Tag: faith

Who: Xaris

Church: Lookout Mountain Presbyterian Church

Lunch: Kenny’s

Topics: The Wealth Dilemma

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?

Who: Brayden and Sydney

Church: City Collective

Lunch: Kenny’s

Topics: Parenting, Church Hurt and Healing

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.

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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.

Who: Katie and Clay

Church: North Shore Fellowship (Presbyterian)

Lunch: Taco Mamacita

Topics: Living by Faith and Not Having All the Answers

This week, I crossed the river to join Clay and Katie at North Shore Fellowship. I met these two wonderful people through my kids, but they’re also happen to be monthly donors to BTCYI. (And if Katie looks familiar, you might recognize her from Be Caffeinated, where she works as a barista!) I appreciated our time at North Shore Fellowship, but it was our conversation after the service that truly left me feeling encouraged and inspired.

Both Katie and Clay were raised in the church and have an acute awareness of cultural Christianity, especially in the South, as well as the political phenomenon known as Christian nationalism—how religious identity is sometimes blended with patriotism in ways that influence politics, community dynamics, and even individual beliefs. And during our conversation over lunch, both Katie and Clay shared a thoughtful approach to faith that challenges assumptions and emphasizes authenticity over cultural expectations.

Yet another reminder as to why I have confidence in the future. (Besides Jesus, of course.)

With regard to the Sunday morning service, North Shore Fellowship reminded me a lot of my Grandma’s church growing up. Both the building and the people. And the bulletins. (I still remember countless Sunday mornings filling the margins of those bulletins with doodles and drawings.) The building itself is old, but that also holds some of it’s charm. The demographic is primarily caucasian. But there was a lot of generational diversity. And, weirdly enough, I didn’t recognize one single worship song. It was VERY old school, but it was also very beautiful.

And, I’ll be honest, I can’t remember what the sermon was about, except it was based on a section from the book of Daniel. Confession: I’ve been distracted the past couple of weeks. And while it might be easy to say the election was the reason, it wasn’t. At least not when it comes to the actual source of the distraction. There’s a clear divide in our country and animosity runs deep… on both sides. But, there’s also a clear divide in the “American Church” that is deeply disconcerting.

And this has been the distraction for me, and my family, for quite some time. And I’d be lying if I didn’t acknowledge that the repercussions of this election, NO MATTER THE OUTCOME, have taken up a lot of space in my mind. But, I also think this conversation with Katie and Clay helped me sort through some of those thoughts and feeling because their perspectives brought a sense of clarity and grounding. 

Having both been raised in the church, their familiarity with cultural Christianity gave them a deep understanding of the nuanced blend of faith and tradition, and how easily inherited values can go unquestioned. This has helped them navigate their own beliefs with a balance of respect for their roots and a desire for authentic faith. This background made our conversation more insightful; they could empathize with the struggle between living out a genuine relationship with faith versus just going through the motions.

One of the things I’ve come to understand about religion, particularly within the Christian tradition, is that many people approach their beliefs as absolute truth. At its core, it comes down to this: our beliefs are what we accept as true, often without concrete evidence to support them. This is part of the very nature of faith—it’s the conviction in things unseen and unproven. In a sense, truth in this context isn’t about measurable proof; it’s about what we choose to hold onto as reality.

The downside of approaching beliefs as absolute truth, particularly in a religious context, is that it can foster rigidity and close us off to other perspectives. And before anyone accuses me of heresy—I do believe there are absolute truths that come with a commitment to following Jesus. However, I also recognize that, within our faith tradition, some people tend to elevate certain beliefs to the level of universal truth when, in reality, they may be more reflective of personal convictions. This distinction is important because mistaking personal convictions for absolute truth can lead to unnecessary divisions within our faith community, unintentionally closing themselves off from dialogue, critical thinking, or the possibility that other perspectives might have value. This rigidity can sometimes foster division, as differences are seen as threats rather than opportunities for growth or understanding.

When I think about the massive wave of deconstruction that gained visibility in the 2010s and early 2020s—fueled by social media’s open and communal discussions of faith struggles and doubts—I see how questioning what we’ve accepted as true can actually deepen our understanding or strengthen our faith. Without this process of examination, we risk cognitive dissonance; when our lived experiences or evidence clash with long-held beliefs, it can create a crisis of faith or identity that feels destabilizing rather than enlightening. Deconstruction, then, becomes a pathway to reconcile belief with experience, offering an opportunity for growth rather than disillusionment.

In Katie and Clay, I saw a rare humility—one that allowed them to honor the tradition they were raised in while courageously questioning teachings and experiences that didn’t seem to align with the core teachings of Jesus they hold dear. Their approach wasn’t about discarding their faith but refining it, discerning between inherited beliefs and the heart of Jesus’ message. This willingness to wrestle with difficult questions showed a deep respect for their faith, as they sought an authentic expression of it, and a true determination to seek the heart of Jesus.

CHALLENGE: Reflect on your own beliefs and traditions. Are there aspects you’ve accepted without question that might benefit from a closer look to find a more authentic connection to the teachings of Jesus?

Who: Isaiah and Julianna

Church: Kingdom Hall of Jehovah’s Witnesses (Hixson)

Lunch: Frothy Monkey

Topics: Kingdom of God, Uncomfortable Conversations, True Christianity

Before you dive into this week’s post, there’s something you should know about my background—specifically, my religious upbringing and education. It was incredibly conservative. I was raised Southern Baptist and attended one of the most right-leaning, dogmatic seminaries in the country. To give you an idea of how rigid it was… women weren’t even allowed to take pastoral classes because, in their view, why bother? Women couldn’t be pastors.

For the record, my decision to attend this particular seminary wasn’t because I wanted to surround myself with people who shared my exact beliefs. In fact, it was quite the opposite. I chose it because I love apologetics—the art of reasoning, defending, and exploring one’s faith. I craved a place where I could engage in deep conversations and be challenged, not just by those who agree with me on the core tenants of my faith tradition, but also by those who see things differently. I wanted to stretch my mind and test my convictions, to see how well my faith could stand up to scrutiny and questions. For me, it was never about living in an echo chamber; it was about growth and discovering the nuances of what I believe through honest dialogue and intellectual wrestling.

This is why I ask so many questions today, why I love debates, and why I’m always diving into tough conversations. It’s all part of this journey of wanting to know what I believe and why I believe it. And this is why this week’s church experience was a terrifying and fascinating at the same time.

I grew up seeing Christianity, for better or for worse, as a club—you were either in, or you weren’t. You either called yourself a Christian, or you didn’t. And, in full transparency, I used to gauge someone’s faith in Jesus by whether they attended church on Sunday mornings. Of course, if you went to church more than once a week, that made you extra holy in my eyes. (Kidding… but not.) I never thought about denominational differences and I never really gave much thought to faith traditions and religions that don’t share what many consider, core, foundational values, or beliefs… the checklist of things you NEED to believe in order to be a Christian. It wasn’t until I married into a Catholic family that I witnessed tension between people who believe in Jesus… but don’t share those core beliefs.

I’ll never forget the first time my sister-in-law told me the Catholic Church was the real church. At first, I laughed it off, thinking she was joking. But as time went on, I realized she most definitely was NOT joking. This was a deep-seated belief that divided us more than I expected. When I started asking questions, I also came to realize that many of the Catholics I personally knew hadn’t deeply explored the teachings, history, or spiritual depth of Catholicism, and as a result, their connection to the faith often felt more ritualistic than anything else, which can also be said of any, and all, Protestant denominations. (I will dive more into this when I visit a Catholic church.)

So, this brings me to this week’s church visit.

Last Sunday, I went with my dear friends Isaiah and Julianna to the Kingdom Hall of Jehovah’s Witnesses in Hixson. (For those who may be clutching their pearls… there’s no need.) Full disclosure, I was a little nervous before I pulled into the hall parking lot. For so many years, it’s been drilled into my head that members of this religion are in a cult aren’t truly Christians because they don’t share our same core beliefs. And while I don’t have time to bullet point all the core beliefs of this faith, Jehovah’s Witnesses do identify as Christians. They believe in Jesus Christ as the Son of God and regard the Bible as their holy scripture. However, their beliefs and practices differ in several ways from those of traditional Christian denominations. For example, Jehovah’s Witnesses do not believe in the Trinity (the doctrine that God exists as three persons in one: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit). Instead, they view Jehovah (God) as the supreme being and Jesus as His created son, not equal to God. They also have unique views on topics like salvation, the afterlife, and participation in political and social activities, which set them apart from other Christian groups.

For the purpose of this project, my goal is to enter into religious spaces, particularly those associated with Christianity, to have meaningful conversations with people who profess faith in Jesus. The aim is to understand what their faith means to them personally, how they express it in their daily lives, and how it influences their interactions with others. But, as in this case, I also asked them questions and even shared my reservations about some of their theology, including the long held belief that only 144,000 faithful believers are anointed by God to serve as kings and priests with Christ in heaven.

So… what was my experience and what were my takeaways?

As far as the experience goes, up to this point, my only associations with Jehovah’s Witnesses were the small group of women who came to our house every week for months when we lived in Maine. While most of my neighbors ignored their knocks, I was always waiting for them to come. Sometimes I even made pie for them. (This drove my husband crazy. After a while he saw the correlation: On the mornings I would make a pie, there would be a copy of The Watchtower, the Jehovah’s Witnesses magazine, on the kitchen counter when he came home.)

But, here’s the thing… Up until this past Sunday I’ve never been to a place where so many people wanted to say hello and engage in conversation with me. And it wasn’t just me. When I looked around the hall, before and after the service, it felt more like a family reunion than a church gathering. I won’t lie… it did feel a lot like my grandma’s Sunday school class. It wasn’t showy; the music was old school simple and message was easy to digest. And, like the Sunday school classes, there was a group lesson following the message… that included questions and group participation. Congregants were engaged; I daresay you’d be hard pressed to find someone daydreaming or doodling during their services.

But, it’s more than the Sunday morning gathering. They put an emphasis on truly taking the word of God to the people in our community. Honestly, it draws up a parallel to the Mormon elders who take to the streets to talk about their faith. Whenever I see these lads and ladies out and about, I always invite them to my house for a meal. And as I sit here at the coffee shop going through my last edit of this post, I can’t help but to connect the dots.

For years, many of my friends have thought I’m crazy for engaging with Jehovah’s Witnesses and Mormons. (And, I will admit that my level of excitement might be a little unusual.) But, several of these people always voiced the same sentiment: They wouldn’t know how to engage in a conversation… specifically, they wouldn’t know how to answer their questions, or defend their own faith. And this is an important revelation.

Many people feel intimidated by these interactions because they may lack familiarity with the beliefs of Jehovah’s Witnesses or Mormons and/or feel unprepared to answer their well-prepared questions. Or maybe you fear confrontation, assuming the conversations might turn into a debate rather than a meaningful exchange. But understanding different faith perspectives can strengthen your own beliefs, help develop empathy, and foster genuine respect. Personally, I LOVED my conversation with Isaiah and Julianna… and their love for Jesus is palpable.

Also, I can’t end this post without saying this: I know beyond a doubt that when I step into the afterlife, I’ll be completely shocked by who is there—and who isn’t. (Let’s be real, I may even look around and wonder, “Wait… am I supposed to be here?”) But that’s the thing about faith: it keeps us humble, curious, and open to surprises.

CHALLENGE: If you were asked to engage in a conversation with a Jehovah’s Witness, or a Mormon, how would that make you feel? Sit in those feeling for a bit and then ask yourself why you’re feeling that way.