about power, exclusion, or injustice in Christian spaces, they’re not enemies of the church—they’re trying to heal it.

True persecution happens when people lose jobs, homes, or lives because of their faith in Jesus. What often gets labeled as persecution in the West is actually discomfort in the face of necessary change. And instead of listening, many churches double down—silencing dissenters, ostracizing doubters, and branding reformers as rebels.

There’s a fascinating—and necessary—tension that exists when you encounter a church that is radically welcoming and yet courageously honest from the pulpit. It almost catches you off guard. One minute, you’re being embraced by a community that remembers your name, looks you in the eye, and asks how you’re really doing. The next, you’re listening to a sermon that doesn’t shy away from uncomfortable truths—about power, justice, repentance, or the state of the church itself.

At first, it can feel like whiplash. How can a space be so warm and yet so convicting? So safe and yet so unwilling to coddle?

But that tension? That’s the sweet spot. That’s the line all churches need to be walking right now.

Because a church that only welcomes without challenge can easily drift into comfort and complacency. And a church that only challenges without love creates fear and shame. But when a church commits to both—deep hospitality and holy truth-telling—it becomes a space where real transformation can happen.

We need churches that don’t just say “you belong,” but also say, “there’s more.” Churches that draw people in with compassion and then call them up with conviction. Spaces that make room for brokenness and beauty, for grace and growth.

That’s what Jesus did. He welcomed the outcast, ate with sinners, and extended belonging before behavior—but he also spoke truth with clarity and courage. And he called out systems that hurt the very people the church was supposed to protect.

In a world full of extremes, we don’t need churches that choose between welcome or challenge—we need churches brave enough to hold both.

Week 37: The Idol of Motherhood… in the Church

by Searching For Jesus in America

If I saw a blog post titled “The Idol of Motherhood… in the Church,” I would assume it’s a critical reflection on how the church—especially in evangelical or conservative spaces—has elevated motherhood to an almost sacred, or idolized, status, sometimes to the exclusion or marginalization of women who are single, childless (by choice or circumstance), or called to other roles. And all of those topics are important to dissect.

But what about the emotional and spiritual dissonance many women feel but don’t often voice?

From an early age, many of us were taught that motherhood wasn’t just a blessing—it was the ultimate purpose. The highest calling. The sacred role every godly woman was meant to fulfill. But the truth is, your worth, your calling, and your capacity for joy are not defined by your ability to birth or raise children. And until the church moves beyond idolizing roles, we’ll continue to see far too many silenced by shame, crushed by unmet expectations, and burned out by burdens they were never meant to carry alone.

For the record, I love my kids. Truly. Fiercely. Without question. But I would be lying if I said I loved being a mom all the time. And I think more people would say the same if we felt like we had permission to be honest about it.

For years, I loved going to church on Mother’s Day. It was the one day everyone in my family would “willingly” go to church without complaining. (Note: There was still complaining, just not to me.) And I know that if I asked my kids to visit a church with me this past Sunday, they would. But they’d only do it for me—not because it’s a place where they feel spiritually nourished or emotionally safe.

And that’s the tension I carry now on days like Mother’s Day.

As my kids have grown, so has their ability to articulate what they see and what they feel. And truthfully, I can’t ask them to set that aside for the sake of a sentimental tradition. I know that if I asked them to come to church with me on Mother’s Day, they’d say yes—because they love me. But they’d only go for me, not because they believe the church knows what to do with people like them, people who ask hard questions. Or with people who don’t fit the tidy narratives that tend to get platformed in evangelical spaces.

It’s hard to admit that a space that once felt like a sanctuary now feels more like a performance. It’s hard to celebrate motherhood in a place where the role is often idealized but rarely supported in practical, messy, everyday ways. And it’s especially hard to sit in pews where sermons speak to a version of motherhood that looks nothing like the complexity of my actual life—or the lives of my friends who mother through adoption, singleness, infertility, grief, or estrangement.

But, there’s something more to this conversation that rarely gets discussed.

It’s no secret that in many conservative Christian spaces, motherhood is elevated as the highest and holiest calling for women. From the pulpit to the parenting seminars, from Proverbs 31 brunches to books about biblical womanhood, the messaging is clear: motherhood isn’t just good—it’s the goal. And let’s be honest: part of the reason for that emphasis isn’t just theology.

It’s math.

In communities that fear cultural decline, shrinking church attendance, and increasing secularism, motherhood is often positioned as the growth strategy—have more kids, raise them in the church, and the numbers will stabilize. It’s not always said that plainly, but it’s there. (And, for the record, I’ve heard it stated plainly more times than I care to admit.) The subtext is: if we raise good Christian families, we’ll preserve the faith. And while raising children is beautiful and important work, motherhood doesn’t inherently grow the church.

At least not in the way Jesus talked about.

What really grows the church—the Church in its truest sense—is disciple-making. And contrary to what many pulpits might imply, that isn’t a job reserved for married people with children. In fact, if we paid attention to the way Jesus lived and taught, we’d see that singlehood wasn’t a second-tier status—it was often a signpost of availability, mobility, and radical trust in God. The apostle Paul even goes so far as to say that singleness can be preferable for the sake of the Gospel (1 Corinthians 7), not because marriage or motherhood are bad, but because singleness can free a person to be fully devoted to the work of the Kingdom.

Imagine if the church poured even a fraction of the resources it dedicates to marriage retreats, parenting curriculum, and Mother’s Day tributes into affirming and equipping single adults—men and women—to lead, teach, serve, and disciple without making them feel like they’re waiting for a “real” calling to begin. Imagine if we stopped implying that spiritual maturity comes with a wedding ring or a diaper bag.

If we truly want to grow the church—not just numerically, but in depth, in wisdom, in faithfulness—we need to stop idolizing the nuclear family as the primary vessel of evangelism. We need to create space for people whose lives don’t follow traditional timelines or roles. We need to remember that Jesus didn’t build His church through biology—He built it through invitation, relationship, and discipleship.

Motherhood is sacred, but it is not salvific. What brings people into the Body of Christ is not our family size—it’s our willingness to say, “Come and see,” regardless of our relational status. That’s what grows the Church. And it’s time we started preaching—and practicing—that.

Week 36: This Contrast Matters

by Searching For Jesus in America

Who: Sarah and Nate

Church: Citizens of Heaven

Lunch: Oddstory

Topic: Great Hermeneutics and Exegesis… and a Willingness to Go Deep

This week is one where the connections run deep and where the personal and professional cross over… a few times. I met Sarah a year after we moved to Chattanooga and at the time she was working for Mental Health Association of East Tennessee. One of our very first projects together was a seven month labor of love that had us looking at the role of the Church when it comes to the mental health crisis facing our youth.

I could probably write five separate posts about this endeavor, but here’s the short version:

A while back, we tried to gather a group of local youth pastors for monthly conversations about the complex role churches play—both for better and worse—when it comes to the mental health of the young people in their care. Our hope was to create a space for honest dialogue and shared learning, where we could bring in community members with deep lived experience and professional insight—counselors, crisis responders, advocates—people who understood both the systemic challenges and the quiet suffering so many teens endure.

The meetings were co-facilitated by me, Sarah, and our friend Chris, who formerly worked with the Tennessee Suicide Prevention Network. All of us are Christians bringing invaluable perspectives, particularly around the intersection of faith and crisis prevention.

But here’s the hard truth: getting church leaders to attend was nearly impossible.

We heard all kinds of reasons—scheduling conflicts, theological differences, and, at times, just silence. But perhaps the most disheartening barrier was the deep division among some church leaders themselves. In more than one conversation, I felt like I was back in middle school—navigating cliques and rivalries, rather than a shared commitment to serve the young people in our community. It was a stark reminder that ego and turf wars can often get in the way of real, collaborative ministry. But one conversation still haunts me. A pastor with a congregation of over 1,000 people told us, point-blank, that his church “didn’t have a mental health problem.”

Statistically, that’s not just unlikely—it’s impossible.

When 1 in 5 teens experiences a mental health disorder and suicide remains a leading cause of death among young people, the idea that any large group of people—let alone an entire church—would be immune is dangerously naive. And when leaders dismiss the reality their youth are living, they’re not only failing to support them—they’re helping perpetuate the silence and stigma that keep kids from getting help in the first place.

This work is hard. But we keep showing up because we believe faith communities can and should be part of the healing process. And we’re not done trying.

I’m going to circle back to this in a moment—because it directly connects to the work our family is committed to. But more than that, it represents an incredible opportunity for the Church—not just to show up in name, but to step into the kind of transformational work that reflects the heart of the Gospel. It’s a chance to reimagine what it looks like to build relationships, meet tangible needs, and stand in the gaps where systems have failed. And if we’re willing to lean in, the impact could be both immediate and lasting.

So what were my takeaways from Citizens of Heaven?

I’m extremely hesitant to make a list of things I like (or don’t like) about any church. That has never been the goal of this project, and it still isn’t. This isn’t about personal preferences—musical styles, preaching formats, or whether there’s coffee in the lobby. Those things are surface-level. What I’m paying attention to—what this journey is about—is how communities live out their values: how they care for people, how they respond to brokenness, how they make space for those who’ve been left out or hurt. So while I may mention things I appreciated, it’s not to score points or make comparisons. It’s to highlight the ways a faith community’s posture can reflect the heart of Jesus. And in this case, there are some specific ways this church’s leadership and approach have done just that—and they’re worth naming.

One of the things I really need—and honestly feel compelled—to talk about is hermeneutics and exegesis. Not in some academic, ivory tower way, but because how we interpret Scripture matters deeply in the life of the Church and in the lives of the people we’re trying to love and serve. The lens we bring to the Bible—our hermeneutic—shapes what we see and don’t see. And our exegesis, the way we draw meaning from the text, has a direct impact on how we teach, how we lead, and how we show up in the world. When Scripture is handled responsibly, it can bring healing, challenge systems of injustice, and call us toward radical love. But when it’s used carelessly, or through a lens of power, fear, or cultural bias, it can do real harm.

So when I visit churches or listen to sermons, It’s not about whether the speaker is dynamic or the message is polished. I’m listening for how the text is being handled. Are we digging into context? Are we asking hard questions? Are we letting Scripture disrupt us, or are we using it to justify what we already believe? These are the kinds of questions that matter to me.

And, for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was back in seminary. For some, that might sound like a turn-off—like the sermon was going to be too intellectual, too dense, or disconnected from everyday life. But it shouldn’t be. And here’s why:

A gifted preacher doesn’t preach at people from an academic pedestal. They know how to meet people where they are, whether someone is walking through the door for the first time in years or has been studying theology for decades. They’re able to hold both the surface and the depth—offering something that is immediately accessible while also inviting people to go further, to wrestle, to dig into the tension and richness of Scripture.

That’s what good preaching does: it doesn’t water anything down, but it also doesn’t shame people for not knowing everything. It creates space for curiosity. It says, “You don’t have to have a degree to understand this—but if you do want to go deeper, there’s room for that, too.”

That’s what I felt for the first time in a long while: like I was being challenged and fed—not just emotionally, but intellectually and spiritually. And I think we need more of that in the Church today. Because when we honor people’s capacity to think deeply and feel deeply, we’re honoring the full complexity of who God made us to be.

I also want to mention that Citizens of Heaven just kicked off a new sermon series on the Gospel of John. Now, I’ll be honest—John isn’t my favorite book of the Bible (that title goes to James… feel free to psychoanalyze that however you want). But it does contain my absolute favorite passage: John 17:20–23.

I naturally lean toward the ESV for most of my reading, but the NIV’s interpretation of this particular passage has always stuck with me. And I’m genuinely looking forward to seeing how their pastor unpacks these three verses when the time comes.

That said… it might take a little while to get there. This past Sunday, he made it through just a few verses. (As someone who once spent two years walking a group of 20-somethings through the book of Romans, I have nothing but respect for that kind of deep dive.) And honestly? I’m here for it. Bring on the slow, intentional walk through Scripture.

Their pastor also spent time sharing parts of his own mental health journey—a moment that stood out not only for its vulnerability but also for how rare it is to hear from the pulpit. In my experience, pastors are often expected to carry the weight of spiritual leadership with an almost superhuman level of emotional control. But when a pastor openly names their struggles—whether with anxiety, depression, burnout, or anything else—it disrupts that false narrative and gives others permission to be human, too. It models emotional honesty, reduces stigma, and reminds the congregation that faith and mental health are not at odds. In a time when so many are quietly carrying emotional burdens, his willingness to speak openly created space for connection, healing, and grace.

My experience at Citizens of Heaven, juxtaposed against the experiences mentioned at the beginning of this post, reveals a stark and sobering contrast. In many of the spaces we’ve stepped into—especially when visiting churches or seeking collaboration for community work for BTCYI—we’ve often been met with hesitation, defensiveness, or even outright dismissal. Whether it’s theological rigidity, personality politics, or simply a reluctance to partner outside of one’s own circle, the result is the same: closed doors and missed opportunities for meaningful connection.

But Citizens of Heaven felt different. There was a sense of humility in the way they approached their leadership, a willingness to be vulnerable, and a genuine openness to engaging people where they are. Instead of posturing or presenting a perfectly polished image, they embraced authenticity—and in doing so, made space for others to do the same.

This contrast matters. Because it shows what’s possible when a faith community leads with grace instead of ego, hospitality instead of hierarchy, and curiosity instead of control. It’s the difference between gatekeeping and bridge-building. And in a world—and a Church—where so many are feeling disillusioned or displaced, that difference could not be more important.

Week 35: The Tension of Easter

by Searching For Jesus in America

Who: Sydney

Church: First Centenary United Methodist

Lunch: The Daily Ration

Topic: Traditions and Cultural Christianity

Today’s post begins with a backstory.

When our kids were little, Easter rivaled Christmas in sheer extravagance—overflowing baskets, egg hunts that stretched across the yard, chocolate bunnies the size of their heads. It was magical in its own way… but none of it had anything to do with Jesus.

But alongside all the Easter baskets and bunny-shaped pancakes, we also had traditions that grounded us—rituals that pointed our family back to the heart of the Gospel and the life of Jesus.

My kids grew up serving breakfast at a local community center on Christmas morning. Before a single present was unwrapped, we’d pack up the leftovers and deliver them to people camped outside the local soup kitchen. It became a rhythm for us—something we did alongside another like-minded family. And over the years, others joined in. It was simple, but sacred. A way of reminding ourselves (and our children) that the story of Jesus always moves outward—toward the margins, toward the overlooked.

And not just on Christmas.

Our family began partnering with a local church in downtown Portland, just two blocks from the city’s main soup kitchen. Every morning, we would walk the surrounding streets, inviting anyone we met to join us for breakfast at the church. What began as a simple meal quickly grew into something much deeper—we spent our mornings building real friendships with the very people we had once only passed by in our daily lives.

One year, a few weeks before Easter, I approached our church leadership, hoping to extend the invitation to the larger congregation. I thought: What if this became part of our shared story? A way for us, as a community, to embody the Gospel together?

But the response I received still baffles me.

Our Lead Pastor mentioned that he had been meaning to talk to me about our “little project.” I’ll admit, for a moment, I felt a flicker of excitement—maybe the church was beginning to catch the vision and see the potential of what we were doing. But that hope quickly faded when his expression shifted to one of concern. He went on to share that several members of the congregation had voiced worries about what we were allowing our children to do—specifically, spending time downtown and interacting with people they considered dangerous.

It was a sobering reminder that fear often speaks louder than faith when the unknown is involved. And it weighed even heavier as Easter approached, when our services were filled with flowers, banners, and celebration. Because while we sang about resurrection and redemption inside, the very people Jesus called us to love were considered a danger to their safety… or maybe it was something else.

It made the pomp and circumstance of Easter feel hollow. How could we proclaim “He is risen!” with such triumph, yet overlook the ones He rose for? How could we decorate the sanctuary while ignoring the suffering that sat just a few blocks away?

The contradiction wasn’t lost on me—and it changed me.

So, Easter services, like Christmas services, are hard ones for our family to stomach. But, Sydney agreed to go with me this year and some things went as expected… and some things were a pleasant surprise.

I must first note that we went to the wrong service. First Centenary had two distinctly different services: one in the main sanctuary and one in The Vine. Sydney and I ended up at the service in the main sanctuary, which was beautiful — both the sanctuary itself and the service. (Also, a HUGE shout out to the solo female vocalist who literally made me cry. Her voice was truly angelic and one of the most moving parts of the morning.)

That being said, “high liturgy” is a stumbling block for our family. It’s not that we don’t value tradition — we do. There’s a reverence and a rhythm in liturgy that can be deeply meaningful. But for us, especially after the journey we’ve been on, it can feel like a barrier rather than an invitation. Sometimes, the structure can feel so polished, so choreographed, that it’s hard to find the messy, human connection that we’re longing for in a faith community. It can feel like we’re being asked to participate in a beautiful performance, rather than being invited into a relationship that allows for questions, doubts, tears, and imperfect hope.

It’s not a critique of First Centenary — the service was deeply heartfelt, and it clearly means a great deal to the people who call that community home. It’s simply a recognition that, for us, we are drawn more toward spaces that feel raw and even a little unfinished — where the beauty lies not in the perfection of the service, but in the imperfect people who gather to remember why they need grace in the first place.

But there was something that immediately catapulted First Centenary to the top of an unofficial (but very real) list in my mind — a list of churches in Chattanooga that I would not only happily visit again but would wholeheartedly support in the future.

On Easter Sunday — one of the highest attended, most celebrated days in the Christian calendar — they chose to give their entire Easter offering to Bridge Refugee Services. In a world where churches often focus Easter giving inward, toward building campaigns or operational needs, First Centenary chose to look outward. They chose to see, to honor, and to invest in some of the most vulnerable members of our community — families and individuals who have fled unimaginable hardship to seek safety and a new beginning here.

It would have been easy for them to make Easter about themselves: about full pews, grand music, and a polished production. Instead, they used the day to remind everyone in attendance that the heart of the resurrection is about new life, hope, and welcome — not just for us, but through us, for others. Their generosity wasn’t just a financial gift; it was a prophetic act, quietly but powerfully embodying the Gospel they proclaimed from the pulpit.

And that matters. It matters more than polished sermons or perfectly executed services. It matters because it shows a church willing to live their faith outside their walls, to let love lead the way, and to extend their hands to the stranger and the refugee — just as Jesus so often did.

And, yes, the decision at First Centenary reminded us of our old church in Maine — a place that also had a tradition of giving away their Christmas and Easter offerings. I still vividly remember the first year they did it, when I was working for a small ministry embedded in the heart of Portland’s refugee community. It was an organization deeply connected to the life of the church — financially supported by the congregation, led by one of our own elders, and struggling every single month just to meet budget.

It seemed like the obvious choice. The offering could have made an immediate and transformational impact, right in our own backyard, for a ministry the church already claimed to champion. I felt this swell of hope, believing that the generosity we talked about so often would naturally flow toward the people we said we loved.

But that didn’t happen.

Instead, the Easter offering went to the local children’s hospital — which, on the surface, seemed noble enough. After all, who’s going to argue with helping sick kids? But the decision wasn’t really about the hospital. One of the elders later confided that it was a strategic move. They hoped that by giving a large donation to the hospital, the doctors and staff might be impressed enough to consider attending our church — and, eventually, boost the monthly tithes. (This wasn’t an assumption we erroneously created. This was the literal explanation given.)

It wasn’t about generosity. It was a gamble, a calculated investment in the hopes of a future financial return. And it felt gross…because it was.

It felt like everything Jesus came to turn upside down — the leveraging of power, wealth, and influence to serve ourselves, wrapped in the language of compassion.

That’s why First Centenary’s decision this Easter struck such a deep chord. They simply looked at who was hurting, and they gave. No strings attached. No ulterior motives. Just love, offered freely, the way it’s supposed to be.

And to be a part of that, in the smallest of ways, was a reminder that the Church, at its best, doesn’t have to impress, strategize, or perform. It just has to love. Quietly. Faithfully. Tangibly. And when it does, even a simple Easter offering can become a glimpse of the Kingdom breaking through.

Week 34: This Easter Week Felt Different

by Searching For Jesus in America

On Tuesday, I had the opportunity to speak with a group of college students at UTC about my faith. Their questions were thoughtful, honest—and at times, incredibly pointed. We talked about the Church, the Bible, and the growing influence of Christian Nationalism. And in their questions, I didn’t hear cynicism for the sake of cynicism. I heard longing. Hunger for truth. A desire to reconcile the Jesus they’re drawn to with the institution that so often misrepresents Him.

It was a powerful reminder of why I love this generation so deeply—and why I miss teaching. Their honesty doesn’t scare me. It inspires me. Because what they’re asking for isn’t shallow or dismissive. It’s rooted in integrity. They’re not afraid to ask hard questions, and they won’t settle for half-hearted answers.

That conversation also became an unexpected doorway into a heavier, more reflective Holy Week for me. A reminder of just how much harm the institution of the Church has caused in the name of control, power, and “rightness.” A reminder that the story of Jesus—His life, His death, His resurrection—has too often been weaponized instead of lived.

As I walked through this Holy Week, I felt the weight of both hope and heartbreak. Hope, because I still believe in the radical, restorative love of Jesus. Heartbreak, because I know how many have been wounded by the very place that was supposed to embody that love.

For those finding themselves in the in-between—between hope and doubt, belief and questions, grief and a longing to trust—this Good Friday might have felt heavier than usual. Or maybe quieter. Less about a church service and more about the ache in your chest you couldn’t quite name.

Sometimes, we forget that Good Friday wasn’t always good news. For the people who lived it, it was heartbreak. It was confusion. It was the silence of a story that felt unfinished.

And maybe that’s where some of us are too.

It’s 7:22am on Easter morning, and I’m sitting in my local coffee shop trying not to break down. (Spoiler: I’m not doing a great job.) For the past few minutes, I’ve been trying to name the weight I’m carrying—to put my finger on why this morning feels so heavy.

It’s not sadness exactly. It’s something deeper. Something tangled up in longing, in a hope that’s been stretched thin—not because I’m unsure of what I believe, but because I’m heartbroken over what the Church in America has become. There’s an ache in showing up to celebrate resurrection while feeling disillusioned with the institution that’s supposed to carry that message.

Honestly, it feels surreal. All across the country, churches are gathering today to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus—the hope, the victory, the promise of new life. And yet, many of those same spaces are also turning a blind eye—or worse, offering full-throated support—to the very horrors unfolding around us.

It’s jarring to see the name of Jesus lifted high in worship, while injustice is justified from the same pulpits. To hear words about love and redemption echo through sanctuaries that have grown comfortable with cruelty, exclusion, and nationalism disguised as faith.

How can we celebrate resurrection while aligning ourselves with systems that continue to oppress the vulnerable?

How can we claim to follow a Savior who fed the poor, welcomed the outsider, and challenged the powerful—while refusing to do the same?

There’s a deep dissonance between the Jesus we preach and the actions we defend. And on a day meant to proclaim the triumph of life over death, I can’t help but wonder: What kind of resurrection are we really celebrating?

It feels like we’ve traded humility and compassion for control and dominance. We’ve built platforms instead of communities, chosen power over presence, and somewhere along the way, we stopped looking like the Jesus we claim to follow. And I find myself grieving—not just for the ways we’ve strayed, but for the people who’ve been left behind in the wreckage. The ones silenced for not fitting the mold. The ones scarred by judgment when they came seeking grace. People Jesus would have drawn close… we’ve too often pushed out for asking hard questions.

I’m also incredibly heartbroken because I can’t get one member of my family to attend an Easter service with me. (Edited to say that my oldest just texted to say that she’s joining me!)

But, I don’t blame them.

How could I? When the version of church they’ve seen looks more like exclusion than welcome, more like performance than presence. When church has too often made them feel like projects to be fixed instead of people to be loved.

I understand their hesitation. I feel it sometimes, too.

Last night, my kids pointed out that if they attended church on Easter, they would become “one of those families” that only attends church on Easter and Christmas. (But, the only one that attended the Christmas service with me was my husband and he left half way through.)

Here’s the part that hurts: When people use that phrase, “one of those families,” it’s usually said with a mix of judgment and dismissal. Like it’s a character flaw. Like it’s laziness. But, for our family, what it really is… is grief. Disconnection. Weariness. It’s what happens when the Church stops feeling like a refuge and starts feeling like a place you have to explain yourself.

It’s not apathy or laziness or some failure of faith. It’s that we’ve seen too much. Heard too much. We’ve sat through too many sermons that preached love but practiced fear. We’ve watched too many leaders protect power over people. We’ve heard the silence when injustice demanded a response.

But, those aren’t the only issues.

We’ve also heard beautiful, stirring sermons that moved hearts in the moment—only to watch the energy fade before it ever turned into action. And somewhere along the way, the place that once felt sacred started to feel… foreign.

At first, we quietly wondered if there was still a place for us at the table. But over time, a harder truth became difficult to ignore: The table itself has been reshaped—corrupted—by the rise of Christian Nationalism.

At some point, the question shifted. It stopped being about whether we had a seat at the table… and became a harder, more haunting question: Is Jesus even at this table anymore?

And maybe that’s what’s unraveling me this morning. The deep desire for something real—for a Church that looks more like Jesus and less like an empire. A Church that leads with humility, not hierarchy. That feeds the hungry, lifts the oppressed, welcomes the stranger, and loves without agenda.

I don’t long for perfection. I long for presence. For sacred spaces that are honest, human, and rooted in compassion. For leaders who are less interested in being right and more interested in being like Christ. For a Church where the fruit of the Spirit isn’t just preached from the pulpit, but practiced in everyday life.

So maybe this ache, this unraveling, is a holy one. A sign that what once sustained us no longer will. A call to imagine something new—not as a rejection of faith, but as an act of faith. Maybe it’s not about leaving the table out of bitterness… maybe it’s about walking away in order to make room for something better.

A new table. A truer table. One where Jesus doesn’t just get mentioned… He’s actually there. A place where the weary are embraced, not evaluated. Where questions are welcomed. Where love leads.

That’s the Church I still believe in.
That’s the one I’m waiting on.
And maybe… that’s the one we’re called to help rebuild.