It was only a matter of time before a stranger invited me to church… 23 weeks, to be exact.
A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting at Velo, meeting with a videographer, when a man took the seat at the table beside us, waiting for someone to join him. Our conversation carried on for about ten minutes, weaving through ideas and stories, when I noticed my dear friend, Matt Macaulay, approaching our table. Or so I thought.
As it turns out, Matt wasn’t coming to see me—he was there to meet the man sitting just beside us. Introductions were exchanged in that effortless, serendipitous way that only happens in coffee shops, and that’s when Robert, Matt’s meeting companion, smiled and admitted something.
“I apologize, but I was listening in on your conversation.”
I had to laugh. It wasn’t the first time a stranger has tuned in, and it definitely won’t be the last. But, I love when people hear aspects of our story, or our work, and are moved to engage in conversation, or even get involved. And, in this case, Robert extended an invitation to attend church with him at The Gathering, in Ringgold, where he leads worship.
His pastor, an alumnus from the same seminary I attended, was teaching on Romans 7, which is always a treat for me. (Almost 10 years ago, I took a group of college-aged women through the Book of Romans…. every week for almost two years.) It’s one of my favorite books of the Bible, second only to James. And as I sit here in the coffee shop going through my notes, my bullet points, I’m struck by a few of them given where we find ourselves as a country… and a church.
When you try to please all, you please none
Be true to the truth; You will offend some
We want things to be simple, to be black and white, but they aren’t
One of the most complicated things on this earth is a Christian
I find myself nodding in agreement with each of these statements, yet I also recognize how, without the right context, they could be misused or misunderstood. Truth without clarity can be wielded as a weapon just as easily as it can be a foundation. And in a time when our world craves certainty, it’s tempting to distill complex realities into easy answers—when, in reality, faith often calls us to sit in the tension.
On my second page of notes, I have underscored and placed multiple asterisks by the following notation:
“When society is friendly, keeps the peace, things are “normal” – this is the grace of God. But when God pulls His hand from society… it goes nuts.”
I want to leave this quote as a marker for my next post because the pastor at The Gathering approached this topic in a way that stood in stark contrast to the church I visited later that evening. One thing I’ve become increasingly attuned to is how pastors weave politics into their sermons—sometimes subtly, sometimes unmistakably—making it clear not only where they stand but also where they expect their congregants to stand.
That was NOT the case at The Gathering. In fact, I had absolutely no idea where this pastor stood politically—and that, in itself, felt refreshingly rare. What I did notice, however, was the almost painstaking intentionality in his message. Rather than using the pulpit to push an agenda, he leaned into the tension of what it truly means to follow Jesus in today’s culture—a journey that is anything but simple, neat, or easily categorized. His focus wasn’t on drawing political lines but on illuminating the complexity, the cost, and the countercultural nature of discipleship.
During lunch, Robert and I talked about ALL THE THINGS! Honestly, I love conversations like the one we had that morning. I appreciate a “crazy Jesus story” and Robert definitely has one of those. But, it’s also encouraging to be reminded of the ways God moves in unexpected places and through unexpected people. Hearing Robert’s story—his struggles, his doubts, and the moments where everything seemed to fall apart, only for grace to show up—was both humbling and inspiring. It’s easy to forget that faith isn’t always neat and predictable; sometimes, it’s wild, messy, and full of surprises.
Conversations like this remind me that we’re not alone in our questions, our searching, or even in the moments when we feel like we’re getting it all wrong. God meets us there. And sometimes, He does it in ways that make for the best “crazy Jesus stories” we’ll tell for years to come.
A few days later, I was having a conversation with a friend when she asked how I was capable of staying optimistic in the face of so much adversity. I had to laugh. She was talking about the kind of optimism that doesn’t always come naturally—the kind that feels less like blind hope and more like a choice you have to make every single day. She was talking about the way we keep pushing forward, even when the weight of the world feels unbearable.
I had to laugh because the truth is, I don’t always feel optimistic. There are moments when the problems seem too big, when the setbacks feel personal (and sometimes they are), and when the work feels endless. But what keeps me going isn’t the absence of struggle—it’s the belief that change is still possible. It’s the people I’ve met who refuse to give up. It’s the students who dream big despite their circumstances, the community members who show up for each other, and the small victories that remind me why we started in the first place.
Optimism, for me, isn’t about ignoring the hard things—it’s about choosing to fight for the good despite the hard things. And meeting people like Robert is a reminder that hope isn’t just an abstract idea—it’s something we build together, one conversation, one act of kindness, one moment of understanding at a time. Robert’s story, his resilience, and his willingness to keep going despite the obstacles remind me that change happens in small, steady steps. It’s in the way people show up for each other, in the communities that refuse to be defined by their struggles, and in the belief that even the smallest efforts can ripple outward in ways we may never fully see.
CHALLENGE: This week, the challenge is simple: REST. Take care of yourselves, my friends. Check in on your people.
Topic: Finding Hope in Uncertain Times and Planning for the Future
It was bound to happen eventually—my professional work would collide with this deeply personal project. And honestly, maybe it’s time I stop trying to draw a line between the two. Be The Change Youth Initiative is more than just a nonprofit; it’s an extension of our family and the values we live by every day. The truth is, even if the organization didn’t officially exist, we’d still be out there doing this work—advocating for change, uplifting communities, and empowering young people. It’s not just what we do; it’s who we are.
This week, we attended Silverdale Baptist Church with our friend Gerry and his family. Our connection with Gerry began last year during a two-day United Way workshop in Chattanooga—a gathering that started as a professional workshop, but quickly revealed itself to be a moment of divine alignment, where paths crossed for reasons beyond what any agenda could outline. Gerry’s warmth and authenticity stood out immediately, and over time, our conversations have evolved into a meaningful friendship. Attending church with him this week was a beautiful reminder of how the connections we make in unexpected places often end up shaping our journey in profound ways. It’s those unplanned, serendipitous moments that remind us there’s always something bigger at play, weaving people and experiences into the fabric of our lives.
But I’m getting a bit ahead of myself. Before diving into everything else, I’d like to take a moment to talk about the church service itself, as it’s worth reflecting on. Let me preface this by saying I’m not entirely comfortable with the notion of attending a church once and then talking about the sermon. That has never been my intent. However, if there’s something that stands out—whether it’s deeply problematic or profoundly impactful—I believe it’s important to acknowledge it. If there’s an issue, it warrants thoughtful critique. Likewise, if something inspires me or leaves a meaningful impression, I think it deserves to be celebrated and shared.
One of the aspects I deeply appreciated about their pastor was his willingness to embrace science as a tool to affirm the existence of the Lord. Rather than viewing science and faith as opposing forces, he used scientific principles to highlight the intricate design of creation. He even went so far as to present a pie chart to the congregation, detailing the composition of our atmosphere. The chart showcased the precise and finely tuned percentages of elements like oxygen, nitrogen, and carbon dioxide—elements that are essential for life to exist. It was a compelling moment that underscored how such delicate balances could point to intentionality and design rather than mere chance.
During our brunch, we had a meaningful conversation about the level of intentionality the staff demonstrates in their teaching approach. The use of real-world examples serves multiple purposes: it makes learning more engaging and relatable, it fosters critical thinking by showing students how academic subjects intersect with everyday life, and it equips them with the tools to apply their knowledge in meaningful ways. This approach reflects a commitment to holistic education—one that goes beyond the classroom and prepares students to become thoughtful and informed members of society.
Eventually, our conversation shifted to reflect on life and where we currently find ourselves in the United States, particularly in the context of the work we do with Be The Change Youth Initiative (BTCYI). As we discussed the state of the nation, themes like inequality and the growing need for intentional community building came up. We talked about how these issues are intertwined with our mission (and our faith) and why the work we’re doing is so critical right now.
In particular, we focused on the urgency of addressing food insecurity, not just as a logistical challenge but as a deeply human issue that reflects broader societal inequities. In the United States—one of the wealthiest nations in the world—it’s heartbreaking that so many children and families still struggle to access basic needs like food. We also reflected on how divided and polarized things can feel in the country right now and how that division impacts community-based work. BTCYI takes an intentional approach to bridge these gaps by focusing on collaboration—bringing together students, creatives, and local organizations to build a unified effort around many important issues, like food insecurity. The work is deeply personal, driven by the belief that creating small, impactful changes at the community level can ripple outwards to inspire larger transformations.
Ultimately, this part of the conversation reinforced a shared understanding: our mission with BTCYI (and as followers of Jesus) is not just about addressing immediate needs, but also about fostering hope, unity, and a sense of purpose in a time when so many people feel disconnected. By equipping young people to step up as leaders and inviting entire communities into this work, we’re creating a model for how change can happen—even amidst challenges—and how we can all bring something valuable to the table.
CHALLENGE: If you’re disconnected, or discouraged, in the current political climate, think about your community and how you can connect with people to create meaningful change together. Whether it’s volunteering at a local organization, starting a conversation about an issue you’re passionate about, or collaborating on a project that uplifts others, small actions can lead to big impacts. By working alongside others who share your values, you can build a sense of belonging, find renewed hope, and make a tangible difference in your community. Remember, change starts with connection—so take that first step today.
Topic: Youth Ministry and Why Our Kids Are Leaving the Church
We woke up Friday morning, and for the briefest of seconds, it felt like we had been magically transported back to Maine. A thick blanket of snow covered everything in sight. It was stunning—postcard-worthy, really. But unlike the Northeast, with ample amounts of salt and a fleet of snowplows primed and ready to go, our Southern corner of the world collectively hit the panic button. Schools closed, stores emptied of bread and milk like we were prepping for the apocalypse, and somewhere, a single snowplow coughed to life.
The snowstorm didn’t just bring the city to a standstill—it also led many local congregations to cancel their in-person Sunday services. Most churches quickly pivoted to online gatherings, embracing the beauty of technology (and maybe the comfort of preaching in slippers). So, I decided to tune in to the virtual worship service at First Centenary UMC and feeling a bit optimistic—or perhaps overly ambitious—I asked Piper if she’d like to join me. And the odds were most definitely not in my favor.
When I talk about my family and where each of us stands on this winding journey of faith, Piper is firmly planted in the skeptic camp. And honestly, I can’t blame her. Our kids—especially our three oldest—have witnessed some pretty tough, even unsettling, things over the years. And to be fair, most people probably would have shielded their children from the things we experienced for fear that it would ruin their faith. But, I hold to the hope that Jesus is bigger than all of that… and, in the end, their faith will be stronger because of it. And maybe that decision will show itself to be a disastrous one. But, I’m still betting on Jesus.
And the belief that knowing how to identify wolves in sheep’s clothing will also help them see those who are truly following Jesus. (And, YES, this is where Sydney and Brayden got the name of their band.)
Sydney and Brayden, for all they experienced, still caught glimpses of the good that can come from our faith tradition: genuine community, moments of grace, and the kind of hope that feels like solid ground. But Piper? Piper primarily saw the cracks in the foundation. She saw the cycle of overly charismatic preachers selling a version of the gospel that, if we’re being honest, wasn’t real. It was Jesus repackaged—not for transformation, but for personal gain. (Usually in the form of a big, shiny building.) She watched leaders use His name to build their own little empires, twisting music into a tool for emotional manipulation, and wielding shame like a weapon, all under the banner of “it’s for your own good.”
So, her skepticism isn’t a surprise. It’s a response. A defense against a version of faith that promised light but often delivered shadows… and this is what I want to talk about today. Why youth have been walking away from the church for years… and why for the first time young men are out numbering young women in our congregations.
My seminary graduation project was an in-depth paper examining the challenges within youth ministry in the United States. It specifically focused on how Bill Hybels’ Willow Creek model—particularly its entertainment-driven approach at Sun City—contributed to fostering a form of “fake Christianity.” The paper explored how prioritizing attractional, performance-based programs over discipleship and spiritual depth led to shallow faith formation among youth, raising concerns about the long-term impact on their spiritual growth and commitment.
In addition to analyzing the impact of entertainment-driven youth ministry models, my graduation project also explored how witnessing parental hypocrisy significantly contributes to students walking away from their faith—often long before they ever step foot on a college campus.
Many young people observe a stark contrast between how their parents present themselves at church and how they behave at home. At church, parents may appear deeply spiritual—serving in ministries, attending Bible studies, and speaking about Christian values—yet at home, they may display anger, judgment, racism, misogyny, dishonesty, or indifference toward living out the very faith they profess. This disconnect sends conflicting messages to their children, creating confusion and disillusionment about what it truly means to follow Jesus.
This kind of hypocrisy can subtly erode a child’s trust in both their parents and the Church. Rather than viewing faith as a transformative relationship with Christ, students may begin to see Christianity as a social obligation or performance. Over time, they may grow cynical, believing that if faith doesn’t change how their parents live day-to-day, it must not be real or meaningful.
This internal conflict often causes students to emotionally and spiritually disengage from their faith communities long before they physically leave home. They might go to church every Sunday and youth group every Wednesday night, but they’re merely checking a box, keeping their parents satisfied while feeling increasingly disconnected from the faith being presented to them.
Over time, this routine participation becomes hollow—a performance rather than a genuine pursuit of spiritual growth. Students may learn how to say the right things and engage in church activities, but inside, they wrestle with doubt, frustration, or even resentment. They may silently question the authenticity of the faith they see modeled, wondering why it doesn’t seem to transform daily life in meaningful ways.
This quiet disengagement can be mistaken for compliance, making it easy for parents and church leaders to overlook the deeper struggles these students face. By the time they reach college or adulthood, they often feel free to step away entirely because their faith was never personally owned—it was inherited, not internalized.
Without witnessing consistent, authentic faith at home, students are left vulnerable to viewing Christianity as shallow, performative, or irrelevant to real life. This disconnect highlights the critical need for parents and the church to model genuine discipleship—faith that is honest about struggles, rooted in grace, and visibly transformative in everyday actions. Only then can young people begin to develop a faith that is resilient, meaningful, and truly their own.
By the time they reach college or adulthood, they’re not “losing” their faith—they’ve already distanced themselves from it due to years of witnessing inauthentic faith modeled at home. My paper argued that this issue, combined with shallow, entertainment-focused youth ministries, creates a perfect storm that leaves students spiritually unprepared and disconnected. Addressing this problem requires more than just rethinking youth programs; it demands a call for authentic, consistent faith within families. Parents must model genuine, lived-out discipleship at home, demonstrating grace, humility, and a reliance on God not just in public but in their daily lives.
For those unfamiliar with our story, there was a defining moment during our time church planting in Rhode Island that deeply challenged and reshaped our perspective. It was as if God placed a mirror in front of us, revealing the weight of a truth we could no longer ignore. Jamie and I were struck by the realization that we hadn’t fully embraced our responsibility to intentionally disciple our own children. This conviction led us to sit down with Sydney and Brayden—just 11 and 8 years old at the time—and offer a heartfelt apology. We confessed that we hadn’t taken our role in guiding them spiritually as seriously as we should have.
But that conversation didn’t stop at an apology. We took the next, more humbling step: we gave them permission to hold us accountable. With their own professions of faith, Sydney and Brayden were no longer just our children—they were our brother and sister in Christ. That truth changed everything. It reframed how we led our family, how we loved them, and how we invited them to walk alongside us in faith. From that moment on, our family dynamic shifted into something deeper and richer—a shared journey of growing in Christ together, where accountability, grace, and discipleship became central to our home.
It was the best and worst decision of our lives. (It was really the best and I highly recommend it.) Now to the other issue.
Historically, youth church attendance has been steadily declining, but in recent years, a surprising shift has emerged: more young men are attending church than young women. This unexpected trend has sparked a critical question—why?
One possible explanation lies in how some churches embrace more rigid, patriarchal interpretations of Scripture, creating environments where traditional male dominance is not only accepted but celebrated. These spaces often frame male leadership and authority as divinely ordained, appealing to young men who feel drawn to clear, hierarchical structures that affirm their power and control.
This trend is further fueled by the rise of Christian nationalism, where faith becomes tightly intertwined with political identity, often promoting ideals of male strength, dominance, and authority as central to both religious and national identity. In these circles, being a “strong Christian man” is equated with defending traditional gender roles, family structures, and political ideologies. This messaging can be particularly appealing to young men seeking belonging, purpose, and identity in an increasingly complex world.
Simultaneously, many young women are stepping away from church spaces where they feel marginalized, silenced, or burdened by harmful teachings. The lingering effects of purity culture, the minimization of women’s voices in leadership, and a lack of meaningful engagement with issues like gender equality, mental health, and abuse have pushed many young women to disengage. They are increasingly unwilling to participate in faith communities that uphold systems of oppression under the guise of biblical authority.
The widening gap between young men and women in church attendance reflects deeper cultural and theological problems and alienates those seeking authentic, inclusive expressions of faith. Addressing this imbalance requires confronting these harmful ideologies head-on and reimagining church communities as spaces of justice, equality, and true discipleship for everyone.
As I wrap this post up, there is one more topic needing to be addressed… and it honestly needs its own post.
Jesus’ ministry was radically inclusive and justice-driven. He stood with the marginalized, challenged oppressive systems, and called out hypocrisy among religious leaders. He defended the outcast, uplifted the poor, and showed compassion to the hurting. Yet many youth look around and see churches avoiding conversations about systemic racism, poverty, climate change, and gender inequality. Even worse, some churches actively resist movements for justice, dismissing them as “too political” or “divisive.”
This disconnect leaves young people feeling disillusioned. They wonder how a faith built on love, compassion, and justice can ignore or oppose the very issues Jesus cared deeply about. When churches prioritize comfort, tradition, or political alignment over the well-being of the oppressed, youth begin to question the Church’s relevance and integrity.
Many feel that by avoiding or rejecting social justice, the Church is missing a critical opportunity to live out the Gospel in real and transformative ways. They long for a faith community that not only preaches about loving one’s neighbor but actively works to dismantle systems of injustice and advocates for the vulnerable.
Without this alignment between belief and action, young people are left searching for more authentic expressions of faith—spaces where following Jesus means standing up for justice, mercy, and truth in both word and deed.
CHALLENGE: If you have children, no matter the age, spend some time talking to them about their experiences in their faith communities. WARNING: It might be tempting to take a defensive posture depending on their answers. Try to fight against the temptation and truly listen to what they say. If you need some prompts to start the conversation, I’ll provide a few below
Do you feel like the church encourages you to think critically about your faith and the world, or does it pressure you to accept certain ideas without question?
Do you feel like you have the freedom to question or challenge what’s being taught at church? Why or why not?
What kind of church or faith community would make you feel most connected to God? What would it look like?
Is there anything about our faith or how we practice it as a family that feels confusing or uncomfortable to you?
Do you feel like our church welcomes and supports people who are different—whether in gender, race, background, or beliefs? Why or why not?
Have you heard any messages at church that blend Christianity with politics or patriotism? How do those messages make you feel?
Topic: Who Can Take Communion; Living OUT Church vs Going TO Church
About a month ago, Sydney and I were speaking at a monthly “networking” event when I was approached by Allison, who found my blog and expressed an interest in talking more about it at some point. We exchanged numbers and made a tentative plan to grab coffee in the New Year. But, when my plans to visit a church fell through a few weeks ago, I posted on Instagram asking if anyone was open to letting me tag along. Almost instantly, Allison sent me a DM, and just like that, our timeline got fast-tracked!
So, the Sunday before Christmas I visited Sojourn Community Church in the North Shore/ Hill City community. It was the last week of Advent and, honestly, I’m not sure what I was expecting, but all the notes I had would eventually take a back seat to what happened during communion. This sacrament has always felt complicated to me. On one hand, it’s deeply personal—a reflection of grace, sacrifice, and our relationship with Christ. But on the other, it’s tied to the broader relationship one has with the church, and for me, that relationship has felt strained. Over time, communion began to feel more ritualistic than relational, like a practice I went through without feeling fully present in its meaning.
But in all my years of taking communion, across the country and around the world, I heard something during this service that I’ve never heard before. The pastor invited all believers in Christ to participate, but with an important qualifier—not if they were under church discipline. There was no explanation, which led me to have so many questions! (I’m hoping to connect with this pastor to have a conversation about the proclamation, but the lack of context has also provided me space to process my own thoughts, from my own experiences.)
Communion is not merely a ritual or a private exchange between us and God—it’s also a public affirmation of unity within the body of Christ. By excluding those under church discipline, he wasn’t being exclusionary for exclusion’s sake but was instead (I think) pointing to something vital about the heart of the Gospel: reconciliation.
While it might come across as gatekeeping the table, it could also be about honoring the purpose of communion—a celebration of Christ’s sacrifice that brings healing and unity, both with God and with His people. Communion is sacred, not just in its symbolism but in its implications. If someone is under church discipline, it’s often because there’s a significant break in their relationship with the church or its leadership, and taking communion without addressing that brokenness can feel contradictory. Communion is a time to reflect on grace and forgiveness, and part of that reflection involves confronting areas in our lives where reconciliation is needed.
This perspective can be challenging. How often do we think of communion as merely about our personal faith, forgetting its communal aspect? The pastor’s words remind us that the body of Christ is not just a metaphor; it’s a living, breathing community of believers bound together by love and accountability. To take communion while disregarding those connections would cheapen its meaning.
This connection to community was also something we talked about during lunch. In the South, the question “Where do you go to church?” is almost as common as asking about the weather. It’s a question that carries cultural significance, often serving as a gateway to connection or shared values. But it also raises a deeper question: Is church really something you can go to?
At first glance, “going to church” makes sense—it’s shorthand for attending a service or being part of a local congregation. But when we think about the essence of what the church is, the phrase feels incomplete… or outright wrong. The church isn’t a building, a Sunday morning service, or a place you check in and out of like a doctor’s office. The church is the people—the body of Christ, a community of believers united in their faith and purpose.
When we reduce the church to a location, we risk missing the richness of what it means to BE the church. Scripture consistently reminds us that the church is not about bricks and mortar but about lives being built together in Christ (Ephesians 2:19-22). It’s about relationships, discipleship, and living out the gospel in everyday life—not just for an hour on Sunday.
So instead of asking “Where do you go to church?” maybe the better question is, “Who are you doing life with?” AND “How are you living together as the church?” (And, personally, I think that last question is key!) These questions shift the focus from a physical place to the relational and spiritual essence of what it means to follow Christ.
These questions could also make a lot of people feel very uncomfortable.
Perhaps the most important question isn’t whether we go to church, but whether we are the church wherever we go. The idea of “going to church” can unintentionally create a passive mindset, where faith is compartmentalized into a weekly event. But when we see ourselves as part of the church, it becomes an active, ongoing participation in God’s mission—caring for others, seeking justice, and growing in faith.
And yet, to take it a step further, I believe one of the collective challenges in the contemporary church is our dependence on leadership to create those opportunities for local outreach. We often look to pastors and ministry directors to guide us, plan for us, and essentially carry the weight of creating the opportunities. While strong leadership is vital, this dependence can inadvertently rob the church—the people—of its call to take initiative in the everyday spaces where we live, work, and interact.
The Great Commission wasn’t given exclusively to church leaders; it was given to every follower of Christ. But in many cases, we’ve adopted a consumer mindset, where we wait for someone else to organize, fund, and lead the way in serving others. This creates a gap between what the church is called to be and what it often becomes: a group of people who attend but rarely step into their own agency as disciples actively living out the mission of God.
What would happen if we flipped that script? What if we stopped waiting for opportunities to be handed to us and started asking, “How can I be the church today?” What if, instead of looking to leadership to define our mission, we looked to our communities and identified ways we could personally engage—whether it’s loving a neighbor in need, advocating for justice, or sharing hope with someone who feels lost?
The truth is, being the church isn’t limited to organized programs or large-scale missions. It’s found in the everyday acts of kindness, the small sacrifices we make for others, and the courage to live out our faith in a way that reflects Christ. When we embrace that call, we empower the church to be what it was always meant to be: a living, breathing movement of people working together to make the love of Christ known in the world.
So perhaps the question isn’t only whether we are the church wherever we go, but whether we are willing to take personal ownership of the mission, instead of waiting for someone else to lead us there.
CHALLENGE: Take time this week to honestly reflect on your involvement in living out the mission of the church. Ask yourself:
Is my engagement in local “missions” dictated primarily by the opportunities presented by my church leadership, or am I actively seeking ways to serve and love others in my daily life?
How often do I rely on organized programs or events to fulfill my call to be the hands and feet of Christ?
In what ways am I personally taking initiative to reflect God’s love in the spaces I already inhabit—my workplace, neighborhood, school, or family?
I’m writing this in the early morning hours of January 6th after living through the worst “vacation” of my life. Jamie and I have spent the last three nights in a separate hotel room from our kids, quarantined away because I haven’t been able to keep anything down, hardly able to leave the bed…which has given me MORE than enough time to experience my fill of political commentary over the past few days. And after hours of tossing and turning in the early hours of this morning, I decided to do something I told myself I wouldn’t do… write about politics.
This is a topic our family often discusses—the incongruence of our faith and our politics. It’s a complex and deeply personal conversation, but I’ll start with a simple truth: no political party fully represents my faith, and no system of government can encapsulate the essence of what I believe. Faith, in its truest form, transcends the limitations of human institutions.
You’ll often hear statements like, “Jesus would be a socialist.” And, while I understand the sentiment—that Jesus valued care for the poor, community, and justice—the statement itself reveals a misunderstanding of His mission. Jesus wasn’t here to advocate, or live, for a particular political ideology; He was here to transform hearts, lives, and the way we relate to God and each other. Reducing His radical love and teachings to a political framework, whether socialist, capitalist, or any other system, misses the point.
Faith calls us to something higher, something that exists beyond the confines of political constructs. It challenges us to engage with the world in ways that reflect grace, compassion, and justice—not because of a political platform but because of a kingdom perspective. And when our politics conflict with our faith, it’s an invitation to reassess, realign, and remember that our ultimate allegiance lies not with any party, but with the God who calls us to love others as He has loved us.
Having said that… I feel today is an anniversary that needs attention, especially when it comes to my project.
Four years ago, January 6th became a turning point that reshaped the fabric of American life. It wasn’t just the day itself—the violence, the chaos, the stark display of division—but the ripple effects that have continued to unfold since. It marked a moment when deep political divides became impossible to ignore, driving wedges between loved ones, testing relationships, and challenging long-held beliefs.
Christian nationalism surged into the spotlight, blending faith with political ideology in ways that left countless Christians questioning what it truly means to follow Jesus in a polarized nation. I still remember sitting on our couch, watching the day unfold, and periodically seeing huge posters of Jesus—some even depicting Him wearing the infamous red “Make America Great Again” hat. It felt surreal, like I was watching a scene from a dystopian movie where faith and politics had been twisted into something unrecognizable. The Jesus I had grown up learning about—the one who preached love, humility, and service to others—seemed so far removed from the figure being co-opted and displayed as a symbol of power, dominance, and exclusion.
I couldn’t shake the disconnect. The juxtaposition of violent rhetoric, stormed barricades, and claims of divine endorsement left me questioning how we had arrived at this moment. It was as if the core message of Christianity—grace, mercy, and sacrificial love—had been buried beneath a heavy layer of nationalism, fear, and political tribalism. And in that moment, I couldn’t help but wonder how many people watching this unfold might walk away from faith altogether, unable to reconcile this version of “Jesus” with the one they’d once believed in.
And, in the years that followed… the answer was way more than I ever could have imagined.
For me, that day became a turning point. It forced me to examine what it means to truly follow Jesus in a world where His name is so often used to justify actions that seem completely contrary to His teachings. It sparked an uncomfortable but necessary journey of reflection—on faith, identity, and the ways we’ve allowed politics to shape our understanding of God instead of the other way around.
Family gatherings became battlegrounds for debates about truth, values, and loyalty, with political affiliations often taking precedence over shared histories and relationships. The idea of unity felt increasingly elusive as communities fractured along ideological lines.
This wasn’t just about politics, though. It was about identity and core values—about who we are as individuals, families, and a nation. Questions that had simmered under the surface for decades boiled over: What does it mean to be a Christian in America? Can faith and politics coexist without compromising one or the other? How do we rebuild trust when so much of our shared foundation feels shaken?
In the years since, these challenges have forced many of us to reevaluate everything—our relationships, our priorities, and even our faith. The events of January 6th didn’t just reveal what was broken; they offered an unflinching look at the work that lies ahead. And here I sit, reflecting on all of this in a hotel room far from my kids, sick in body but also in heart, realizing how much healing our families, communities, and nation still need.
Last night, I moved myself to the living area, curled up in a chair, and told Jamie the most hopeless, but honest, thing I’ve said in a while: “I just don’t know if it’s ever going to get better.” The weight of everything—politics, division, the state of the world—felt like too much to bear. It wasn’t just the big, global issues either; it was the everyday, relentless drumbeat of tension and uncertainty.
And the truth is simple… it might not.
As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt the sting of how raw they were. I’ve always been someone who holds on to hope, even in the darkest moments, but this time, I couldn’t muster it. Jamie didn’t say much; he didn’t need to. Sometimes, the most powerful response is just sitting in the silence together, acknowledging the heaviness without trying to fix it.
But even in that moment of despair, something unexpected happened. As the quiet stretched on, I started to think about the little glimmers of light that still break through the cracks—the genuine conversations I’ve had with neighbors, the small acts of kindness I’ve witnessed, the resilience I see in people determined to make their communities better.
And that is where hope lives, not in some sweeping, magical solution that fixes everything overnight… like the election of a politician… but in the small, steady reminders that goodness still exists. It’s in the choice to keep showing up, even when it feels futile, and in the belief that light, no matter how faint, can grow.
So while I may have been honest in my hopelessness, I’m also determined not to stay there. Because if I’ve learned anything, it’s that hope often starts as a flicker in the darkest of rooms—and sometimes, that’s all we need to keep going.
Lunch: It was a night service so we went back to Shannon’s house.
Topics: What IS a Seventh-day Adventist? What is the ecumenical church?
A few weeks ago, my friend Shannon asked if I had any interest in attending a Seventh-day Adventist (SDA) Church because one of her regular customers at Niedlov’s is a pastor at The Well. Obviously, I was. But, my knowledge/association with this denomination is limited. Honestly, I only have three: 1) When I bought my first house, I couldn’t close on a Saturday because it was their Sabbath; 2) I’ve spoken at a Death and Dying class for the the past three years at the local Seventh-day Adventist college; and 3) My seminary was adamant that the SDA church is a cult.
So… there you go. SIGN. ME. UP.
I don’t want to waste a lot of time discussing the cult accusation, but I do feel like it needs to be addressed. The perception often stems from misunderstandings, theological differences, and the historical context of the denomination’s development. So, I’m going to geek out for a couple of paragraphs (for those who are interested). But, please note, this is a 100,000ft snapshot and will not go into great detail… and feel free to skip the next two paragraphs if you’re not interested.
The Seventh-day Adventist Church emerged from the Millerite movement of the 19th century, which incorrectly predicted the Second Coming of Christ in 1844. This event, known as the “Great Disappointment,” led to understandable skepticism. Some critics associate the SDA Church with the broader millenarian and apocalyptic movements of the time, which were often labeled as fringe or cult-like. Additionally, Ellen G. White, one of the SDA Church’s founders, is regarded as a prophet by Adventists. Her writings are highly respected within the denomination and often used alongside the Bible for guidance. Critics sometimes argue that SDAs elevate White’s writings to the level of Scripture, which they view as heretical. Adventists, however, assert that her writings are subordinate to the Bible and serve as an inspired commentary.
Some Christians conflate SDAs with groups like Jehovah’s Witnesses or Mormons due to a lack of understanding. These groups differ significantly in doctrine but are often lumped together as “cults” by those unfamiliar with their beliefs. But, when it comes to the biggest differences from more traditional Christian denominations, there are a few – Sabbath Observance: SDAs believe the biblical Sabbath is Saturday, not Sunday, and emphasize its observance as a key aspect of faith; Investigative Judgment: SDAs teach that Jesus is currently conducting a heavenly investigative judgment that began in 1844. This doctrine is unique to Adventism and can be seen as unorthodox by other denominations; Health Practices and Lifestyle: many SDAs advocate for vegetarianism, abstaining from alcohol and tobacco, and maintaining healthy living as part of their faith. While many Christians value healthy lifestyles, some view these practices as overly prescriptive.
So… what was our experience?
To be fair, this wasn’t a typical church service. It was more a celebration of the Advent, including a potluck meal, a few Christmas carols, and the telling of the Christmas story by the youngest members of the congregation. From the moment we arrived, we were greeted with open arms. Mike, the pastor, was visibly surprised—but deeply moved—that we had chosen to join them. Over the next hour, we connected with some of the warmest, most genuinely curious people I’ve encountered since starting this project.
Continuing a trend I’ve come to treasure, it didn’t take long before I crossed paths with someone I already knew from the community—the professor from the Death and Dying class where I speak each year. The surprise on both of our faces was priceless, and I honestly couldn’t tell who was more shocked to see the other. What followed was a shared laugh and a warm hug, a moment that felt like more than just a coincidence. It was a beautiful reminder of the deeper connections that fuel my why for this project—the power of community, shared experiences, and the unexpected ways our paths intertwine.
As I delve deeper into this project, I find that the larger questions surrounding the ecumenical church increasingly center on themes of unity, diversity, and purpose within the broader Christian community. Drawing from my experience as a lens, here are some of the key questions that have repeatedly come up:
What does true unity in the church look like?
How can churches across denominations come together in meaningful ways while respecting theological, cultural, and liturgical differences?
Is unity about agreement, collaboration, or something deeper, like mutual love and understanding?
How can the church celebrate diversity without losing its shared mission?
In what ways can diverse traditions, practices, and interpretations enrich the ecumenical movement?
How can churches avoid letting differences become barriers to collaboration while maintaining authenticity in their individual beliefs?
What role does community connection play in the ecumenical movement?
How can churches remain relevant and connected to their local communities while working toward broader unity?
How does encountering familiar faces in unexpected places (like the professor) remind us that the church exists beyond walls and doctrines?
How do we define the ‘why’ of the ecumenical church?
What is the ultimate purpose of the ecumenical movement: to foster unity among Christians, to better serve the world, or to witness to the Gospel in a divided society?
How does a focus on shared mission, such as serving the marginalized or promoting justice, help to bridge divides?
How does the ecumenical church navigate the tension between tradition and modern challenges?
How do we honor centuries-old practices and teachings while addressing contemporary issues like mental health, inclusivity, and societal polarization?
What does success look like for the ecumenical church?
Is success measured in theological consensus, shared worship, collaborative service, or simply in the relationships built between people of faith?
How do we celebrate progress when unity feels elusive?
These questions invite reflection not only on theological or organizational challenges but also on the heart of what it means to embody Christ’s prayer in John 17:21: “that they may all be one.”
CHALLENGE: Take one of the six questions above and start a conversation with someone in your circle. Bonus points if it’s someone engaged with a different denomination… or holds a different political view?
I pretty aware of my blindspots, biases, and where I’m most likely to get stuck… my strongholds. (Whether I’m actively working on them is an entirely different matter, but I am acutely aware of them.) This self-awareness also informs how I approach projects like this one. I value transparency from the outset because it sets the tone for genuine, productive conversations. For instance, one of my deeply held perspectives—which some might find provocative—is that the concept of “rich people” in a church feels inherently contradictory. To me, it seems misaligned with the core values of humility, generosity, and service that the church is supposed to embody.
I will also say that when I talk about “rich people,” I recognize that wealth is relative and means different things to different people. For example, I might look at someone living in a million-dollar community and see them as rich, but someone from a community with fewer resources might look at my life and think the same about me.
Perspective is important.
This relativity makes conversations about wealth and, dare I say it, privilege, complex, especially in contexts like the church, where ideals like humility, generosity, and stewardship are central. My goal isn’t to define who is “rich” but to acknowledge the tension that arises when wealth—however it’s perceived—enters spaces meant to prioritize community, equity, and service. It’s a conversation worth having because it challenges all of us to reflect on how we view and use what we have.
It’s also worth stating that I don’t say this to judge individuals but to highlight a tension that I wrestle with and feel compelled to name. Acknowledging this openly is part of my commitment to being forthright, even when my thoughts might challenge the status quo.
Okay… back to the task at hand.
First, let me introduce you to Xaris. She is truly a delightful human being and an accomplished musician. I crossed paths with her years ago when she was working for East Lake Expression Engine, but have stayed connected over the years. When I found out that she attended Lookout Mountain Presbyterian Church, I reached out to see if I could tag along one week and she graciously said yes.
Arguably one of the wealthiest churches, in one of the wealthiest communities in the Chattanooga, I made a conscious effort to approach the experience with an open mind. It’s easy to let stereotypes or personal beliefs take the lead in shaping how we see places like this—a church in an affluent area can evoke thoughts about exclusivity and materialism, or a disconnect from the struggles of less privileged communities. But I reminded myself that wealth doesn’t necessarily define the character of a congregation or the authenticity of their faith.
Instead of jumping to conclusions, I focused on observing, listening, and understanding what this church values and how they use their resources. Do they embody generosity and service? Are they engaging with and uplifting their broader community? These are the questions I brought with me, determined to let the answers speak louder than any assumptions I may have had.
As an aside, I also want to say this: the sanctuary was absolutely stunning—one of the most beautiful modern interpretations of a classic cathedral that I’ve ever encountered. It felt like stepping into a space where history and modernity were in conversation, each enhancing the other. The design seemed intentional, not just about aesthetic beauty, but about creating a space that invites both reflection and community. It carried a sense of timelessness while still feeling accessible and relevant to today. It was the kind of place where you couldn’t help but pause and take it all in, appreciating the craftsmanship, the symbolism, and the vision it took to bring such a space to life. (Okay… I’m done.)
At the end of the service they had everyone sit down to hear an update… about their capital campaign. I’m pretty sure I rolled my eyes at the mention, but as soon as they announced the $17 million price tag my jaw dropped. For context, here’s a quick snapshot of our family’s history with capital campaigns: A little over 10 years ago, we moved to Rhode Island for six months to help plant a church, and it was an incredibly transformative experience for our family. It shaped our understanding of what the church could be—a catalyst for meaningful community impact.
When we returned to our home church after those six months, they were at a crossroads having to decide whether to invest $2 million in a renovation and expansion project or use that same money to plant up to 10 churches in other communities in Maine. We were fierce advocates for the church plants, believing deeply in the mission of extending the church’s reach to where it was needed most. However, the leadership chose the expansion.
That $2 million price tag eventually ballooned to over $12 million, funding an indoor soccer field, a three-story slide, and a state-of-the-art theater with flashing lights and all the bells and whistles… because nothing says “Hope of the World” like a entertainment complex. (Yes, I’m being snarky.) While I understand the intention to create an inviting, family-friendly space, it was hard to reconcile that choice with the immense opportunity to plant seeds of faith in multiple communities. That experience left an indelible mark on how I view decisions like these, which is why my reaction to this $17 million campaign wasn’t exactly subtle.
But I want to shift the focus here. My personal conviction is that investing this kind of money into a building feels deeply incongruent with the heart of the gospel, especially when we’re surrounded by pressing needs like homelessness and a growing food insecurity crisis in our community. To me, the gospel is about loving our neighbors, serving the least of these, and living out a message of compassion, generosity, and justice. When I see such immense resources poured into physical structures, I can’t help but question whether it aligns with the mission we’re called to as the body of Christ. (Again… I’m looking solely at the capital campaign for the building renovations and expansion, not at the totality of their work in their community and beyond.)
The church’s $17 million capital campaign is undoubtedly a significant undertaking, but what stands out to me—and deserves recognition—is the fact that their pastors, deacons, and elders have pledged to personally cover 35% of the cost. Whether or not I agree with the idea of spending $17 million (I don’t, but we’ll set that aside for now), this level of commitment from leadership is worth noting.
It’s not often that you see leaders willing to invest so deeply and tangibly in the very vision they’re asking their congregation to support. Covering 35% of such a massive total means they’re not just asking others to step up; they’re leading by example, putting their own resources on the line to demonstrate their belief in this campaign. This also reframes the conversation about generosity and stewardship within the church. Leadership taking such a significant financial stake challenges the congregation to consider their own role in supporting the mission—hopefully not out of obligation but as part of a shared commitment to something bigger than themselves. It’s a reminder that when leaders lead by example, they inspire others to do the same, fostering a culture of collective responsibility and shared vision.
But I also want to highlight something said during the service that really stuck with me: “Why is the Bible so hard on rich people?” That’s a bold question to pose, especially in a church situated in one of the wealthiest communities in the area, arguably in the whole state of Tennessee. It’s not the kind of message you might expect to hear in a place where wealth is likely a reality for many in the congregation.
This question is deeply rooted in scripture. Time and again, the Bible warns about the dangers of wealth—not because money is inherently evil, but because of its power to distract, corrupt, and create barriers between us and God. Passages like the story of the rich young ruler, or the parable of the rich man and Lazarus, challenge us to think about how wealth can breed complacency, self-reliance, and a false sense of security.
The question also forces us to wrestle with what it means to live faithfully while holding material wealth. Are we using our resources to serve others, uplift the marginalized, and embody Christ’s love? Or are we clinging to wealth as a measure of success or comfort?
What I appreciated most about this bold moment was its potential to stir up honest reflection within a community that may not often confront this tension. It wasn’t about shame or condemnation but about opening the door to deeper conversations about stewardship, generosity, and living out the gospel in ways that transcend personal comfort.
In a world where wealth can often insulate us from the struggles of others, this question challenges each of us to take an honest look at our hearts and priorities—regardless of whether we see ourselves as rich. Wealth, whether great or modest, has the potential to create distance—shielding us from discomfort, the needs of others, and the transformative work of empathy and solidarity. This isn’t just about money; it’s about how we steward our lives, our resources, and our influence.
I believe there’s a profound opportunity here to reimagine what it means to be the church. It’s not just about the physical structures we build but the relational and spiritual bridges we create. It’s about redirecting our focus outward—to those who are hurting, overlooked, or in need of hope, healing, and help. This requires us to embody the gospel in ways that prioritize connection over convenience, service over self-interest, and community over individual gain.
My conversation with Xaris offered a unique space to reflect on and embrace the paradox of wealth and faith. Together, we held space for the tension—the recognition that wealth can both empower and entangle, that it carries the potential to bless others but also to burden us spiritually. We discussed the challenge of living generously without losing sight of humility and the ongoing struggle to align our resources with our values.
This paradox is at the heart of what it means to navigate a life of faith in a material world. It’s not about rejecting wealth outright, but about reorienting our relationship with it—acknowledging its influence while keeping it in submission to God’s purpose. Something my kids have CONSTANTLY heard from me: The Lord doesn’t really care about the 10% you’re supposedly required to give to the church. He cares about the entire 100% and how you use your resources (financial and personal) to help others. In that conversation, we found room for honesty, for questions, and for the kind of reflection that inspires action. It reminded me that the church’s true calling isn’t confined to buildings or budgets but is realized in the way we love, serve, and uplift those who need it most.
CHALLENGE: How would your relationship with wealth—whether you have much or little—look different if you truly believed that everything you have belongs to God? How might this belief change the way you give, spend, save, and invest? If someone looked at your bank statements or your calendar, what would they say you value most? And how do those priorities reflect the heart of Christ?
Topics: The Ecumenical Church, The “Perfect” Church, and Meeting People Where They Are
Something you might not know about me… I’m a bit of a paradox when it comes to rules. I’m a fierce rule follower—well, sort of. If someone else imposes rules on me, you can bet I’ll push back, challenge them, and defend my independence. But when it comes to rules I set for myself? I’m unwavering. Once I commit to my own boundaries or standards, I follow them to the letter—even when they seem overly rigid or no longer serve a practical purpose. It’s like I have this inner code I can’t break, no matter how much it defies logic.
And when I started this project, I set a few ground rules for myself—and I’ve already broken one of them. But here’s the twist: I’m calling it progress! My original plan was to visit a new church every week for a year, allowing for a few intentional breaks for reflection and travel. The goal was to explore, learn, and engage with a wide variety of faith communities.
However, something beautiful happened along the way. I began connecting with people in the community who were curious about what I’m doing and eager to share in the experience. Some even invited me to attend church with them. The only catch? I had already visited their church. At first, I hesitated, feeling like I was breaking my self-imposed rule. But then I realized that this project isn’t just about visiting different buildings or checking off boxes—it’s about building relationships and fostering meaningful connections. And if revisiting a church means deepening those connections, I’m more than okay with bending the rules.
So, this week I returned to Restoration Southside with my new friend Mary Claire. I met Mary Claire in 2023 when Sydney and Brayden were performing at TEDx Chattanooga’s first Sessions event. And we ran into each other again this past summer when the kids were performing at Highland Park Porchfest, which is when I told her about this little project of mine… and she invited me to church with her. Saying “yes” to Mary Claire’s invitation turned out to be a beautiful reminder of the importance of connection. It was about so much more than attending church.
I’ve already talked about my appreciation for Restoration Southside in another post. (If you’re interested in reading my thoughts, you can do so HERE.) For today’s post I want to talk more about the conversation Mary Claire and I had over lunch as it relates to the ecumenical church and meeting people where they are on their spiritual journey, specifically the idea of faith as a shared space, not bound by rigid walls or denominational lines. Embracing unity and diversity across traditions—creates a space where people can feel welcomed and valued, regardless of where they are in their relationship with God or the church.
But, that’s easier said than done.
We talked about the importance of grace and openness in spiritual communities, not expecting everyone to fit into a mold but rather walking alongside them, hearing their stories, and honoring their unique paths. We also reflected on how often people feel disconnected from traditional church settings because they fear judgment and/or don’t feel like they belong. But when the focus shifts to meeting people where they are—whether that’s in doubt, curiosity, or conviction—it opens the door for true connection, growth, and healing.
Since my lunch with Mary Claire, I’ve had three interesting interaction with people who have either sent me a DM, or personally stopped to talk about some of my posts. And there is a common theme: Church as a meeting place, or a gathering of any sort, just isn’t cutting it. Each interaction has brought a unique perspective, yet they all converge on a shared struggle—a widening gap between what individuals seek from their spiritual communities and what they feel is being offered. Importantly, this disconnect doesn’t stem from a mindset of “you’re not giving me what I want.” Instead, it reflects a deeper longing, a heartfelt question: “There has to be more to it than this, right?”
For some, the issue seems to be a lack of genuine connection. Church as a meeting place often feels transactional or routine, a place to check off a weekly obligation rather than a sanctuary where deep relationships are formed and sustained. Others have expressed a longing for something more dynamic and meaningful, a space where conversations about real-life struggles—mental health, family pressures, or social justice—are not just welcomed but encouraged.
What stands out to me is not just that people feel the current format of church gatherings isn’t cutting it, but that they are yearning for something different. They want a place that feels alive, relational, and deeply attuned to the realities of today’s world. Whether it’s a reimagining of church as a collaborative, grassroots movement or a space for intimate and authentic community, the hunger for meaningful engagement is undeniable. But, not just within their church community… they want meaningful engagement throughout our city. As one person so eloquently put it: There has to be more to all of this than hanging out with my church friends a couple times a week and serving at the soup kitchen once a month.
Another of these conversations centered around how younger generations, in particular, are seeking authenticity over tradition. It’s not about rejecting faith or spirituality but rather about finding expressions of these values that are real, relevant, and inclusive. Another person shared how they’ve started hosting small gatherings at home, blending faith-based discussions with communal meals, and have found this to be far more fulfilling than the large, impersonal gatherings they had been attending. What’s fascinating is how this theme isn’t just about dissatisfaction—it’s also about possibility. And, I don’t think it’s an “either/or” scenario. It’s more about “and/both” and how we can come together on Sunday, but dig in deeper Monday through Saturday.
It’s a reminder that there’s a tremendous opportunity for faith communities to evolve and adapt, to become spaces where people feel seen, heard, and genuinely supported. For me, these conversations are not just about what’s missing but about what could be built in its place. I keep returning to the idea that perhaps the heart of this issue isn’t the institution itself but the ways in which it’s being experienced. Are we creating environments where vulnerability can thrive? Are we meeting people where they are, in their questions and struggles? Are we offering more than just a gathering—a true sense of belonging?
These interactions have been a powerful reminder of how important it is to listen. They have challenged me to think about what kind of spaces I’m fostering in my own life and work, and how I can contribute to this larger conversation about community, faith, and connection.
When I look back on my conversation with Mary Claire, I’m thankful for the connection to such a beautiful person who feels the weight of the world in a profound way, carrying a heartfelt burden for others to be seen, valued, and truly loved. Her compassion is contagious, and our time together reminded me of the beauty that emerges when we pause to connect with those who carry such an intentional vision for others.
It’s in moments like these that I’m reminded none of this is by chance. These conversations, these intersections with kindred spirits, have felt divinely orchestrated—threads in a larger tapestry being woven together. Over the past four months, each interaction has offered me a glimpse into something extraordinary: the possibilities of what the ecumenical church in Chattanooga could look like.
This isn’t about buildings, denominations, or traditional frameworks. It’s about a church that is alive and vibrant, a mosaic of people from all walks of life united by their desire to serve, love, and uplift their community. It’s about breaking down barriers and finding common ground—where shared humanity takes precedence over doctrinal differences, and the focus shifts to what truly matters: fostering connection, meeting tangible needs, and creating spaces where everyone feels welcome and valued.
Mary Claire’s deep burden for others mirrors the larger vision I see unfolding—a church that moves beyond routine gatherings and into the heartbeat of the city, one that listens, learns, and loves in practical, transformative ways. These connections are not only inspiring but also challenging me to consider how I can contribute to this vision, how I can help create spaces where people are drawn together in unity and purpose.
Looking back, I see these moments as pieces of a puzzle, each one adding clarity to what could be possible. The ecumenical church in Chattanooga doesn’t have to be confined to a single space or system; it’s something far greater—a network of relationships, a movement of shared hope, and a reflection of what it means to truly embody love in action. And for that, I am profoundly grateful.
CHALLENGE: I encourage you to reach out to someone… ask them out for coffee or a meal… and talk about the ecumenical church in Chattanooga. (Bonus points if they attend a different church than you!)
I’m starting the fourth month of this project and it seemed only fitting to revisit our home church in Chattanooga. I think it’s good for grounding, but also… I miss those humans. Sydney and Brayden were in town this past week for Thanksgiving and with it being the beginning of Advent… it just felt right.
If you happened to know our family before we lived on the road, you know that we’ve experienced our fair share of “church trauma” that deeply impacted not only our spiritual lives but our personal relationships, leaving lasting marks on how we view community, trust, and belonging.
Church trauma can be complex, often involving feelings of betrayal, judgment, or disillusionment with institutions, or individuals, we looked to for guidance and care. For us, it led to a season of wrestling with questions about faith, identity, and where we fit in. Yet, through that pain, we also began to learn the importance of healing, authenticity, and finding spaces where grace prevails.
While some of those experiences were deeply problematic, they’ve also given us a unique perspective—one that fuels our passion for fostering safe, inclusive environments where others can feel seen, heard, and loved for who they are. (One of the reasons our non-profit has this tagline is deeply rooted in our interactions with youth across the country who have also experienced church trauma.)
But today I want to pivot to something just as vulnerable and meaningful: parenting—and how, even with the best intentions, we can sometimes unintentionally add to the hurt or, at the very least, fail to ease it.
If church trauma taught us anything, it’s that the environments we create and the ways we lead profoundly matter. And as parents, we hold the responsibility of shaping not just our kids’ understanding of the world but also their understanding of themselves, of love, and yes, even of God. That’s a weighty thing to carry, and let’s be honest: we don’t always get it right. In fact, sometimes, the very things we think we’re doing to protect, or guide, them can end up causing hurt.
Parenting through the lens of our own wounds—whether those come from church trauma, past relationships, or personal insecurities—can be tricky. Yet, those very wounds can also lead to powerful growth and redemption in the way we parent. For me, some of the most meaningful changes have come directly from facing the pain of my own childhood experiences and choosing to do things differently.
As someone who grew up in an abusive home, I made a firm promise to myself: the cycle of harm would end with me. I am deeply grateful to say that this pattern of abuse has been broken, and my children have grown up in a home where love, not fear of physical harm, guide our relationships. But, perfection is not attainable in parenting and we still project fears, impose expectations, or unknowingly echo patterns we swore we’d never repeat. And while it’s hard to admit, there are moments when our own brokenness becomes the weight our kids carry.
Over the past few years, I’ve been reflecting on something deeply personal—how our parenting style and practices were shaped by the institutional church and, in some ways, how they contributed to, or even deepened, the trauma we experienced within that environment. Maine is about as polar opposite to Tennessee when it comes to church communities, particularly in terms of religious culture and engagement. While Tennessee is deeply rooted in the Bible Belt with a strong emphasis on church attendance, evangelical traditions, and vibrant community involvement, Maine tends to have a more secular culture, with lower church attendance and a less prominent role of religion in daily life.
But, our family was deeply invested in the church community in Maine (and in Rhode Island when we were church planting). And with that, our kids got a front row seat… to a lot. So, as I sat down with Sydney and Brayden over lunch we started to dig into all of it. (For the sake of context, I will say that while we typically attended conservative leaning churches, we were usually more moderate in our perspectives, often valuing open dialogue, questioning, and a focus on grace over strict adherence to dogma or political alignment.)
While no specific situations were discussed , we did focus on the profound yet often imperceptible journey toward attaining the perfection of Christ… and the guilt and shame that can arise when we inevitably fall short. This tension between striving for holiness and grappling with our human limitations often leaves believers feeling burdened, as if their efforts are never enough. And here’s where the “old Deirdre” would have waxed on about the liberating truth that Christ’s perfection is not a standard we achieve through our own strength, but a gift of grace that transforms us over time.
I honestly cringe thinking about it. It’s such a surface-level, white-washed answer that offers little depth or real-world application, failing to address the complexities and struggles people actually face. It feels dismissive, as though it’s designed to check a box rather than engage in meaningful dialogue or provide genuine support.
Over lunch, Brayden shared about the weight, as well as the subsequent guilt and shame, that accompanies the standoff between the ideal we’re striving for and the inevitable ways we fall short. The “church answer” is easily regurgitated: This journey isn’t about arriving at perfection in this life, but faithfully walking with Christ, trusting that He who began a good work in us will bring it to completion.
But that “church answer,” while true, often feels insufficient in the face of the real, raw emotions that come with falling short time and time again. It doesn’t always address the lingering feelings of inadequacy or the questions about whether we’re truly making progress. Brayden expressed how the tension between striving and stumbling can leave a person feeling stuck in a cycle of trying harder and falling harder, wondering if grace really covers the relentless weight of imperfection.
I want to stop and pose that question again: Does grace really cover the relentless weight of imperfection? Intellectually, we know the answer is yes. Scripture assures us time and again that God’s grace is sufficient, that His mercies are new every morning, and that His love is steadfast and unchanging. But on a heart level—where guilt lingers, shame whispers, and self-doubt festers—the answer often feels less certain.
In those moments, grace can feel abstract, like a concept we’re supposed to grasp but struggle to truly internalize. We wonder if God is as patient with us as He says He is, or if He’s secretly disappointed that we’re still wrestling with the same struggles. The weight of imperfection isn’t just about falling short—it’s about carrying the fear that our shortcomings make us unworthy of the very grace we’re promised. And when the “church” wields shame and guilt, it can leave people feeling even more isolated and burdened, as though their struggles disqualify them from belonging or from truly experiencing God’s love. Instead of becoming a sanctuary for grace and healing, it can turn into a place where perfection is subtly demanded, and failure feels like a spiritual flaw rather than a human reality.
This shame and guilt can distort the message of the Gospel, shifting the focus from Christ’s finished work to our own inadequate efforts. It reinforces the lie that we must fix ourselves before we can approach God, rather than trusting in the truth that He meets us in our brokenness. Yet this is precisely where grace does its most profound work. It meets us not when we’ve figured everything out, but in the depths of our brokenness and the messiness of our journey. Grace doesn’t just forgive—it transforms.
So perhaps the real question isn’t whether grace can cover the weight of imperfection, but whether we’ll allow it to. Will we stop striving to earn what’s freely given? Will we believe that even in our worst moments, we are still held, still loved, and still being made new? And as a parent this becomes even more vital. Can we extend that same grace to ourselves when we falter, knowing that our imperfections don’t disqualify us from loving our children well? Can we model the same vulnerability, humility, and trust in God’s grace that we hope to cultivate in their hearts? The truth is, healing and growth—both in our own lives and in our children’s—are built on the foundation of grace, and learning to embrace it ourselves is the first step toward teaching them to do the same.
Maybe what’s missing is the acknowledgment that this journey isn’t just about a theological truth, but about the lived experience of wrestling with it. It’s about learning to sit in the discomfort of that tension and allowing it to draw us closer to God, rather than pushing us into a corner of self-reliance or despair. The church answer may remind us of the goal, but it’s in the messy middle of our humanity where the depth of Christ’s love and patience becomes most transformative.
One of the things I appreciated most about our conversation was the reminder that my kids’ level of emotional intelligence is pretty astonishing. Arguably the best thing I ever did as a parent was give them permission to hold me accountable… both as their parent and as a follower of Jesus. The key has always been anchored in owning my mistakes, learning from them, and saying I’m sorry.
Creating a space where our kids feel safe to share their hurt—even when it’s caused by us—is absolutely essential. True healing, whether from church trauma or our own parenting missteps, demands humility, grace, and a commitment to keep showing up, no matter how hard it gets. I’m not the same person as I was back in Maine. But, honestly, I’m not the same person I was when I started this little project. Growth has a way of surprising us like that—reshaping our hearts and perspectives in ways we never anticipated. And while the journey hasn’t been easy, it’s in these messy, transformative moments that I’ve come to see the beauty of grace, not as a far-off concept, but as a daily lifeline.
CHALLENGE: Do you feel the tension between striving and stumbling? If so, do you feel stuck in a cycle of trying harder and falling harder? You might intellectually know that grace covers the relentless weight of imperfection, but do you know it at the core of your being.. the kind of knowing that brings peace even when you fail, the kind that allows you to rest in God’s love instead of constantly scrambling to prove your worth? It’s one thing to understand grace as a concept, but it’s another to experience it deeply, allowing it to free you from guilt and shame, and to let it transform the way you see yourself and others. Only then can we truly embrace the process of being perfected, knowing that we don’t have to get it all right to be loved and accepted.
WARNING: In this post I talk about Nazism and abortion.
By now, if you’ve been following along on this journey, you know that I believe in the individual conviction of each follower of Jesus, based on their unique life experiences and the ministry set before them. Equally, I would never expect someone else to hold by personal beliefs, or convictions.
Disagreement is inevitable, but division doesn’t have to be. When we approach one another with an openness to listen and a commitment to love, we honor the diversity of gifts and callings God has given His people. At the end of the day, I’m less interested in whether someone agrees with me and more interested in whether our lives point others toward the grace and truth of Jesus. That, I believe, is what matters most. We don’t have to see eye to eye on every issue to walk hand in hand in faith.
But, in order to walk hand in hand… I must trust you. And trust is earned.
Three months in and so much has changed in me… and in the world. So, first… a confession: I entered into this project with a lot of desperation. If you know our family’s story, you know how we truly lived by faith for a very long season of our lives. And, yes, I would say that most of us still live our lives by that same faith… but it’s pretty battered.
In some cases… it’s all but decimated.
But, our anger isn’t really aimed at God. Our anger is towards people who claim to represent the Lord, but use their position and power to self-promote and oppress. Those who twist what is sacred into a tool for control, trading humility and service for pride and ambition. Instead of reflecting the love and justice of God, they manipulate faith as a means to divide, exclude, and consolidate their influence.
This misuse of authority isn’t new, but its consequences feel particularly pronounced in the United States today. We see it in leaders who invoke God’s name while endorsing policies and practices that harm the most vulnerable. We see it in the hypocrisy of preaching love while sowing division. And we feel it in the growing disillusionment of those who once found solace in the church, now turning away because the message of hope has been overshadowed by a hunger for power, control, and dominance.
The result is a nation grappling with profound spiritual dissonance. Many people feel disconnected from the faith traditions that once guided them, not because they doubt God’s goodness, but because they cannot reconcile that goodness with the actions of those who claim to speak for Him. It is a call to reflection, repentance, and renewal—both individually and collectively.
True faith invites us to serve, not to dominate; to build bridges, not walls; and to uplift the weary, not burden them further. In this moment, perhaps the greatest testimony to God’s love is not in grand declarations but in small, consistent acts of kindness, integrity, and justice. It is a time to reclaim the essence of faith: not as a weapon, but as a balm for a wounded world.
And this brings me to the elephant in the proverbial room: That little election we had in the US a few weeks ago. But, here’s the thing… the issue really isn’t the election. Or even who was elected. It’s what the election has unleashed. And this is where the Church must stand up. No matter how you voted, or if you even voted at all.
We’ve seen a rise in Nazi demonstrations, not just as isolated incidents but as organized, emboldened displays of hatred that echo a dark chapter of history many hoped would never repeat itself. These demonstrations thrive in an environment where fear and division are stoked, and where those in power fail to condemn—or worse, tacitly endorse—such ideologies. It’s not just troubling; it’s dangerous.
What the election has exposed is a reckoning with the values we claim to hold as a nation. It’s not just about political affiliation or party lines; it’s about the soul of a country struggling with what it means to be good, just, and humane. And this is something that has come up time and time again in my conversations on Sunday afternoons. We cannot turn a blind eye to how faith has been weaponized to harm instead of heal.
We’re also witnessing a heartbreaking surge in maternal deaths, a direct consequence of restrictive policies on reproductive healthcare. (And, yes, I said it.) Reproductive health care encompasses a wide range of medical situations, including life-threatening conditions like ectopic pregnancies, miscarriages, stillbirths and severe fetal anomalies. In these moments, abortion is not a choice of convenience—it is a medical necessity to preserve the life and health of the mother. Ignoring this reality, or legislating against it, places women in unimaginable positions, forcing them to endure preventable suffering or risk death.
Yet, some Christians have adopted a rigid stance, viewing all abortions as sinful without considering the context or complexity of each situation. (I’m also very aware that there are those who hold a hard line on this topic and, no matter the circumstances, will not budge from their position.) However, it’s important to remember that faith calls us to act with compassion, to seek understanding, and to prioritize the well-being of those in difficult and painful circumstances. This isn’t about compromising on convictions but about recognizing the full humanity of individuals, listening to their stories, and responding with empathy rather than judgment.
I also think it’s important to note that equating abortion with mere birth control fails to acknowledge the broader systemic issues that lead women to seek abortions in the first place—poverty, lack of access to healthcare, domestic violence, and limited support for mothers and children. If we are truly “pro-life,” our commitment must go beyond opposition to abortion. We must advocate for comprehensive healthcare, affordable childcare, paid parental leave, and resources that support women and families.
Jesus modeled a way of engagement that prioritized people over legalism. He didn’t shy away from difficult conversations, but He always led with love, meeting people where they were. Imagine if the Christian response to abortion reflected that same love—if we replaced condemnation with compassion and judgment with understanding. What if we truly listened to women’s stories instead of assuming we already know their motives or circumstances?
And these are just two examples of of many.
So, why is this post so “political”?
If you’ve read this far and feel like it’s political… that’s part of the problem. And, as a Church, there is absolutely no way we can ignore the infiltration of partisan politics and ideologies into the way we are, collectively, living out our faith and engaging with the world. When partisan politics and ideologies infiltrate the Church, they distort our priorities, divide our communities, and distract us from the true mission of reflecting Christ’s love. As followers of Jesus, we are called to something higher: to be salt and light in a world desperate for hope and to love without condition. This requires us to discern carefully where our allegiance lies, ensuring that our faith shapes our politics—not the other way around.
Jesus was neither a Democrat nor a Republican. He wasn’t a socialist or an authoritarian. He came to establish a way of life that transcends human political systems. He called His followers to live by a higher standard, one that defies earthly labels. As His disciples, we are invited to follow this new way, prioritizing His teachings over political ideologies and reflecting His heart in how we engage with the world around us. It moves beyond allegiance to any political party and instead calls us to reflect the values of justice, mercy, and humility in every aspect of public life.
What this moment demands of us is not a narrowing of focus to a single issue or partisan agenda but an expansion of our compassion, our advocacy, and our willingness to stand in the messy, uncomfortable places where faith meets the realities of human suffering. It requires us to resist the temptation to weaponize our convictions or to draw dividing lines that separate “us” from “them.” Instead, it calls us to live out the radical love of Jesus, who crossed every boundary to meet people in their pain and offer them hope.
The truth is, we won’t all agree on how to address these issues. Some will accuse me of not being “Christian enough”… or of compromising faith because I refuse to toe a specific ideological line. But unity in the body of Christ has never meant uniformity. It means seeking to understand one another, even when we differ. It means being committed to the ministry of reconciliation, both with God and with one another.
But, if we’re serious about walking hand in hand, as I said earlier, we must also be serious about earning trust. Trust requires honesty, humility, and a willingness to confront uncomfortable truths. It requires us to do the hard work of listening, learning, and acknowledging the ways we’ve fallen short—not just as individuals but as a collective Church.
I’m still wrestling with what it looks like to live faithfully in a world as broken and divided as ours. But here’s what I do know: our faith was never meant to be easy, and it was never meant to be a shield from the suffering of the world. If anything, it calls us deeper into it—to stand with the oppressed, to defend the vulnerable, to love the unlovable, and to be a light in the darkest places.
And this is my personal commitment in 2025. I’m still working out what it’s going to look like, but the working out of my faith is far from finished, and the call to love—truly, deeply, sacrificially—is as urgent as ever. Let us be people who answer that call.
Searching for Jesus in A̶m̶e̶r̶i̶c̶a̶ Chattanooga 