While I was in Austin, it struck me that I was officially rounding out my year of visiting churches in Chattanooga. The realization settled in slowly, but once it did, I felt this unexpected wave of tenderness toward the experience, like reaching the end of a long, meaningful conversation you don’t quite want to leave. I instinctively wrote that I wanted to celebrate the moment, but that word didn’t feel right. Celebration suggests a loud joy, a triumphant exclamation point. What I felt was quieter, softer… a kind of sacred acknowledgment.
This year wasn’t about tallying visits or achieving a goal; it was about listening, learning, and allowing myself to be shaped by stories, communities, and the slow work of attentive presence. So instead of celebrating, I found myself wanting to commemorate it, to honor the journey and the ways it stretched me. To pause long enough to recognize the transformation, not just move on to the next thing.
This journey began with Sydney, Liz, and Nneka, three women who have shaped, challenged, and walked with me through some of the most meaningful conversations over the past few years. So it felt only right that I brought this year-long journey to a close with the same people who helped spark it.
What’s interesting, though, is how much has changed in each of us over the past twelve months. In our own ways, all four of us have taken steady steps away from the familiar structure of institutional church. Not out of bitterness, and not out of rebellion. We’ve each been experiencing what I believe to be a holy restlessness that keeps asking:
Is there more to church than what we were handed? Is there more to following Jesus than the systems we were taught to blindly trust?
We’ve wrestled with those questions. We’ve sat in the tension. We’ve allowed ourselves to name what feels misaligned, and to imagine what a faith shaped by honesty, compassion, courage, and lived experience might look like.
Ending this journey with them wasn’t just sentimental. It was symbolic. Because in many ways, we’re all standing on the edge of something new: a faith less defined by institutions and more defined by the quiet, everyday ways we show up, love people well, and choose to keep seeking Jesus even when the path looks different than we expected.
So the invitation was simple, nothing flashy, nothing complicated: Come over for dinner. And bring someone with you who still wants to follow Jesus but has maybe grown disillusioned with “church.”
We weren’t looking for people with polished answers or perfect faith. We were looking for the ones who are still trying, still hoping, still holding on to Jesus even as the institutional structures around them have left them confused, disappointed, or hurt. People who love the heart of the gospel, but aren’t sure where they fit anymore. It was an invitation into honesty, into community, and into the kind of table where questions and doubt aren’t liabilities.
I’m not going to rehash the conversation, because the words themselves aren’t what’s important. (Also, it was a safe space to speak honestly.) But, what is important is the larger pattern it represents—how many people are quietly disillusioned, uneasy, and, in most cases, becoming increasingly more frustrated and angry about what’s unfolding right in front of us.
And it was the following day when I realized one of the sources of my own growing anger: so many church bodies are acting like they are oblivious. As if ignoring the problem will somehow make it disappear. As if silence is a form of neutrality and not complicity. That disconnect—that refusal to engage—hit me harder than I expected. Because acknowledging what is happening, in real time around us, would require courage, accountability, and change. And far too many would rather protect their comfort than confront the truth.
But not all.
There were eight church communities I visited this year that I would genuinely consider returning to, places where I felt a spark of connection, curiosity, even belonging. In another life, maybe in another season, I could imagine our family settling into one of them, becoming part of their rhythm and their story.
But that isn’t the path we’ve been called to walk.
So where does that leave me?
I could easily write several more posts about this journey, about the moments that surprised me, the ones that disappointed me, and the ones that quietly reshaped my understanding of faith and community. But instead, I’ll offer this:
I’ve come to see the Sunday morning gathering, at its core, as a truly beautiful idea, people coming together to remember who they are, to encourage one another, to be formed by something holy and hopeful. There is purpose in that, and for many, there is life. But if I’m honest, I’ve never been a Peter.
I’m a Paul. (Yeah, the guy had issues, but you understand the comparison.)
Some people are called to build the house. Others are called to take the story on the road. Both matter. Both are faithful. Both reveal something essential about what community can be.
And I’m finally learning to stop apologizing for being the kind of person who meets God most clearly on the move.
And as I sit here in my neighborhood coffee shop, eyes blurring from tears, I’m struck again by the profound beauty of the story the Lord has entrusted my family to live. It feels almost impossible when I try to put it into words. If we weren’t the ones walking it… if these weren’t our steps, our prayers, our moments of stumbling forward… I’m not sure I’d believe it myself.
Yet here we are, somehow still moving forward.
What amazes me most is how the thread has held through every season. Every detour. Every unexpected turn. Every door that shut and every door that cracked open just enough for light to spill through. It’s only when I stop long enough to look back that I can see how intentional it all was, how the Lord has been weaving something far bigger, far more redemptive, than anything we could have designed.
And this gives me courage, because we’re walking into a chapter of our country that feels unsteady, uncertain, and heavy with things we can’t control. The air is thick with fear, division, and the temptation to retreat or harden.
But our story reminds me of something unshakeable: Jesus is already standing in the future. He is already where we are going.
So we will keep walking—by faith, not clarity, not certainty. We will keep showing up to the places we’re called, trusting that even in the dark, the same God who carried us here will carry us forward.
No matter what unfolds, hope is not behind us. Hope is ahead.
I have so many thoughts and feelings about this picture. The first is that it TRULY captures how utterly exhausted we all are. (At least the three on the left!) You can see it in our faces, the kind of tired that doesn’t just come from a long week, but from years of showing up, giving everything you have, and still waking up to do it all again. The past six years have taken a lot out of us. Personally. Professionally. And honestly, those lines have always been a little blurry for us. The work we do is deeply personal, it’s not something we can easily clock out of at the end of the day. Every success, every heartbreak, every “why are we doing this again?” moment. It all runs together. But maybe that’s what this photo shows most clearly: the cost of caring deeply and the quiet resilience that comes from still standing side by side after everything.
This picture also tells another story.
Six years ago, I walked into Austin New Church with nefarious intentions, determined to find something wrong, something heretical, something that would confirm every stereotype I had already built in my head. But, to my surprise, I found none. That particular Sunday, the message wasn’t about politics or theology. It was about people. The pastor spoke about their ministry at the border, about compassion, about welcoming those seeking refuge, about love that moves beyond comfort zones and crosses boundaries. I remember sitting there, slightly disarmed, realizing that what I was witnessing wasn’t rebellion against faith.
It was faith lived out in its purest form.
And then, six years later, there I was, sitting on their stage, sharing that very story with their congregation. The irony wasn’t lost on me. To be welcomed back by the same community I once judged from a distance felt humbling, even holy. It reminded me that grace has a funny way of circling back, teaching us that transformation doesn’t always come in lightning bolts. Sometimes, it comes quietly, in the form of people who simply choose to love well.
The story I shared was one I’ve told many times before, including here. But it begs repeating, because I truly believe it’s the only way forward when it comes to where we are as a society. Six years ago, Jamie and I went to breakfast with Jason, eager to learn more about the work Austin New Church was doing at the border. We spent 90 minutes learning about the ministry and enjoying some of the best breakfast tacos I’ve ever had in my entire life… until Jason dropped a bombshell in the last five minutes of our time together.
With a wry smile, he mentioned that his denomination would likely be removing him for his decision to perform marriages for gay couples.
He went on to say that graduates of Dallas Theological Seminary (DTS) and churches like Dallas Bible Church refer to him as a heretic… and that statement landed heavier than he probably realized. For one, I graduated from Dallas Theological Seminary. And two, we just so happened to be driving to Dallas later that same day—to stay with a family who faithfully attended Dallas Bible Church.
It was a strange, almost divine irony. In the span of a few hours, we’d move from sitting across the table from a man accused of heresy to sleeping under the roof of people who might fully agree with that assessment. It was a quiet collision of worlds I once thought were firmly divided—one that forced me to reckon with what I really believed about faith, conviction, and who gets labeled “heretic” in the first place.
But, there was one thing I was certain of: I couldn’t dismiss the REAL fruit I saw in Jason and the work he was doing.
That evening in Dallas, we shared our experience at Austin New Church with a family from Dallas Bible Church. Their response was telling. They seemed genuinely perplexed, perhaps even unsettled, that we would attend a service there, let alone spend time with Jason. Their faces said everything before their words did. Confusion. Discomfort. Maybe even a little disgust. They couldn’t understand why we would step foot in a place like ANC, let alone share a meal with its pastor. That reaction stayed with me, because it revealed something deeper than theological disagreement.
It exposed a fear of proximity.
A couple of days later, I reached out to Jason. I told him I sensed God was about to lead me on a journey, and that I’d be grateful to have him as someone I could process things with—to ask questions, wrestle honestly, and maybe find some guidance along the way. His response was short and direct. He declined. (And, to be fair, I didn’t blame him.)
But a couple of day later, he circled back and said that he’d had a change of heart. Maybe he felt guilty, but I seriously doubt that was the case. Maybe he was curious. Maybe it was half a dozen other reasons. I’ve never asked him and, at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter. But I can tell you that having that connection, that sounding board, was pivotal to my faith journey. There are moments from living on the road, seared into my brain, like the time I spent 30 minutes pacing in between rows of RV’s at a camp ground near the Montana and Canadian boarder. I was questioning so many things I had been taught through the patriarchal lens of scripture, pulling threads that would lead to unraveling.
Circling gravel loops under a cold sky, wrestling with questions I had never allowed myself to ask before. Those theological threads, woven through a lifetime of teaching, I could feel them loosening, one by one. It was terrifying and liberating all at once. That unraveling wasn’t the end of my faith; it was the honest beginning of it.
Going back to Austin was healing.
Being away from Chattanooga was needed.
And now that we’re back, it’s time to get to work.
Before I even made it back to my room, after receiving the IV and getting my feet wrapped, I promised Jamie I wouldn’t attempt Day 2. He knew there was a part of me that would be tempted to go out again. But, I promised to stick to volunteering and cheering on the other participants. However, by dinner, moving around had become difficult, and by the next morning, I couldn’t stand up straight. I had re-injured my hip, and the headache and nausea had also returned. I knew it was time to make the hard decision to head home early.
Thankfully, my travel buddy, Karen, chose to head back, too—and I can’t express how grateful I am for her. There’s no way I would have made it through the Dallas–Fort Worth Airport alone. She even paid for someone to push me in a wheelchair through the terminals, because at that point I couldn’t walk on my own. My body was truly revolting, reminding me that even determination has its limits and that rest was no longer optional, but necessary.
And not just for 29029.
I came home with something I didn’t expect, a profound sense of clarity. The climb stripped away all the noise and left me face to face with what really matters—what’s worth carrying and what I need to finally lay down.
It wasn’t just about finishing a physical challenge; it was about recognizing that I’ve allowed certain responsibilities, habits, and even relationships to take more from me than they return. And if I want to keep moving forward—not just up a mountain, but through life—I have to protect what fills me and release what empties me.
Sometimes the bravest thing we can do isn’t pushing harder, but choosing differently.
What I didn’t expect was how deeply this would be reflected in my walk of faith. Ever since this journey began for our family, over 10 years ago, I’ve carried this unrelenting need to stay tethered to the institution of church. (And for clarification, I don’t mean the bride of Christ—I mean the juggernaut of programs, expectations, and structures that so often get mistaken for Him.)
But as time went on, I began to see the business model of church take over—the branding, the performance, the machinery that ran louder than the Spirit. And still, I told myself that staying mattered. Not because I thought I could change it with my own hands, but because I believed prophetic voices were needed. A voice to call us back to simplicity, to presence, to truth.
And, to be clear, those voices are needed.
Just not my voice… in that setting.
The climb made me realize how much that posture has cost me—how much energy I’ve poured into holding space within a system that often confuses profit with purpose. And yet, even in that realization, there’s no bitterness—only a renewed conviction that my faith was never meant to be sustained by an institution, but by Jesus alone.
Since being back, I’ve been a bit reclusive. I’m still working hard behind the scenes, of course, but I’m no longer pouring energy into places—or with people—that leave me feeling empty and, often times, frustrated. Church was never meant to resemble a country club. It was never intended to be a place of status, exclusivity, or performance. It was meant to be a sacred communal space—a gathering of the broken, the seeking, the grateful, the hopeful. A place where walls come down, not where they’re built higher.
At its core, church was designed to be a living, breathing expression of Christ’s body on earth. A table where everyone has a seat, not a stage where a select few put on a show. It was meant to be marked by humility and hospitality, by sacrifice and service, by the kind of love that refuses to keep score.
Somewhere along the way, we traded that vision for something shinier, something more marketable, something that looks successful from the outside but too often leaves souls starving on the inside. And yet, the original design still calls to us—a reminder that sacred community isn’t about belonging to an institution, but about belonging to one another under Christ.
And now I’m trying to figure out what that looks like for me and my family.
Church was never meant to be a place we go, but a way we live. For too long, we’ve equated faithfulness with attendance—filling pews, nodding through sermons, and calling it “community” while remaining largely unknown to the people sitting beside us. The early church wasn’t centered around a stage or a pulpit, but around shared meals, mutual care, and Spirit-led conversations. It was radically relational, inconveniently intimate, and beautifully messy.
Imagine if the gathering of believers looked less like a weekly performance and more like a family dinner. No more passive consumption of prepackaged inspiration. No more being “fed” while never being asked to contribute. Instead, we gather around tables, not stages—where everyone brings something to share, not just food, but story, wisdom, prayer, vulnerability. Church as a way of life, not a calendar event.
What might happen if we stopped going to church… and started being the church?
A few weeks ago, my friend Neil invited me to join a small gathering at Crabtree Farms—a place already rooted in the values of growth, collaboration, and community. Around the table were six of us from different walks of life: three of us work for youth-focused nonprofits, one works directly with the City of Chattanooga, and two others run their own photography and videography businesses. At first glance, our roles seemed diverse, but it quickly became clear that we shared something deeper: a genuine commitment to supporting and uplifting young people in our community. Whether through policy, storytelling, creative expression, or hands-on outreach, we each understand that investing in youth is one of the most powerful ways to shape a more just and hopeful future.
Words like ministry, faith, and outreach weren’t just sprinkled throughout our conversation—they were threads, quietly and consistently weaving everything together. As we shared our stories, there was a sense that this wasn’t just a meeting or a moment. It was something deeper.
Another word kept rising to the surface—sacred. Not in a formal or distant way, but in the quiet recognition that something holy was happening in the space between us. The vulnerability, the honesty, the shared longing to serve and be part of something bigger—it all felt set apart.
But here’s the thing about what is sacred: it doesn’t stay that way by accident. Sacredness is sustained through continued presence, continued listening, continued showing up for one another with open hands and honest hearts. It’s not a spark we admire and walk away from. It’s a fire that needs tending.
To call something sacred is to take responsibility for it.
To name a moment, a mission, a relationship as holy is to commit to its care. Not with grand gestures or perfect plans, but with steady faithfulness. With the courage to keep coming back to the table, to keep having the hard conversations, to keep letting love lead—even when it’s messy or slow.
What we experienced, I hope, wasn’t just a fleeting moment of connection. It was a beginning. And it will only remain sacred if we continue—continue the work, continue the community, continue the invitation to let God move in and through us.
Sacredness isn’t static. It’s alive. And it’s ours to steward.
I’ve been reflecting on this a lot lately—especially when I think about the intersection of my personal life and the work I feel called to do. There’s a tension our family carries, one that threads through so many areas of our lives. It’s hard to name sometimes, let alone explain. It’s the kind of tension that isn’t easily resolved, because it’s born from choosing to live intentionally in spaces that don’t always make sense to the world around us.
Someone recently described our family as “an anomaly of the human experience.” And while I don’t fully agree with that, I get where they’re coming from. From the outside, our choices may look unusual or even contradictory—but from the inside, it’s simply the result of holding multiple truths at once: conviction and compassion, struggle and hope, sacrifice and joy. It’s complex, and it’s messy, but it’s also deeply human.
Also, my husband and I, on more than one occasion, have said, “What the f&#k are we doing?” Jamie actually said it this morning.
Honestly, with the exception of our youngest, I’m pretty sure at least one of us says it every single week. Sometimes daily. But that’s what happens when you raise your kids to think critically, care deeply, and speak boldly.
You want them to question injustice… until they question your choices. You want them to stand up for what they believe in… until they call you out for being inconsistent. You want them to be independent thinkers… until they’re strong-willed and inconveniently vocal.
But here’s the thing: we wouldn’t trade it. Not even on the days it feels like we’re unraveling… which was pretty much EVERY. FREAKING. DAY. in July. We didn’t set out to raise agreeable kids — we set out to raise compassionate, curious, courageous humans. And yeah, that means living in a house where hard questions get asked, opinions get challenged, and none of us are allowed to just coast through life on autopilot.
It’s chaotic. It’s messy. It’s exhausting. But if we’re being honest — it’s also kind of beautiful.
We’ve also noticed a striking — and sometimes frustrating — similarity between many of the conversations happening in the nonprofit world and those we encounter in church spaces.
In both spheres, there tends to be an entrenched mindset around “the way things are done.” These norms are often treated as unshakable truths, even when they no longer serve the people they’re meant to help. But if we’re truly committed to seeing different outcomes — more equity, deeper relationships, lasting transformation — then we have to be willing to reimagine the systems themselves. We believe there are other ways of doing things. More collaborative, creative, and community-driven approaches that challenge the status quo and lead to the kind of change we say we want.
And I’m not gonna lie.
There are days when I find myself longing for the version of church life we left behind years ago. I miss watching my kids leading worship — the familiarity of Sunday mornings, followed by lunch in the fellowship hall. I miss the structure: the midweek Bible studies that gave us a sense of spiritual anchoring, the weekend retreats that created space to breathe and reconnect, the occasional outreach project that reminded us of something bigger than ourselves.
But even in the midst of all that familiarity, there was always a quiet discomfort I couldn’t shake — a sense that something just didn’t sit right. So much of what we were part of revolved around an insular way of living. The rhythms and routines, while comforting, often felt closed off from the world around us.
Most of our time was spent inside the walls of a building, surrounded by people who looked, thought, and believed the same way we did. Activities were neatly compartmentalized — youth group on Wednesday, service on Sunday, maybe a mission trip or canned food drive once a year. Everything was curated to fit a spiritual checklist: attend, participate, serve, repeat. It was well-intentioned, but it often felt like we were going through the motions rather than engaging the deeper questions of faith, justice, or real-world impact.
It became hard to ignore how disconnected that model was from the messy, beautiful complexity of everyday life — and from the very people we were called to love.
Maybe that’s why we often find ourselves feeling frustrated — both with the nonprofit world and the church world. In many ways, they mirror each other: systems built with good intentions that, over time, can become more focused on preserving structure than serving people.
But for us, our motivation has never been about maintaining the way things have always been done. Whether we’re navigating faith spaces or community work, our heart has always been rooted in the same question: Is there a better way forward? One that truly centers the people we’re trying to serve — not just our comfort, our traditions, or our metrics of success.
We don’t believe there’s only one path to meaningful change. In fact, we believe real progress requires us to stay open — to question, to listen, and to imagine alternatives. There can be more than one way to move forward, and sometimes the most faithful, most impactful thing we can do is to leave the well-worn path and help create a new one — even if it’s slower, messier, and more uncertain.
Because if the outcome is greater dignity, deeper connection, and communities that truly flourish — then the risk is worth it.
Well, this past week has been… exactly what I expected.
Some people really didn’t like what I’ve had to say. Others have reached out with deep gratitude, saying they finally feel seen, heard, and understood. And honestly? I’m holding both responses with open hands.
I’m not intimidated by criticism—honestly, as an Enneagram 8, I welcome thoughtful, objective feedback. And I don’t find validation in praise either (if I’m being honest, I tend to question people’s motives). I don’t write to win approval. I write because I believe these conversations matter—and because staying silent never sat well with me.
So often, conversations about inclusion start with logistics. Is there room? Can we make space? Do we have the capacity? But when it comes to LGBTQ+ inclusivity—especially in faith communities—these questions often mask a deeper one:
Do we actually want everyone here?
Let’s be honest… we can invite people to the table, but if we never offer them space to speak, to lead, to shape the conversation, then it’s not really inclusion. If we control the menu, the agenda, and the tone of the gathering, we’re not building community. Real belonging demands more than a seat; it requires shared power, mutual respect, and the humility to be changed by voices different from our own.
So the question isn’t “Who’s invited?”—it’s “Who feels truly welcome, truly heard, and genuinely valued when they get there?” Because until the table becomes a place of shared ownership, not just extended hospitality, we’re not practicing justice—we’re just rearranging the furniture.
With this being the last post in this series, I want to explore what it means to create not just a bigger table, but a more courageous one—one where love isn’t conditional, and belonging isn’t up for debate.
I’ve heard people say you can’t drink coffee and be a Christian. I’ve also heard people say the same about alcohol. You can’t be gay and be a Christian. You can’t get a tattoo. You can’t vote for a Democrat. You can’t vote for a Republican. You can’t be divorced. You can’t cuss. You can’t doubt. You can’t question the pastor. You can’t miss church on Sunday. You can’t wear certain clothes. You can’t listen to secular music. You can’t practice yoga. You can’t be rich. You can’t be poor. You can’t go to therapy. You can’t have anxiety. You can’t love Jesus and still struggle. You can’t be a woman and preach. You can’t read a different translation of the Bible. You can’t love people too radically, or else you’re “watering down the gospel.”
Honestly, the list is long—and often contradictory.
But here’s what that long list tells me: We don’t all read Scripture the same way. We bring our stories, our cultures, our traditions, and our wounds to the Bible. And how we interpret it often says more about us as it does about God.
So when someone says, “You can’t be gay and be a Christian,” I no longer hear a definitive theological truth. I hear an interpretation—one shaped by how they’ve been taught to read Scripture.
That’s why we need to keep asking better questions. Not just “What does the Bible say?” but “How are we reading it?” And maybe even more importantly: “What kind of God are we revealing in the way we read?”
Because the truth is, how we read the Bible has never been static. Take the word “homosexuality,” for example. Many people assume it’s always been in Scripture—that it’s a fixed, unquestionable part of God’s Word. But that’s simply not true.
As I mentioned in a previous post, the word “homosexual” didn’t appear in any English translation of the Bible until 1946—in the Revised Standard Version. That’s nearly 2,000 years after the New Testament was written, and centuries after the Bible was first translated into English. In the original Greek, the words used—like arsenokoitai and malakoi—are complex, debated, and deeply context-specific. Scholars still argue about their exact meaning. But what we do know is this: the modern concept of sexual orientation didn’t even exist in biblical times.
So when we say “the Bible clearly says…”—especially when it comes to LGBTQ+ people—we have to pause and ask: Are we interpreting Scripture faithfully? Or are we projecting modern assumptions onto ancient texts? Are we seeking truth? Or are we defending what makes us most comfortable?
And even more than that: Are we using Scripture as a weapon—or as a window into the heart of a God who consistently lifts the marginalized, welcomes the outsider, and redefines who belongs?
Because how we read the Bible will always reveal the kind of God we believe in. Is that God harsh, distant, and conditional? Or is that God radically loving, just, and present—especially with those who’ve been pushed to the margins?
The difference matters. Not just for theology—but for real people with real lives, real pain, and real hope.
The truth is, Christians have always read Scripture differently. Across denominations, cultures, and generations, we’ve come to different conclusions about what’s literal, what’s cultural, what’s timeless, and what needs context.
For some, drinking alcohol is a sin. For others, Jesus turning water into wine is all the clarity they need. And yes, there are even communities who believe coffee is off limits because of its stimulating effect. The point isn’t who’s “right”—the point is this: our understanding of Scripture is always shaped by how we read it, where we read it from, and who taught us how to read it.
So when we talk about topics like LGBTQ+ identity and inclusion, the question isn’t just what does the Bible say?—but how are we reading it? Are we taking time to understand the cultural context, the original language, and the overarching story of God’s love and justice? Are we reading to exclude or to invite? To shame or to understand?
If we’ve been taught that God’s love has limits, we may struggle to believe that full inclusion is possible. But if we’ve experienced the Spirit of God moving in and through the lives of LGBTQ+ people—and if we approach Scripture with humility, curiosity, and care—we might begin to see something new. Or perhaps, something ancient and true, but often missed:
Belonging doesn’t require erasure. God’s image shows up in all kinds of bodies and stories. Reading the Bible faithfully means holding space for both truth and transformation.
I’ll end with this…
For years, one of my greatest fears wasn’t just being wrong—it was what might unravel if I admitted I was wrong. Especially about something as deeply rooted as my “biblical stance” on LGBTQ+ inclusion.
Because if I was wrong about that… what else might I be wrong about?
It felt like tugging on a single thread that could undo the whole fabric of my faith. And for someone who built their life on certainty, clarity, and theological boundaries—deconstruction wasn’t just scary. It was off-limits.
It wasn’t that I lacked compassion. I just thought love meant telling the truth—even when it hurt. But what I didn’t realize was that truth without humility can harden into something unrecognizable from the Jesus I claimed to follow. And fear of being wrong kept me from seeing the harm that my “clarity” was causing.
I thought my faith would fall apart if I opened that door. But what I’ve found—on the other side of honest questions and sacred wrestling—isn’t less faith.
It’s a deeper faith.
Less about rigid certainty, and more about radical trust in a God who’s big enough to hold our doubts, and kind enough to transform our understanding without shaming our past.
So no—deconstruction wasn’t an option for me… Until it became the only faithful path forward.
A path toward a more honest faith. A faith not built on fear of getting it wrong, but on the courage to ask deeper questions. A faith that makes room for complexity, nuance, and growth. A path toward Jesus—not the version I was handed, but the one I kept catching glimpses of in the margins, in the tension, in the faces of people I was once taught to exclude.
It wasn’t a path I chose lightly. It was slow. Painful. Lonely at times. But it was also liberating. Healing. Sacred.
Because sometimes, the most faithful thing you can do… is let go of what no longer reflects the heart of God—and trust that what remains will be true and more like Christ.
Before I dive into this week’s post, I think it’s important to state my position on a particular topic: Unity in the Church. If you know me, you know that John 17:20–23 is a passage I hold dear for one simple, but profound reason:
Unity does not mean uniformity.
In this prayer, Jesus doesn’t ask the Father to make His followers identical in thought, background, or expression—He asks that we would be one in love and purpose, just as He and the Father are one. This unity is not about sameness; it’s about connection rooted in mutual respect, compassion, and a shared calling. Unfortunately, too often, the Church has confused unity with forced agreement, demanding theological or cultural conformity that leaves no room for diversity of experience, perspective, or identity. The result is not the oneness Jesus prayed for, but a brittle kind of uniformity that excludes, wounds, and silences.
True unity invites us to sit at the same table with our differences intact, to listen without fear, and to love without condition. It requires humility—the kind that values people over positions and sees the image of God in every human being. This kind of unity is hard. It’s messy. But it’s also beautiful. And I believe with all my heart that it’s the unity Jesus imagined when He prayed for us.
But can that unity exist around the topic of LGBTQ+ inclusion? More acutely, can we, as the ‘Big C Church,’ interpret the Bible differently on this issue and still respect one another, holding space for diverse convictions without sacrificing the dignity and belonging of those most affected?
A modern implication: Can someone who affirms same-sex marriage sit at the same table as someone who doesn’t—and can both come not to erase their differences, but to elevate the shared belief that every person is worthy of love, belonging, and respect? True unity doesn’t require unanimous agreement on every theological point. It requires the willingness to remain at the table, to choose compassion over contempt, and to trust that God is big enough to hold the tension between us as we walk this road together.
And the answer… I’m not sure. Honestly, I don’t know if I could sit at a table with someone who doesn’t affirm my existence—someone who, whether consciously or not, views my identity, or my dignity, as up for debate. That kind of exclusion cuts deep. It’s not just theological disagreement; it’s personal. It’s about the very core of who someone is and whether they are seen, valued, and loved without condition.
I want to believe in a unity that is big enough to hold our differences, but I also believe that unity cannot come at the expense of someone’s humanity. There is a difference between disagreeing over doctrine and denying someone’s right to belong. And so I wrestle with this, because while I believe in grace and the wideness of God’s love, I also believe that any table where people are harmed, diminished, or silenced is not the table Jesus set.
For those like me who grew up in churches where the idea of being open and affirming wasn’t just absent—it was actively condemned—let me invite you to consider a different perspective.
The creation account in Genesis is a theological narrative, not a biology textbook or relationship manual. Its purpose is to tell us something about the nature of God, humanity, and relationship—not to limit all human relationships to one template. Adam and Eve’s union symbolizes connection, mutual care, and the image of God reflected through relationship. That truth isn’t exclusive to heterosexual couples.
Just as Genesis says, “It is not good for man to be alone,” it reveals a divine desire for companionship—but doesn’t specify that every expression of that must be procreative or heterosexual. In fact, when we look at Genesis 2:20 and the reference for Adam’s need for a “helper”, the Hebrew word is ʿēzer, a masculine noun. Later in Genesis 2:22, we learn that God created a “woman”, the Hebrew word ‘iššâ, a feminine noun.
For me, this was the first step in taking a closer look at what I had been taught and realizing how much of my theology had been shaped not by the original languages, cultural context, or deeper exegesis, but by modern assumptions layered over ancient text. I had been handed interpretations that insisted Genesis set a fixed blueprint for gender, sexuality, and marriage—yet when I returned to the text itself, I found something far more expansive, poetic, and relational than the narrow frameworks I had grown up with.
The use of ʿēzer (a term elsewhere used to describe God as our helper) suggests something far beyond mere gender roles or reproductive utility—it speaks to the human need for partnership, support, and mutual care. The emphasis in the Genesis story is not on anatomical difference or procreative capacity, but on relationship and shared humanity. It opened my eyes to the possibility that faithful, loving relationships—whether same-sex or opposite-sex—can equally reflect the heart of God when they are rooted in covenant, respect, and love.
Yes, Eve was a woman (‘iššâ), but the use of ʿēzer does not limit the gender of that helper.
Additionally, not all relationships are about procreation and the Bible honors that. If procreation were the defining marker of a godly relationship, where would that leave infertile couples, older adults, or people called to a life of singleness? The Bible honors all these paths. Jesus himself never married or had children—and yet his life was the fullest expression of love and purpose.
Marriage in Scripture is often about covenant, not just children. And in the New Testament, Paul actually encourages people not to marry unless they feel called to, because the value of a person’s life isn’t determined by family structure or ability to procreate—but by faith, love, and how we treat one another.
God’s Creation Is More Expansive Than a Binary Model
Adam and Eve represent the beginning of the human story—not the boundary of it. Creation continues to unfold in diversity: in ecosystems, personalities, cultures, and yes, in gender and sexual identities. (And maybe this is one of the reasons why “diversity” is seen as such a negative word in evangelical circles today. We are still learning about the depth and beauty of human experience.
Jesus said, “You will know them by their fruit.” When LGBTQ+ relationships bear the fruit of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control (Galatians 5:22–23)—those are signs of the Spirit. And, if I can say it plainly, I know more than a few heterosexual relationships that don’t line up with this.
Again, I’m not here to change anyone’s mind. I just want to share a little bit about my journey, my research, and my experiences. Faith and theology are note cultivated in an echo chamber—they grow through honest wrestling, open-hearted listening, and the willingness to sit with tension and complexity.
I believe we honor both Scripture and the Spirit when we allow space for questions, for nuance, and for the lived realities of those who have so often been pushed to the margins. My hope is simply that these reflections invite curiosity, compassion, and perhaps a wider vision of the God who is always bigger than our boxes.
This has been a pretty wild week for me—but not in the typical, overbooked-calendar kind of way. It’s more about life nudging me in unexpected directions, like threads being pulled together for a reason I don’t fully understand yet.
There’s not a whole lot of “normal” in my life… whatever that even means. But, this past week I found myself face-to-face with reminders of why I do what I do. Conversations I didn’t expect. Opportunities I didn’t seek. People who, in big and small ways, made me stop and say, “Okay, God. I see what you’re doing.” It’s been humbling, a little exhausting, and oddly energizing all at once. So if I seem a little more reflective, that’s why.
Things are shifting—and I’m trying to pay attention.
This week, I attended Resurrection Church in downtown Chattanooga with my new friend Hope. She’s such a great example of someone trying to be fully present in her life, embracing the ups and down. Hope is a beautiful example of someone learning to live inside the messiness, embracing both the joy and the struggle with a kind of honesty that’s rare.
What stands out to me about Hope is how she’s not just adapting to life—she’s actively choosing to engage with it. Whether it’s wrestling with hard questions, grieving something deeply, or laughing until she cries over something simple, she shows up fully. Watching someone walk through life that way—open, vulnerable, and grounded—is a beautiful reminder of the kind of person Christ calls us to be.
Attending church with her this week didn’t just feel like checking off a box or doing something “spiritual.” It felt like a reminder: faith isn’t about performance, and presence isn’t about perfection. It’s about showing up—wherever we are, however we’re feeling—and trusting that God is there, too.
And it needs to be said that the community at Resurrection Church was, by far, the most welcoming I’ve experienced to date. So many people introduced themselves and took the time to not only say hello, but engage in more than a one minute conversation. This should be the normative behavior in every faith community—but sadly, it isn’t.
Too often, churches become places of polite greetings and surface-level interactions, where visitors can walk in and out without ever feeling truly seen. But this place was different. People weren’t just friendly—they asked thoughtful questions, remembered my name (not an easy task), and genuinely wanted to connect. It wasn’t performative hospitality; it was intentional community.
And honestly, that kind of warmth and openness makes a lasting impression. It breaks down walls and reminds people that they belong, even if they’re still figuring things out. We don’t need perfection in our churches—we need people who show up with open hearts, willing to make space for others. Resurrection Church lived that out on Sunday, and I’m still thinking about what it means to carry that same spirit into the spaces I lead.
But, I also want to spend some time talking about the sermon, because I think it’s important, especially now. Their pastor spent some time talking about persecution and the expectation we SHOULD have when it comes to being persecuted for our faith in Jesus. The church often misunderstands persecution—framing it as something inflicted by the “world,” when in truth, much of the resistance and harm comes from within the religious system itself.
When we look at the life of Jesus, it wasn’t the Roman government that plotted his death. It was the religious elite. The Pharisees and teachers of the law—the gatekeepers of moral authority—felt threatened by his challenge to their power, his inclusion of the marginalized, and his insistence on mercy over sacrifice. Jesus wasn’t killed for being “too worldly.” He was executed for disrupting religious systems that had become more about control than compassion.
And today, history repeats itself.
Many modern Christians equate pushback on Christian nationalism or calls for accountability in the church as “persecution.” But critique isn’t persecution—it’s often the prophetic voice trying to call the church back to the way of Jesus. When people raise questions about power, exclusion, or injustice in Christian spaces, they’re not enemies of the church—they’re trying to heal it.
True persecution happens when people lose jobs, homes, or lives because of their faith in Jesus. What often gets labeled as persecution in the West is actually discomfort in the face of necessary change. And instead of listening, many churches double down—silencing dissenters, ostracizing doubters, and branding reformers as rebels.
There’s a fascinating—and necessary—tension that exists when you encounter a church that is radically welcoming and yet courageously honest from the pulpit. It almost catches you off guard. One minute, you’re being embraced by a community that remembers your name, looks you in the eye, and asks how you’re really doing. The next, you’re listening to a sermon that doesn’t shy away from uncomfortable truths—about power, justice, repentance, or the state of the church itself.
At first, it can feel like whiplash. How can a space be so warm and yet so convicting? So safe and yet so unwilling to coddle?
But that tension? That’s the sweet spot. That’s the line all churches need to be walking right now.
Because a church that only welcomes without challenge can easily drift into comfort and complacency. And a church that only challenges without love creates fear and shame. But when a church commits to both—deep hospitality and holy truth-telling—it becomes a space where real transformation can happen.
We need churches that don’t just say “you belong,” but also say, “there’s more.” Churches that draw people in with compassion and then call them up with conviction. Spaces that make room for brokenness and beauty, for grace and growth.
That’s what Jesus did. He welcomed the outcast, ate with sinners, and extended belonging before behavior—but he also spoke truth with clarity and courage. And he called out systems that hurt the very people the church was supposed to protect.
In a world full of extremes, we don’t need churches that choose between welcome or challenge—we need churches brave enough to hold both.
Before we dive in: I’ve spent more time on today’s post than any other. I listened back through the recording taken from the event on January 26th… several times. I asked friends, who attended the event, to read over it and offer feedback. At the end of the day, I want to be fair and extend grace. But, I’m also reminded that Jesus’ harshest criticisms were to leaders in the church who misrepresented God, burdened others with hypocrisy, and led people astray. My hope is that this post reflects both truth and grace—honest in critique yet rooted in love. I’ve taken great care to ensure accuracy, sought multiple perspectives, and approached this with a heart for clarity rather than controversy. So, before we dive in, know that this isn’t written lightly.
I attended the Calvary Chapel’s Civics + Culture class on January 26th with a friend who is a member of the church, along with two others who don’t attend, but have a shared interest in the conversation around political engagement within the institution of church. This was a two hour event and to cover every aspect of what was said would take me days to unpack. So for the purposes of this post, I want to focus on something that doesn’t necessarily get much attention these days.
But it should.
In recent years, a growing number of American evangelical pastors have used their pulpits as platforms for political influence, blurring the lines between faith and partisan advocacy in ways that challenge long-standing legal and ethical boundaries. With unwavering confidence they present their own interpretations not as perspectives, but as undeniable truths. Throughout the first hour of this particular class, this church leader stood on the stage not just as a teacher of scripture but as an arbiter of political and cultural reality, weaving his personal convictions seamlessly into his message. Rather than fostering discussion, his words functioned as declarations, leaving little room for nuance or dissent. Ideas that might have invited thoughtful engagement were instead delivered as definitive pronouncements, reinforcing a particular worldview without acknowledging its complexities or the validity of differing perspectives.
I will be covering a few of what I consider the more problematic comments, and positions, expressed by their leadership… as they relate to politics and culture. This isn’t a dissection of theological interpretation, or ideology, which would also be an intriguing topic to explore, but rather a look at how these statements influence public perception, policy discussions, and cultural narratives.
At the end of the day, TWO big issues are always front and center for me when it comes to the conversations around Christian Nationalism: the posture our church leaders are taking when presenting information (and the accuracy of that information), and potential violations of the Johnson Amendment of 1954. Today’s post addresses the former and next week’s post will cover the latter.
I also want to underscore that I took voice memos of all the presentations so I could go back and report on what was said, which is important for both accuracy and integrity.
In the opening remarks, it was underscored that the “marching orders” for the Civics + Culture ministry for the next four years came from a burden that was placed on their hearts four years earlier, specifically in September 2020 when Charlie Kirk came “to basically kick off the ministry.” For those who read the post about my Sunday morning visit to Calvary, you might remember the reference below:
Side note: Hosting Charlie Kirk at a Sunday morning church service, under a talk titled We the Thinking People—framed with imagery of the American flag and U.S. Capitol—signals a troubling fusion of faith and nationalism, replacing theological reflection with political ideology and redefining the church as a platform for partisan influence rather than spiritual community.
During the speaker’s explanation of world events during this time and the subsequent four years, he outlined a series of developments that, in his view, reflected a broader societal and political shift. He described organized efforts to escalate unrest, as well as government overreach, and ideological transformations affecting institutions and culture. The following list, while not exhaustive, highlights some of the things that were said at Calvary’s event on January 26th:
Referencing the George Floyd riots, he said that secret NGOs were delivering palettes of bricks all across the US to help instigate destruction.
The city of Seattle “fell… conquered by Antifa”.
Referencing the “transgender madness”, he said we have lost all understanding of what gender is.
The establishment of “race Marxism” throughout all of our institutions, specifically referencing DEI and Intersectionality.
“We had to face a stolen election, in my opinion.”
“We had to endure the invasion of our southern boarder.”
“Trump supporters were put on terrorist watch lists at enemy of the state.”
He inaccurately stated that within the first week of taking office for the second time, 118 Executive Orders were signed by Trump. (The actual number is 36.)
I’ll admit, after hearing a few of these statements, I turned to my friends and whispered, “Did he really just say that?” Some of the commentary was unsurprising, but some caught me off guard—statements that were outright false, conspiracy theories long debunked, and propaganda disguised as truth. Some were merely opinions, yet they were presented with the certainty of undeniable fact. I spent HOURS researching all of these comments and the rabbit roles were seemingly endless and disconcerting. In an environment where statements, no matter how unfounded, are delivered with unwavering confidence, they become self-reinforcing, shaping perceptions without scrutiny.
When propaganda is wrapped in the language of truth and authority, it ceases to be just misinformation; it becomes a tool of influence, steering entire communities toward a singular narrative while discouraging critical thinking. The result is an echo chamber where ideology replaces inquiry, and the need for certainty overrides the pursuit of truth.
Some, if not all, of these statements touch on topics that are deeply personal to many of us, shaped by our experiences, values, and the information we consume from sources we trust. (Whether that trust is warranted is a completely different conversation.) But no matter what “position” you hold on any of these issues, I keep coming back to this: Jesus teaches us to be curious about what people believe. He didn’t avoid hard conversations—He asked questions, told stories, and met people where they were, even when their perspectives were flawed or uncomfortable.
Jesus did it with grace… and without arrogance, contempt, or condemnation.
And while it’s natural for people of faith to engage with societal and cultural issues, doing so in a manner that aligns with Jesus’ teachings requires a posture of humility, love, and a commitment to gospel-centered transformation rather than political or ideological conquest. Bridging these two perspectives—concern for the world and the call to Christlike living—should be the goal for those seeking to follow Jesus faithfully in turbulent times.
If evangelical communities are to engage in meaningful cultural and political discourse, it is essential that they move beyond abstract debates and genuinely listen to the lived experiences of those whose realities they so often condemn. Without this willingness to sit face-to-face with the people behind the policies they oppose, their convictions risk being shaped by assumptions rather than understanding, leading not to truth and compassion, but to misrepresentation and harm.
Since attending the January 26th class, I’ve asked three members of Calvary to share their thoughts on issues related to gender identity, and they openly did. After listening to their perspectives, I then asked a follow-up question: Had they ever sat down and had a real conversation with someone who is transgender?
All three of them said no.
And that, right there, is a huge part of the problem.
It’s easy to form strong opinions from a distance—to debate concepts, make assumptions, or even pass judgment without ever engaging with the actual people those discussions affect. This is what the Pharisees did, and it’s antithetical to the way Jesus lived his life… and calls us to live ours. Real understanding doesn’t happen in a vacuum. It happens in conversation. It happens when we listen to lived experiences, when we move beyond rhetoric and into relationship. And perhaps the most crucial part is this: those three people were wrong about so much — Not because they were intentionally cruel or malicious, but because their understanding was shaped by secondhand narratives, assumptions, and a lack of direct experience. They spoke with certainty about things they had never personally encountered, drawing conclusions from sermons, news segments, and cultural talking points rather than from real conversations with real people.
This is where the disconnect happens. When we talk about people without talking to them, we risk getting it wrong—misrepresenting their experiences, oversimplifying complex realities, and ultimately reinforcing harmful misunderstandings. These three individuals may have believed they were standing on truth, but their certainty crumbled under the weight of their own admitted lack of interaction.
The question we have to ask ourselves is this: Are we truly seeking truth, or just reaffirming what we think we already know? Because if we’re not willing to engage, to listen, and to challenge our own perspectives, then we aren’t actually pursuing truth at all—we’re just clinging to comfort.
Okay… there’s no easy way to transition here, but I want to set up next week’s post and potential violations of the Johnson Amendment of 1954. Both presenters had a clear animosity towards the Biden administration, as well as local political changes, like “losing Red Bank” to Democrats, and their frustration was evident. The first presenter even went so far as to say that he believes you can be a Christian and “fit inside the Republican Party” but cannot be a Democrat and a Christian. He went on to say that if you know everything about today’s Democratic Party you cannot be for that and for Christ.
During one of his segments, he also talked about how families have been torn apart because of this and attributing it to a level of Satanic activity in our nation that we haven’t seen in our lifetime. His claim that Satanic activity is at an all-time high in the nation, while reflecting his deep concerns about moral and cultural shifts, risks leading believers toward a response driven by fear and division rather than faith and trust in God’s sovereignty. If the battle is already won in Christ, as the Bible teaches (John 16:33), then the role of Christians is not to fight a war against society but to live as faithful witnesses to God’s love and truth.
He also invoked war/battle terminology and symbolism stating that “We’ve won some elections, we’ve won some battles, but we haven’t won the war.” This perspective, while resonant in certain political and cultural contexts, does not align with the teachings of Jesus. Christ’s message was not one of earthly conquest, but of peace, reconciliation, and the transformation of hearts. When Jesus spoke of battles and struggles, they were spiritual in nature, centered on overcoming sin, extending love, and embodying the values of God’s kingdom.
Honestly, I feel like most of these leaders are more focused on the Jesus who returns with a sword than the Jesus who walked among us 2,000 years ago.
They seem drawn to the imagery of power, judgment, and triumphant victory—Jesus as the warrior King, coming to set things right with divine force. They preach about righteousness in terms of battle lines, about standing firm against the enemy, about a Christ who will one day return to conquer and rule. And while those themes exist in scripture, they fixate on them at the expense of something just as crucial: the Jesus who already came.
The Jesus who sat with sinners. Who touched the untouchable. Who wept with the grieving. Who challenged the religious elite not with force, but with truth spoken in love. The Jesus who laid down power instead of seizing it, who chose a cross instead of a throne.
When leaders focus more on the Jesus of Revelation than the Jesus of the Gospels, they risk missing the heart of his message. They start seeing people as opponents to defeat rather than neighbors to love. They speak of culture wars instead of kingdom invitations. They wield scripture like a weapon rather than a source of life.
But Jesus didn’t call us to win a war—he called us to love our enemies, to serve, to seek justice with humility. If we lose sight of that Jesus, we aren’t following him at all. We’re just waiting for a version of him that fits our desire for control.
For instance, in John 18:36, Jesus tells Pilate, “My kingdom is not of this world. If it were, my servants would fight to prevent my arrest by the Jewish leaders. But now my kingdom is from another place.” This statement highlights that Christ’s mission was not about political or cultural dominance but about spiritual redemption. His followers were not called to engage in ideological warfare but to spread love, grace, and truth.
Additionally, in the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5:9), Jesus blesses the peacemakers, not those who seek victory over perceived enemies. His teachings emphasize loving one’s enemies (Matthew 5:44), turning the other cheek (Matthew 5:39), and seeking reconciliation over division. Framing cultural shifts as a war to be won can contribute to a mindset of hostility rather than healing, contradicting the call to be ambassadors of Christ’s reconciliation (2 Corinthians 5:18-20).
Moreover, the New Testament consistently presents the idea that the true battle is not against people or institutions, but against spiritual forces (Ephesians 6:12). Paul instructs believers to put on the full armor of God, which consists of truth, righteousness, faith, and peace—not rhetoric of conquest or political struggle.
I can go on with examples, but I think you probably get the point. The next post will talk more about Christian Nationalism, but I think it’s important to underscore the importance of humility in our conversations. If we truly seek truth and unity, we must be mindful not to let partisan politics take root in our churches. I’d go so far as to say that if we’re talking about Republicans and Democrats at all, we’re missing the point.
Topic: The difference between unity and uniformity.
One of the things I love most about Chattanooga is how deeply interconnected this community is. It often feels like there’s just one degree of separation between everyone—whether through mutual friends, shared projects, or local organizations. This tight-knit nature creates a sense of collaboration and belonging that makes it easier to build relationships, rally support for important causes, and foster meaningful change.
Of course, this interconnectedness has its pros and cons. On the positive side, it allows for stronger partnerships, faster word-of-mouth advocacy, and a greater sense of shared responsibility for the well-being of the city. But it also means that everyone seemingly knows everyone, and maintaining authenticity, humility, and grace in our relationships is crucial. In a community where faith is lived out alongside one another, trust is built—or damaged—by how we reflect Christ in our words and actions.
I met Rachel last month at a networking event at Chattanooga Girls Leadership Academy, and from the moment we started talking, it was clear—she’s one of those rare people who truly embraces life in a way that’s contagious. There’s an undeniable energy and warmth about her, the kind that makes you feel like anything is possible. Whether through her work, her conversations, or the way she carries herself, she exudes a sense of purpose and joy. And, honestly, I have absolutely no idea how the topic of church same up, but it did.
So, I invited myself to join her one Sunday and she enthusiastically agreed.
Rachel attends Rise Church in Red Bank, a newer church plant known for its commitment to service and outreach. With Sunday services taking place at Red Bank Middle School, Rise Church places a strong emphasis on community engagement, often partnering with local organizations to serve and support those in need. I also want to take this moment to say thatchurches meeting in community spaces are near and dear to my heart because they reflect the very essence of what the church was always meant to be—not confined within four walls, but embedded in the heart of the community. There’s something deeply meaningful about worshiping in a school cafeteria, an event hall, a coffee shop, or even a park—places that, throughout the week, are filled with the rhythms of everyday life. These churches create a tangible reminder that faith isn’t about a building; it’s about people, connection, and presence.
During our conversation after the service, Rachel and I spent a lot of time talking about the current political climate and its growing impact on the church. We talked about how politics has increasingly woven itself into the fabric of church culture, influencing not only the way people engage with their faith but also how they perceive and interact with one another. For instance, when I see someone wearing a red Make America Great Again hat when I visit a church, which has happened several times over the past five months, it immediately sparks a mix of thoughts. It’s not just a hat—it’s a symbol that carries layers of meaning, depending on who you ask. I find myself wondering: What does this person believe the church should stand for? Do they see faith and politics as intertwined? How do they view those who might not share their perspective?
It’s not about making assumptions, but rather acknowledging that political identity has become deeply embedded in church spaces, sometimes shaping theology just as much as scripture does. I wrestle with how to engage in conversations that are honest yet full of grace, seeking to understand rather than assume. Because at the end of the day, the church isn’t supposed to be a place where political allegiance overshadows the gospel, but a place where all people—regardless of background, party, or belief—can come together in pursuit of Christ.
Moments like this remind me why it’s so important to pay attention to what’s being said in our churches and by those who claim to follow Jesus. Are we shaping our faith to fit our politics, or allowing our faith to shape how we engage with the world? Are we making room for the hard conversations, or letting division quietly settle in? These are questions I don’t have all the answers to, but I do know that if the church is to remain a place of truth, love, and transformation, we have to be willing to ask them.
There’s no denying that the polarization we see in the world has made its way into many church communities, shaping everything from sermons to relationships to outreach efforts. Some congregations have leaned further into political identity, while others have struggled to navigate the tension between faith and partisanship. Rachel and I wrestled with questions like: How do we stay rooted in Christ when so many voices are trying to define what Christianity should look like? How do we foster spaces where people feel safe to wrestle with hard questions rather than pressured to conform to a political ideology?
It was refreshing to talk with someone who, like me, values both faith and critical thinking, who isn’t afraid to grapple with the complexities of what it means to follow Jesus in this moment. Conversations like this remind me that even in uncertain times, there are people who are committed to seeking truth, loving well, and keeping Christ at the center of it all. It was refreshing and encouraging to attend another church service where faith took center stage, rather than political ideology. In a time when so many churches seem to intertwine their theology with partisan beliefs, it’s a relief to walk into a space where worship, scripture, and community are the defining aspects of the church’s identity—not political affiliations or culture wars.
There’s something deeply meaningful about gathering with believers who are focused on Christ above all else, creating a space where people from different backgrounds and perspectives can come together in pursuit of something greater than political alignment. It reminded me that the church’s mission has never been about championing a particular party or ideology, but about embodying the love, justice, and truth of Jesus—a mission that transcends any political moment.
Rachel acknowledged that members of Rise hold differing political beliefs, but that the church has made a conscious effort to prioritize what unites them, rather than what divides them. The focus is on living out the teachings of Jesus, loving others with grace, and building community around a shared faith. This approach, she explained, allows people from all walks of life to feel like they have a place at the table, regardless of their political affiliations.
In our current political climate, it can feel nearly impossible to avoid the pull of partisan politics, especially when so many churches have been swept into these divisions. But Rachel’s insight reminded me of the beauty of a community that chooses to focus on loving others regardless of where people stand on political issues. It’s this kind of church that offers hope—that regardless of the external turbulence of the world, we can still find unity, peace, and purpose in our shared faith.
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.
Searching for Jesus in A̶m̶e̶r̶i̶c̶a̶ Chattanooga 