Tag: resurrection

Who: Sydney

Church: First Centenary United Methodist

Lunch: The Daily Ration

Topic: Traditions and Cultural Christianity

Today’s post begins with a backstory.

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

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

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

And not just on Christmas.

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

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

But the response I received still baffles me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that didn’t happen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But, I don’t blame them.

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

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

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

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

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

But, those aren’t the only issues.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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