Early on, I learned to get by on my own, adapt to new situations, and take responsibility without relying much on others. Independence gave me a sense of stability and control. It also helped me learn who I was.

But independence also changed how I connected with others. I got used to keeping some distance—not because I wanted to, but because it became a habit. Self-sufficiency became my normal way of life.

It took me a long time to realize that something was missing.

Since coming to seminary, I’ve started to see life differently—not just in terms of independence, but in terms of community.

I didn’t understand this right away, and I’m still learning. Sometimes it’s slow. I remember one of my first gatherings with my seminary group. I sat on the edge of the common room, surrounded by conversation yet not really part of it. I felt like an observer—there, but not connected. Things shifted when a classmate invited me to a small prayer circle later that week. Instead of just being in the room, I began to join in—sharing concerns, listening, and praying together. That simple step showed me the difference between being present and truly belonging. Seminary has taught me that community isn’t just about being near people. It’s about belonging, taking part, and growing together.

This realization feels especially important as I consider my calling.

As I prepare for the priesthood, I know how important community is. Parish life depends on it. A priest’s work isn’t done from a distance; it happens through relationships, shared worship, care for others, and daily presence. A priest isn’t meant to stand apart from the community but to live in it—shaped by it as much as shaping it.

In this sense, seminary is more than just studying theology. It’s shaping how I live. It’s teaching me how to truly be part of a community, not just work in one.

Looking back, I see how my earlier experiences have shaped the way I relate to community.

Before college, I sometimes felt like an outsider—what I might now call a kind of spiritual orphanhood. Not in a literal sense, but in feeling disconnected or unsure of where I truly belonged.

When these things happen early in life, they leave a mark. Independence becomes more than a skill—it becomes a form of protection. It helps you move forward without relying too heavily on others.

But it also means that learning to be part of a community later on takes some getting used to.

I’ve learned that you can’t force belonging by trying hard. It’s something you receive, often slowly and with some uncertainty. What helped me was saying yes to small invitations, even when I felt unsure. Just showing up—whether for a meal, a prayer, or a quick chat—became a way to practice openness. Over time, even small steps made space for a real connection to grow.

One of the biggest changes in how I see community has been my daily practice of Morning Prayer.

At first, it might seem personal. It’s usually quiet, structured, and sometimes done alone. But over time, I realized it’s not really a solitary practice.

The Daily Office is inherently about community. The same psalms, readings, and prayers are recited in many places and at many times. Even when I’m alone, I’m part of something bigger. I’m joining a rhythm that belongs to the wider Church.

Realizing this has changed how I view prayer.

It’s no longer just my prayer; it’s our prayer.

Morning Prayer has also brought a different pace to the community. It’s not about always being busy or socializing. Instead, it’s about being consistent, attentive, and present. I remember one morning early in the semester when a group of us gathered in the quiet chapel as the sun rose. There was a gentle silence between prayers, and I felt a sense of unity simply by being together in that sacred space, as we started the day with a shared purpose. In those moments, I saw that community can form not only through talking but also through shared rituals and simply being together. This taught me a quieter kind of belonging that grows with steady participation. Through this rhythm, I’m learning that I don’t have to force community. It’s something I can step into, one day at a time.

Another part of this learning has come from reflecting on hospitality.

In Christian tradition, especially in the teaching of Saint Benedict of Nursia, hospitality isn’t just about being friendly. It’s a practice of welcoming others with care and respect. Hospitality goes beyond simple politeness. It means recognizing the presence and dignity of others, even when they are unfamiliar or different. It calls for more than friendliness; it calls for openness.

In practice, this isn’t always easy. Community can feel uncomfortable. It means meeting people with different backgrounds, perspectives, and experiences. It takes patience and sometimes a willingness to stay present even when things are unclear. I remember a group discussion that grew tense when someone shared a view of ministry that was very different from mine. I felt misunderstood and uneasy, unsure whether to speak up or pull back. Instead of withdrawing, I chose to stay engaged by listening and asking questions, even though it was hard. Later, I spoke privately with one of the group members to share my feelings and hear more about their view. That conversation didn’t erase our differences, but it let us both feel heard and respected. It showed me that real community takes courage to work through tough moments together.

But this is also what makes community meaningful. It’s not built on everyone being the same, but on choosing to stay connected even when we’re different.

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I’m starting to notice a tension between maintaining my identity and being open to others.

Being part of a community doesn’t mean losing yourself. You don’t have to give up your beliefs or your sense of identity. In fact, a healthy community needs people who know who they are.

At the same time, being grounded needs to go hand in hand with openness. Without openness, community can become closed off and isolated.

The challenge isn’t choosing one over the other but learning to hold both at once—staying grounded while remaining open to others.

This balance doesn’t come naturally. It’s something you learn, often slowly, through experience. I know many of my classmates are navigating the same tension, trying to stay true to themselves while remaining open to others. If you’re on this journey too, I want to encourage you—you’re not alone. As we all try to hold onto both our roots and openness, we help create a space where real growth is possible, not just for ourselves but for the whole community we’re building.

I’m learning that moving from independence to community doesn’t mean giving up independence entirely. Instead, it’s about seeing it as part of a bigger picture.

Independence still matters, but it’s no longer the primary goal.

Instead, independence leads to interdependence. That means recognizing that life is shared, growth occurs in relationships, and belonging involves both giving and receiving.

This isn’t always easy to accept, especially for someone who’s spent much of their life learning to stand alone. I’m starting to see that something essential lies in this shift.

I’m still learning what belonging means.

Sometimes it feels natural, and other times it feels unfamiliar. There are moments when I notice growth and moments when I realize how much I still have to learn.

What I do know is that community isn’t just an add-on to the Christian life. It’s at the center of it.

It’s where formation happens.
It’s where relationships are shaped.
It’s where faith becomes something lived, not merely something understood.

For me, this time in seminary has become a place where that learning is starting to take root. It’s not happening all at once, but it’s steady and growing clearer over time.

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Honestly, this second year has been tough. The coursework has felt endless, with papers and readings piling up just when I thought I could finally rest. Spiritually, I’ve experienced dry spells, questioning whether the practices that once helped me still do. I also miss my family and sometimes feel lonely, even when I’m around others. These challenges have shaped this season in unexpected ways.

The middle of a journey tests you in ways the beginning never does. The excitement of starting has faded, but the finish is still not quite here. It’s a strange place to be, caught between calling and completion. Still, as I look ahead, I realize that, if all goes well, I’ll finish my M.Div. around this time next year.

That thought brings both relief and a subtle sense of awe.

Because somewhere along the way, this journey is shaping me and teaching me that real transformation doesn’t happen by striving upward, but by learning to be grounded—being held and formed in sacred places, even when I least expect it.

Thin Places

There are moments on the mountain when the veil feels thin.

You don’t always notice when they’re coming. They don’t provide any warning or explanation. They simply appear, like a window you never saw before.

I’ve experienced those moments in the chapel, in silence, and on walking paths lined with trees. But one that stayed with me happened during EfM.

We started discussing the Earth—not just as creation, but as something more profound. Something maternal. Something sacred.

And then came this image: the womb.

Not in some distant, abstract sense, but as something real and tangible. Something you can feel.

That’s when I learned about the kiva.

The Womb Beneath the Earth

A kiva is a sacred underground space that Pueblo peoples use for ceremonies, gatherings, and spiritual life. But what stood out to me wasn’t just what it’s used for, but what it means.

The kiva is shaped as a womb.

You go down into it. You don’t climb up; you descend. Into the earth. Into the place where life starts.

And something in me recognized that.

Something quietly changed, shifting how I view Earth and my spiritual life. Growth is not only about reaching higher, but about going deeper—returning to the beginning and letting myself be held. Sitting in stillness, releasing anxious thoughts and the urge to perform, I asked God to meet me beneath distractions. In that quiet, I felt reassurance that God works in hidden places; this stillness revealed the heart of my journey: letting myself be held leads to deeper transformation.

It felt like a reminder I didn’t know I needed.

That God meets us not only in the heights, but in the depths.

Not only in clarity, but in mystery.

Being Grounded Again

Being “on the mountain” can make it seem like everything is about climbing higher, achieving more, and reaching new heights.

But what I am learning is this: The holiest moments aren’t about climbing higher—they are about learning to stay grounded, to find God in the ordinary, hidden places.

They come from being grounded.

By remembering that we are dust, and dust isn’t something to avoid but something God has already called good.

The kiva, in its quiet wisdom, reminds me of this truth: to be formed is to return. It means sitting in the place where things begin, listening in the dark, and trusting that something is being shaped even when we can’t see it.

And perhaps that is the promise it holds—that what is buried is not lost but transforming. Like a seed in the soil, or Christ in the tomb, the journey into the earth is not the end but the start of new life.

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Looking Ahead

As I look toward this last leg of the M.Div. journey, something has started to shift.

Now, it’s less about requirements and more about embracing what’s next.

The book I’ve been working on slowly, prayerfully, piece by piece, is beginning to take a clear form as a spiritual memoir that guides readers toward finding God in everyday moments. The focus is on seeking faith amid daily life, especially during quiet or uncertain times when belief is tested and grows. Through personal stories—on the mountain, in the chapel, while wrestling with doubt, and in meeting others searching for belonging within sacred spaces—I illustrate this journey. For example, one chapter centers on a quiet conversation in the prayer garden, demonstrating how stillness and vulnerability foster transformation. Together, these glimpses trace a path from striving to resting in faith, aiming to invite others into this experience. As I see the book nearing completion, I feel called to share this collective journey, not just my own story.

At the same time, I feel drawn to speak more openly and publicly, and I find myself entering conversations about accessibility and inclusion as real experiences within the Church. This work belongs both in writing and in person—through workshops across the diocese and possibly beyond. These are spaces to ask how we can make the Church more accessible. To begin, I’ll invite a few peers to an informal coffee chat or after chapel to share experiences and consider simple steps toward creating a more welcoming community. It feels like a small step, but maybe that’s how change starts.

And sometimes, that calling feels as straightforward and sacred as the pulpit.

On Sunday mornings, during sermons, in those ordinary, sacred moments when the Word connects with the people.

There’s something both humbling and energizing about this. Realizing that my journey—the quiet growth, the struggles, and the thin places—might also inspire others.

Not a complete voice. Not a perfect one.

But a faithful one.

If this middle year has taught me anything, it’s that the next step is about extending that grounding—being sent out, not separate from it, but because of it.

Sent to speak.
Sent to listen.
Sent to help create spaces where more people feel they belong.

Throughout everything, I’m learning to trust that the God who meets us in the depths will also guide and sustain us as we face whatever the future holds, providing assurance that we are not traveling alone.

A Collect for the Journey

Almighty God, who formed us from the dust and meets us in the depths of our being: Grant us grace to be grounded in you, so that, shaped by your Spirit, we may be sent forth to speak, listen, and build a more welcoming Church. Forgive us when we seek the heights and resist your transforming work, and make us ever thankful for your faithful presence. Guide your Church, especially those who have been unseen or unheard, into deeper belonging and shared life; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

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They felt both significant and sacred, yet also distant. They seemed like words for mission statements or church programs. Then one day, those words truly came to life and began to challenge me in a new way.

Everything changed for me after I came across a single line in Louis Evely’s book Our Prayer:

“It is pretty shocking to discover after years of Christian education that there is no such thing as the worship of God in Christianity. Christ did not come to be served; he came to serve.”1

Initially, I was hesitant about that idea. It was hard to accept; after all, isn’t worship such a core part of Christian life? Have you ever genuinely wondered if worship might not be necessary? This question gently encourages us to reconsider what worship truly means, inviting us to share the same sense of wonder and reflection I felt.

But Evely isn’t suggesting that worship isn’t important. Instead, he invites us to reflect on what we truly mean by worship.

When I first read his words, I was reminded of how ‘worship’ is often used in non-liturgical settings, mostly revolving around music, emotion, and what we offer to God. In such contexts, worship can sometimes feel like something we do for God, rather than a way of sharing our lives with Him. While performance happens in a moment, true formation shapes us over a lifetime. Recognizing this difference encourages us to reflect more deeply on our spiritual practices.

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The Anglican tradition has its own unique approach to this.

In Anglican theology, worship begins with heartfelt prayer. Prayer shapes us, grounds us, and gently helps us notice God’s gentle presence woven into our daily lives. As morning light filters through the windows, hands rest peacefully on a well-loved prayer book, welcoming the start of a new day. The Daily Office, the Eucharist, and the baptismal covenant are more than just rituals; they are expressions of building a caring community. The soft sound of pews as people kneel together becomes part of a shared, ongoing prayer. These sacred practices are not meant to replace spiritual growth but to nurture and deepen it.

Evely’s point isn’t that worship disappears, but that it can’t stand alone. Christian faith isn’t just about performing actions for God. It’s about truly becoming fully human alongside God. God doesn’t require our flawless rituals or skills; instead, God longs for a genuine relationship, a shared life together.

This also gives us a better idea of how Jesus lived.

Christ wasn’t about seeking honor or special treatment. Instead, he knelt to wash feet, inviting others to follow him rather than just admire him. He shared meals with outsiders, touched those others kept at arm’s length, and stood in places where power often doesn’t reach. His life is a beautiful reminder of what God’s love truly looks like in the world.

This idea might seem a bit unsettling at first, but imagine the new freedom we could discover if we accepted that worship truly matters when God is already present in our lives. It’s not about rejecting worship; rather, it’s about embracing grace. Christianity teaches us that God reaches out to us first, not because of the words we say or actions we take. Worship becomes our heartfelt response to a God who is already working among us, inviting us into a beautiful, deep relationship.

During one Maundy Thursday service, I had the chance to volunteer at a foot-washing ceremony. I felt a bit nervous and aware of my own imperfections, and I stumbled a little as I poured water and dried feet. Yet in that honest moment, I experienced grace more deeply than in any flawless service. It reminded me that faith isn’t about being perfect but about opening our hearts to God’s love, even when we feel a little awkward.

In other words, faith isn’t just about us reaching up to heaven. It’s a heartfelt, shared journey, a meaningful two-way relationship.

Baptism beautifully highlights this shared life. It’s a special moment when our faith takes a fresh step and helps us experience this relationship more deeply. In the baptismal covenant, we’re not asked to be perfect worshippers, but to begin a meaningful journey together.

We promise something much more real and demanding:
to continue in prayer, fellowship, breaking of bread, and teaching,
to persevere in repentance,
to proclaim good news by word and example,
to seek and serve Christ in all persons,
to strive for justice and peace.2

These promises are more than just ideas; they invite us to show genuine presence, to be attentive, patient, open, and sometimes even to feel tired. Baptism isn’t about performing; it’s about faithfully living each day with commitment and heart.

This is especially important when considering Deaf communities and accessibility for everyone.

Many people often imagine worship as just hearing—prayers, sermons, and hymns. However, for many others, including those who are Deaf, disabled, neurodivergent, or marginalized, faith is experienced in different ways. It can be felt through sight, gesture, rhythm, silence, shared focus, and simply being together in the moment.

When we view prayer and worship as meaningful ways we grow, rather than just performances, accessibility naturally becomes a vital part of what the Church is all about. Instead of asking, “Did we do this right?” we start to wonder, “Who was able to fully participate?” This shift makes our community more welcoming and inclusive for everyone.

That’s not just a technical question; it’s a deeply theological one.

Christ didn’t come to be served; He came to serve. Through His actions, He beautifully demonstrates that God isn’t seeking spectators but eager participants. God desires not perfect people, but those who are truly present and willing to respond with an open heart.

Perhaps Evely is onto something. It might be that in Christianity, ‘worship’ isn’t just a separate act reserved for a distant God. Instead, it’s about a life beautifully shaped by baptism, nurtured through prayer, and expressed in acts of service. This perspective makes worship feel more like a joyful way of living rather than an isolated moment.

At the core of everything is a comforting truth: Christian faith truly is a two-way street. We can’t really worship God if He’s not already a part of our lives, and God isn’t pushing His presence onto us. Instead, He gently invites us to respond and come closer.

Christ didn’t come to be served. He came to serve, to live among us, and to show us what God’s love truly looks like. When we embrace that shared life—being attentive, present, and responsive—our lives naturally begin to resonate with kindness and meaning.

Not as performance.
But as presence.

And perhaps that is where Christian worship truly begins.

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In the middle of the fall semester, while I was a seminarian in my Field Education placement, I received the parish schedule for the rest of the year: who would preach, preside, read, and lead prayer. My mentor also let me know she would be on PTO for the last two weeks of December, so the parish would need coverage. Either a supply priest would come, or Morning Prayer would be offered instead of the Eucharist.

Like most seminarians, my first thought was my own calendar: Christmas plans, New Year’s plans, family time, and rest. But after spending time with the Examen and reflecting on God’s presence in my daily routine, I felt at peace. I offered to lead Morning Prayer without the Eucharist, following the Daily Office rubric. Nothing fancy. Just prayer. Just the Church breathing in and out.

About a month later, everything changed. My mentor sent a letter announcing her resignation. Her last Sunday would be two weeks before the service I had agreed to lead. Suddenly, this wasn’t just about filling in; it was about a parish without a priest.

Soon after, I learned the office administrator wasn’t sure how to format a Morning Prayer bulletin. I didn’t hesitate. I used my Church Music History notes as a foundation and built one from scratch, drawing on resources like the Book of Common Prayer and online templates. I determined the right flow by listing the elements of Morning Prayer: opening sentences, the invitatory and psalter, readings, canticles, the Apostles’ Creed, prayers, and collects. It followed the usual shape of Morning Prayer but with one change: instead of chanting a canticle, I selected hymns from the Hymnal. This is a small parish, and chanting isn’t part of their musical life. The prayer needed to be accessible, familiar, and something the congregation could truly pray. I also included clear instructions in the bulletin to guide the congregation seamlessly through the service, making it both user-friendly and spiritually engaging. Each instruction was a quiet hand-off of authority to the pews, inviting the laity to take ownership of the liturgy as active participants rather than passive attendees.

I’ll admit I was a little nervous at first. It’s sobering to prepare the liturgy without a priest to check your work. But slowly, my confidence grew. The bulletin was ready. The prayer was solid. The structure held.

And then Sunday came.

It was my first time leading a congregation without a rector. I arrived early, marked the lessons, and set up the space. At 8:00, the nave was empty. No one had arrived yet. So I did what I had learned in chapel: I began anyway. Morning Prayer doesn’t wait for a group. Prayer belongs to God, not to attendance numbers.

Near the end of the first reading, the doors opened. Folks slipped quietly into the pews and settled in. It felt right. Better late than never.

Four people were present at that early service—faithful, attentive, and prayerful.

Afterward, I waited in the parish hall. The building was quiet, with only the clock ticking. For a moment, I realized: this is what it feels like. Unlocking doors. Waiting. Holding space. No fanfare. No spotlight. Just being present. It felt a little like being priest-in-charge, even if only for an hour.

Then came the 10:30 service.

A few folks were unsure about Morning Prayer: what was needed, who should process, and whether acolytes were required. I reassured them gently: no crucifer today, no acolytes, just readers and prayer. To help them feel more comfortable, I explained that the essence of Morning Prayer is simplicity and community. I encouraged everyone to focus on being present and open-hearted rather than worrying about the details. Slowly, the nave filled. A good crowd gathered.

And something surprised me.

I wasn’t nervous.

I trusted the prayer. I trusted the Church. I trusted the Holy Spirit to do what the Spirit has always done: to meet God’s people in ordered, faithful prayer.

The service flowed. Hymns filled the room. Scripture was proclaimed. Prayers rose.

Why Morning Prayer Matters (Even If You’ve Never Been to One)

Morning Prayer is one of the Church’s oldest ways to gather before God. Unlike a Sunday Eucharist, it does not require a priest, an altar, or even a large crowd. It centers on Scripture, psalms, hymns, and prayer, spoken aloud so that faith is shared, not private.

The theology of Morning Prayer is simple yet profound: the Church exists to pray the world back to God, day by day, whether everything feels stable or not. Just as a nurse may find solace in a quiet prayer at the start of a hospital shift, or a commuter may seek peace on a crowded train at dawn, Morning Prayer brings us back to this divine rhythm. It connects doctrine to daily life and reminds us that faith thrives in both sacred and ordinary moments.

In Morning Prayer, the Church doesn’t ask, “Who’s in charge today?”

It asks, “What time is it in God’s story?”

That’s why the service can begin even when the nave is empty. Prayer is not a performance awaiting an audience. It is an act of trust, believing that God is already present, listening, and at work.

For communities without a priest, Morning Prayer is a quiet declaration of faith: we remain the Church. Scripture is still proclaimed. God is still praised. The Spirit still moves among God’s people. The rhythm of prayer keeps the community steady when leadership changes, plans fall apart, or certainty feels thin.

Morning Prayer also teaches something different from the culture around us. In a world that measures success by numbers and results, the Office says that faithfulness comes first. Showing up matters. Saying the prayers matters. Even when only a few voices respond, the prayer is still whole. What unseen prayers sustain your community?

And perhaps most importantly, Morning Prayer reminds us that God does not belong solely to the clergy. The prayers are shared. The psalms are recited together. The work of worship belongs to the whole people of God.

In that way, Morning Prayer is not a “lesser” service. It is the Church breathing: steady, faithful, and rooted, trusting that God will meet us where we are.

After the service, parishioners offered kind words and warm encouragement. Several asked whether I might return next semester. I honestly told them I wouldn’t know until the first week of classes, but I carried their welcome with me. During the transition, I made a point of being attentive to the congregation’s feelings. I noticed a mix of uncertainty and hope in the community. In conversations and through my presence, I aimed to provide reassurance by listening and offering words of comfort. It was important to acknowledge their emotions and let them know their concerns and hopes were heard.

This morning taught me something I’ll remember for a long time: the Church does not fall apart when a priest leaves. The Church is sustained by prayer, including Morning Prayer spoken aloud, hymns sung imperfectly, and seminarians stepping forward when needed. This experience profoundly shaped my sense of vocation. Leading the congregation during this transitional time deepened my confidence and revealed a new dimension of my calling to serve and support the Church in times of change. It reassured me that I could lead and that faithfulness lies in showing up and trusting the Spirit to guide us.

Sometimes theology looks like incense and vestments.
Sometimes it looks like a bulletin you made yourself and a service you trusted God to lead.

May we keep breathing this prayer together, trusting in the Spirit’s ongoing work among us all.

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Today, Christmas begins for us. It is not ending.

The Church remembers what the world often forgets. Christmas is not just one day filled with gifts and busy returns. It is a season that lasts twelve days—a sacred time when the Light is meant to stay with us.

I want to wish each of you a heartfelt Merry Christmas as we begin this first day together.

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On December 26, the world has already moved on from Christmas. The music stops, the ads disappear, and trees are set out for pickup. What felt magical now seems over.

But the Church says, “Not so fast.”

Christmas does not start with the rush. It begins in the quiet that follows. It starts when the noise fades, and the wrapping paper is gone. It begins in a manger, not in a mall.

Luke tells us there was no room in the inn, and that detail matters. God enters the world not with power or careful planning but with vulnerability and surprise. Christ arrives where nothing is ready: just real life, just breath, just presence.

Every year, I am struck by how accessible this birth is. God does not arrive hidden in complexity or privilege. Christ comes where people can reach him: on the floor, in a feeding trough, wrapped in ordinary cloth. The Incarnation is God choosing to be near rather than impressive, and visible rather than distant. From the start, the gospel meets people where they are.

Isaiah gives us words that still ring true:

“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.”

That light is not only for a season. It does not fade when the decorations are gone. It shines in the deepest parts of our lives, in times of grief, weariness, uncertainty, and quiet hope.

Marketing tells us that joy comes from buying, decorating, and consuming more. But Isaiah speaks of a joy that grows because a child is born for us. True authority is not about power, but about bringing peace.

This is a Light the world cannot make or control.

Notice who hears the news first: shepherds. They are people on the margins, working at night and not expecting anything special to happen.

It is no accident that the good news is first spoken to them. God’s message reaches the shepherds without asking them to change who they are or where they stand. Christmas reminds us that the gospel is not only for those who fit in easily; it is shared in ways people can receive it.

The angel’s first words are simple and tender: “Do not be afraid.”

That’s still the message of Christmas.

Do not be afraid of stillness.
Do not be afraid of small beginnings.
Do not be afraid of a God who comes close rather than staying safely distant.

The good news is not rushed. The shepherds go quickly, but not in panic. They go because love calls them, not because fear pushes them.

Titus reminds us that grace is not passive. Grace appears and teaches us to live faithfully now, not by leaving the world but by living in it in a new way.

If grace teaches us how to live, then Christmas also teaches us to make room for one another. The way God comes—low, visible, embodied—sets our example. Accessibility is not merely an extra kindness; it is part of the gospel itself. A Church shaped by the Incarnation learns to slow down, speak clearly, and ensure no one is left out because the door was too narrow or the message too rushed.

Christmas is not nostalgia. It is formation.

The Incarnation changes how we live, how we treat one another, how we care for the world, and how we continue practicing peace even after the carols are over.

So as Christmas truly begins, I invite you:

Slow down.
Leave room for wonder.
Let the Light linger a little longer.

Read the story again. Spend time with it. Pray with it. Let it shape you during these twelve days, not just on one morning.

Christ did not come just to be unwrapped and then forgotten.
Christ came to dwell.

May the Light that shone in Bethlehem shine in your home, your body, your relationships, and your waiting. Christ, who comes gently into human life, also teaches us to build a Church where everyone can belong, receive, and dwell.

As the Church says, “The light of Christ be always with you,” I offer this blessing:
May God’s enduring presence remain with you and guide you in gentle peace.

From my heart to yours, Merry Christmas.

Lectionary Today Year A: Isaiah 9:2-7; Titus 2:11-14; Luke 2:1-14(15-20); Psalm 96

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We do not have words for this state. Scripture points toward it. The saints suggest it. Theology tries to name it, then steps back. It feels as if the mind and soul are no longer pulling apart but beginning to move together—aligned, attentive, and awake. Augustine discusses this possible union in his Confessions, reflecting on the harmony between knowledge and love. Gregory of Nyssa also writes about this coming together in his mystical works, tracing the soul’s journey of transformation. We are not yet changed or glorified, but we are no longer divided.

It is a kind of becoming.

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The Kingdom Is Near—and It Is Gentle

This awareness has grown through a daily practice: returning again and again to the simple truth Jesus teaches, that the Kingdom of God is among us. Not someday. Not somewhere else. Here.

As I focus more on this, something else begins to fade. Fear lessens. The pull of evil weakens. Even my view of Hell begins to change.

I no longer see Hell as a fiery place awaiting human souls. Scripture is more careful than our imaginations. There is separation from God, but that is not the same as torture. The idea of fire signifies purification and judgment that reveal, not cruelty. Tradition has long taught that rebellion against God began with the fallen angels, not with people made in love. This view aligns with what theologians like C.S. Lewis taught—he saw Hell as a state of self-imposed isolation from God’s love. Early Church Fathers like Origen also saw biblical fire as a symbol of God’s cleansing and transforming love. Still, some traditions describe Hell as a place of punishment and suffering. This range of views invites us to look more closely and consider these different teachings. By seeing these perspectives within the wider Christian tradition, we gain a more balanced understanding that fits with both scripture and tradition.

If we talk about Hell carelessly, we make God seem smaller and fear seem larger. But if we speak about the Kingdom thoughtfully, fear becomes responsibility.

Flesh as Gift, Not Obstacle

One gift of this season is a new sense of gratitude for the body. Being present in our human bodies is not a problem to solve but a gift to receive. The Incarnation makes this clear. God does not save us from having bodies. God joins us in them.

To be human means we are here on Earth not as consumers or conquerors, but as caretakers. Genesis does not give us permission to exhaust creation. We are entrusted with it: the soil, air, water, every creature, and our neighbors as well. We are called to ‘work and take care of’ the Earth. These passages remind us that our role is not to exploit creation but to be stewards who nurture and sustain the world around us.

And yet, we know something has gone wrong.

There is an ‘age’ at work in the world, as Scripture says. It is a time of domination and deception, when power turns inward rather than reaching out in love. Scripture shows this struggle in passages like Ephesians 6:12, which says, ‘For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.’ Some call it the age of Satan—not as superstition, but as a real warning that systems can become spiritual forces when they forget God. While it is easy to blame big systems, we should also recognize the power of small acts of love and kindness. These acts can be strong agents of change and stand against the force of domination. By quietly resisting a system that forgets God, love becomes a revolutionary act, showing us that we can help restore God’s purpose to the world.

To live out this ‘revolutionary love’ each day, church members can take simple actions: volunteering at food banks, supporting social justice efforts, or reaching out to a neighbor in need with genuine compassion. These actions are rooted in the Christian belief that every person is made in the image of God and deserves love and respect. Joining community cleanups and supporting policies that protect the environment also express this love in practical ways, reflecting the Incarnation, in which God entered creation and affirmed its goodness. In the church, creating support groups, holding educational sessions on social responsibility, or discussing how to live out scripture can strengthen this love. These actions help change the world around us and bring us closer to God’s vision.

A Word About the Age of AI

This is where these thoughts become practical.

As we enter the age of artificial intelligence, we might be tempted to let machines take over our discernment, wisdom, and even our sense of meaning. Machines may seem to understand. Systems will offer efficiency. Many voices will emerge, yet they will lack bodies, accountability, and soul.

People who are grounded and learning to live with both mind and soul will have important work to do.

This work will not be flashy or controlling but steady and grounding.

We will need people who can remind the Church and the world that AI is not the same as wisdom, that speed is not the same as truth, and that creativity without love is just noise. Our bodies still matter. Creation still groans. The Kingdom of God cannot be automated.

This is not about rejecting technology. It is about recognizing that technology cannot save us. Technology has improved our lives and supports health and communication, but it cannot meet our deeper needs for connection and spiritual growth. We should appreciate its benefits, but not confuse efficiency with the real power of love and community. To meet the challenges of new technology, we need to practice discernment that supports our spiritual health. Taking regular breaks from screens and joining in group prayer helps us rest and reflect, following the biblical call to keep the Sabbath holy. Going on nature retreats also brings us back to the simple grace of creation, as the Psalms praise God’s work in nature. These habits help keep us grounded and remind us of the importance of human connection and community.

Held by the Trinity

What holds all of this together is a relationship: a daily, ordinary, faithful relationship with the Trinity. Not just an idea, but a living connection. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit draw us into a life where love is shared, not kept to ourselves.

The more I rest in this, the more I see that transcendence is not about escape. It is about being more present. Change does not begin by leaving the world but by learning to stay in it without being overwhelmed.

We are not finished beings. We are still becoming.

And for now, that is enough.

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The other morning, I sat down with my Book of Common Prayer open, allowing the day’s silence to settle around me. Morning Prayer Rite I includes that confession that all Episcopalians know so well:

“We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts.”

I paused there for a long moment. That line hits harder when life has been busy, when the days are full, and when the heart feels pulled in every direction. It doesn’t blame the outside world. It doesn’t point to some distant spiritual villain. It points right here—our own hearts. Our own devices. Our own desires.

And that word devices can slip past us if we’re not paying attention.

When the Prayer Book says we’ve followed the devices of our hearts, it means all those small tactics we create to get our way—our ego’s clever plans, excuses, and inner schemes that push God out of control.

Those silent inner plans align with desire, and together they pull us away from the guidance God is trying to provide.

And the truth is, desire rarely shows up as temptation. Most of the time, it sneaks in wearing something innocent—wanting to buy things we don’t need, wanting to be right, wanting control over situations we never truly had control over in the first place. Desire whispers quiet lies that sound almost reasonable.

But deep down, desire is something more meaningful.

Desire is the silent rejection of the gift already in our hands—God’s presence, God’s timing, God’s way.

It causes us to miss the grace right in front of us, making us think that if we could just reach this one thing, we’d finally feel whole.

And immediately after desire, the ego follows.

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In my reflection “The Dawn Where God Speaks,” I described a moment when everything around me disappeared—the noise, the expectations, even my own sense of identity. In that deep silence, the ego had nothing to hold onto. It simply slipped away.

But the moment I returned to daily life—with its routines, conversations, and worries—that ego reappeared. All it takes is one small desire to reignite it, like a spark catching dry leaves. Ego is that quiet serpent on the path—not loud, not dramatic, just waiting for the right moment to whisper doubt into the heart.

And that’s exactly why we need daily practices that soothe the heart. Ego doesn’t stay quiet for long; it surfaces as soon as life speeds up again. Benedict understood this long before I did. His Rule isn’t strict—it’s consistent and compassionate. He structured the day around prayer, silence, work, Scripture, and community because he knew the soul needed gentle reminders of who is truly in charge. Without a rhythm that repeatedly brings us back to God, desire begins to steer before we even realize our hands have left the wheel.

This is why Benedict comments in the Tools of Good Works:

“Do not follow your own will.”

Not because your will is evil, but because it is easily swayed—drawn toward ego, caught in desire, or distracted by the very things that promise comfort but rarely deliver.

At some point, I realized I wasn’t the first person to feel ego rise like a serpent in quiet moments. In my Church History class lectures and in the Education for Ministry (EfM) discussion group, we discussed Anthony the Great, the desert father who left everything behind and ventured into the Egyptian wilderness to face the demons within him. But those “demons” weren’t creatures with claws; they were his own thoughts. His own cravings. His own fears. His own ego surfacing in silence.

Anthony learned the same truth I’ve been slowly discovering: when life slows down, the inner battles grow louder. The desert didn’t create his temptations; it revealed them. Yet, with each whisper of ego and every lure of desire trying to pull him back, he stayed. He prayed. He wrestled. He waited. He trusted that God met him right where his ego was most exposed.

His legacy reminds us that temptation isn’t something “out there.” It’s something “in here.” It reveals the ongoing inner struggle humanity has faced since the beginning—hence the knowledge of good and evil that resembles the Tree of Knowledge. And God doesn’t abandon us in that battle. God stands with us in it.

The true journey of faith is learning to recognize the two voices that speak to us each day. One voice says, “My way,” pulling us inward, tightening our grip, feeding the ego’s need for control. The other voice says, “Follow Me,” guiding us outward into trust, freedom, and deeper surrender. I’m learning—slowly and humbly—that whenever desire and ego try to take the wheel, God doesn’t scold or shame. God waits for us to notice. And the moment we turn back, even slightly, the way home is already open.

And maybe that is the quiet miracle of grace:
We wander.
We let desire rise.
We let ego speak.
We reject the gifts already in our hands.
And still, God whispers:

“Prefer nothing to My love.”

That one line from the Rule of St. Benedict has been sinking deeper into my bones lately. I’m discovering that the only way to quiet my ego and keep desire in check is to stay rooted in the steady rhythm Benedict provides—prayer, silence, humility, work, Scripture, community. Not as burdens, but as daily anchors. Gentle, everyday practices that draw my heart back to God again and again.

I’m still learning this rhythm. I’m still learning how to breathe in God’s timing instead of my own. But every day, Benedict’s wisdom reminds me: we don’t overcome desire or ego by force. We conquer them through faithfulness—one small, steady practice at a time.

Every day, we get another chance to return.
Every day, we can choose the voice that leads us forward.
Every day, the path back home is open, waiting, gentle.

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Happy New Year, friends.

I know—we haven’t reached January yet. But within the Church’s rhythm, Advent signals the moment when everything begins again. Not with fireworks, not with countdowns, not with noise. Advent starts quietly in the glow of candlelight, where something gentle is already awakening in the darkness.

This morning at Christ Church Episcopal, I preached about what it means to become people without a clock—women and men who move not by the pressure of the hour but by the pace of God’s grace. And I want to share some of that reflection with you here.

Because Advent isn’t just a season on the calendar. It’s a way of living, listening, and noticing the God who is already near.

Most of us live by the clock. Our phones buzz. Our schedules tighten. We rush, hustle, and worry about what we’re “behind” on.

But Scripture tells a different story. God’s time—what the saints called kairos—doesn’t tick or tock. It expands, opens, and moves through us during those quiet moments when love finally breaks through the noise.

Advent isn’t about counting down to something distant. It’s about awakening to what God is already doing right in front of us, in real time, in real flesh.

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The prophet Isaiah offers a tender vision:

“In days to come the mountain of the Lord’s house shall be established… and all nations shall stream to it.”

No rushing.
No competing.
Just a world learning how to walk in peace.

Isaiah describes a slow transformation—swords turned into plowshares, weapons into tools for nourishment. That kind of change doesn’t happen quickly. It happens in God’s gentle, dawn-breaking way.

Paul writes, “You know what time it is… now is the moment to wake from sleep.”

He’s not talking about actual sleep.
He’s not advising anyone to drink more coffee or stay up all night.

Paul emphasizes something much more urgent:

“Wake up from the world that numbs you.”
“Wake up from the illusions that distract you.”
“Wake up from believing the world’s story instead of God’s story.”

To “wake from sleep” means to snap out of the secular dream—the pressure to rush, achieve, fear, compete—and step into God’s reality, where the Kingdom is already breaking in.

Paul is telling us:

Shake off what dulled your spirit.
Let go of what kept you spiritually sleepy.
Open your eyes to the light that has already risen in Christ.

The Kingdom is not delayed until the world gets better. It is not waiting for some future time.

The Kingdom of God is here now.
Here.
In this breath.
In this season.
In this very moment.

And Advent is the sacred time when we remember how to see it.

Then Jesus tells us, “No one knows the day or the hour.”

Not the angels.
Not even the Son.
Only the Father.

These words have been distorted into frightening predictions about who is taken and who is left behind. But that was never Jesus’ point. He wasn’t teaching escapism; He was teaching attentiveness.

Being “left” doesn’t mean abandoned—it’s about being entrusted.

Entrusted to love.
Entrusted to forgive.
Entrusted to be the light in the world, even when it grows dim.

The rapture is a modern invention. But the Gospel? The Gospel is ancient, steady, and full of hope. It calls us to live faithfully now, not anxiously wait for a timetable that was never ours to control.

When Jesus says, “Stay awake,” He isn’t asking us to remain physically exhausted or to stand guard for cosmic signs. “Stay awake” in the Gospel means something gentler, deeper, and far more hopeful.

It means be open.
Be aware.
Be spiritually attentive to the God who is already here.

Jesus is inviting us to notice how the Kingdom quietly breaks in—through love, mercy, and the neighbor who needs a little extra grace today. He is calling us to stay alert to the movement of the Spirit, to the ways God is transforming the world not with dramatic explosions of glory, but through steady, everyday holiness.

Staying awake means refusing to go through life on autopilot. It involves living with a deep awareness that says:

The Kingdom of God isn’t someday—it’s already breaking through right now, all around us.

I once wrote that we are the Beatitude People—the blessed ones. The ones who hunger for justice, who make peace, and who carry mercy out into the world.

Being “people without a clock” doesn’t mean drifting aimlessly. It means trusting God’s timing more than our own.

It means allowing love to lead.
Letting compassion determine the flow.
Letting grace guide the rhythm.

And yes — it also means making room at the table for everybody and every story.

If Advent is about awakening, then accessibility is integral to the Gospel.

A church that listens only to those who hear clearly isn’t truly awake.
A community that welcomes only those who move quickly hasn’t yet awakened.
A people who believe God speaks only through sound haven’t experienced the fullness of Pentecost.

Advent reminds us that God reveals Himself through all the senses.

Through silence.
Through touch.
Through vision.
Through breath.
Through the languages of hands, bodies, readers, interpreters, captions, loops, screens, and devices that help us communicate.

When Jesus says “stay awake,” He is calling the whole Church to notice who has been pushed to the margins and who is still waiting for the door to open.

A church that lacks accessibility is still asleep.

A church that prepares a space for the Deaf, the disabled, the neurodivergent, the slow-moving, the fragile, and the grieving—that church is already living in God’s time.

Because in God’s Kingdom, no one is late.
No one is behind.
No one is “too much trouble.”
Everyone has a place at the mountain of the Lord.

So this year, maybe Advent feels less like a countdown and more like holy slowing.

Maybe it looks like lighting a candle not to mark the passage of time but to mark presence.

Maybe it looks like stepping outside under the stars—feeling the air, noticing the quiet, and remembering that God holds time itself.

Maybe it looks like learning to listen to those who communicate differently.

Maybe it looks like making worship more accessible, more spacious, more welcoming.

Maybe it looks like measuring your day not by accomplishments but by attentiveness.

Psalm 122 says, “I was glad when they said to me, ‘Let us go to the house of the Lord.’”

Advent happiness isn’t about what’s coming.
It’s about who’s already here.

Christ is near.
The dawn is breaking.
And we—this beautiful, diverse, imperfect community—are learning to move to the rhythm of grace.

We are becoming people without a clock.
People who walk in the light.
People who know that God’s time is always now.

Come, friends.
Let’s walk in that light together.

Amen.

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Naturally, people have questions. And I don’t blame them one bit. When you’re trying to make sense of faith, or the Trinity, or what it means to talk about the Kingdom of God in the middle of everyday life, it can feel like you’re stepping into deep water. Folks wonder how God speaks, how we’re supposed to listen, and why the world still looks so messy if the Kingdom is already here. Some are curious. Some are hesitant. Some are worn out by religion altogether. And yet, underneath all those questions, there is usually a quiet longing, something in the human heart that wants to know whether God is real, whether God still speaks, and whether God might be trying to reach them too. That longing is holy. And it’s often the first sign that the Spirit is already doing more than we realize.

A few weeks ago, I experienced one of those sacred moments that happen unexpectedly, the kind you can’t schedule or plan. I was reading a book for class, nothing dramatic, just sitting quietly with my notes spread out, when something in my spirit stirred. It wasn’t loud, and it wasn’t emotional. It was more like a small shift inside me, subtle but steady, unmistakably holy. I shared the experience with my spiritual directors, and as we talked, that moment began to open up even more. Later in my journal, I called it a “mini-trine encounter,” a gentle touch with the mystery of the Trinity. It was as if a door had cracked open just enough for light to spill through, not revealing everything, but letting me know that something deeper was waiting on the other side. It felt like God whispering, Pay attention.

Days later, still dark in the early morning during one of my usual pre-dawn walks before classes, I was out for a walk before the sun rose. It was quiet and early, and the world had not yet wakened. Aside from a herd of deer, no birds or squirrels were yet active, just that thin quiet that feels like it belongs to God alone.

And in that quiet moment, it came. The Spirit of God speaking deep within me, clear as a bell: “You have an appointment with the Trinity soon.”

I didn’t ask questions. I simply nodded, like you do when something true touches you in the early pre-dawn light. I wasn’t frightened, and I didn’t feel the need to challenge it or make sense of it. I just knew it was the Spirit. I knew the time would come when I’d need to stop and truly listen to whatever the Trinity needed to say.

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It reminded me of young Samuel in the temple, hearing the voice of God three times before realizing the right response: “Speak, Lord, your servant is listening.” Some moments in life call for that same stillness—no rushing, no questioning, no trying to fit God into our own expectations. Just be still. Listen. Let the Spirit speak. If you fill the silence with your own words, you might miss the very thing God is trying to show you—something beyond your comfort zone, yet held safely in God’s hands. And in all of it, I knew one thing for certain: God was walking with me.

Something about the last few days has shifted inside me. I don’t know how to describe it. The entire perspective on life just seems clearer, as if someone, somehow, has turned the spiritual lens slightly so the picture comes into focus. I don’t mean in any big, dramatic way. More like a lift of the heart, a quiet way in which your whole being becomes subtly transformed, and you notice it only because you breathe a little easier.

Part of that came from discovering an essay I wrote last month in my Systematic Theology class on the Doctrine of God. While reviewing some of the material, I reread this essay and felt as if I’d found a key inside me that I didn’t even realize was there—a key resembling the one legend says Saint Peter always carries in his hand. There was a sense of spiritual “ah-ha” and deep confirmation. One of those rare moments when you know you’re not chasing some unicorn fantasy but truly being led.

Jesus makes it clear that the Kingdom of God is for everyone, but He also honestly tells us that if we want to believe in its reality, we need to seek it. Seek and you will find.

And He reminds us of something else, something that most of us have long forgotten.

The Kingdom of God is among us.

Not someday. Not later. Not only in heaven.

But right now.

Right here.

Of course, we understand and believe that the fullness of the Kingdom will come in God’s great homecoming at the end of time. But the seeds of that Kingdom take root deep within us long before that. To see it—truly see it—requires encouragement, discernment, and, ultimately, sincere reflection. It may sound overwhelming, but honestly, it’s much simpler than it appears. You don’t earn it. You don’t force it. You just need to stay open.

We’re living in two realities at once, according to Scripture: the reality of the Kingdom of God and the reality of the present age. The present age is the world as we know it, where free will runs rampant and spiritual blindness still holds influence. We live with two tracks beside us, like parallel train rails running side by side. One is the way of life. The other is the illusion of free will—a winding, pleasant path that, if we aren’t careful, can lead us toward a life that will cost us. We are constantly discerning which track to follow.

Moses understood this. In Deuteronomy, he calls on future generations to “choose life,” reminding us that walking with God is always an invitation, never something forced. And Moses himself experiences this invitation in its fullest form when he stands before the burning bush. That moment is not just a miracle; it is a revelation of the Trinity drawing near.

As Moses steps closer, he enters the mystery of God’s own life. The voice that calls him by name reveals the Logos, the eternal Word through whom creation comes into being. The flame that burns without fading reflects the Spirit—the breath, energy, and movement of God in the world. And the holiness of the moment, the ground turned sacred beneath his feet, points to the Father, the Source of all being. Moses is not encountering a distant deity; he is surrounded by the fullness of the Triune God—creating, sustaining, and speaking all at once.

The ancient storytellers of Israel understood that divine moments like this do not fit neatly into human timelines. Around the campfire, Abraham and his descendants passed down the creation story using symbols, dreams, and holy imagination. These stories were never meant to be read like a modern calendar. Abraham himself, in the imaginative memory of the tradition, may have dreamed creation across six nights—showing that God’s creative work stretches far beyond the way we measure time.

This symbolic storytelling helps us understand why early Christian theologians later described moments like Moses’ encounter as glimpses of the “eighth day”—the day beyond days, representing the ongoing work of God entering our world. The eighth day is where creation, revelation, and redemption come together in a single holy moment.

And we see this even more clearly in Jesus. His resurrection is the greatest glimpse of the eighth day: Christ stepping out of the tomb into a new creation not bound by ordinary limits. His appearance in the upper room—passing through locked doors, moving through what the Celts would call thin places—shows a body no longer confined to the old order of things. His ascension, lifting beyond the sight of His disciples, is yet another window into this holy reality. In the risen Christ, we see the world as God intends it to be: whole, renewed, unhindered by death or fear.

Moses encounters this mystery in a bush ablaze with unspent fire. The disciples witness it in the risen Christ walking among them. And we experience small touches of that same reality in our own moments of awakening—those quiet nudges from the Spirit, those whispers that draw us toward something deeper.

These eighth-day moments ask us to be present, to listen, and to allow God to speak in ways that push us beyond what we knew before. It’s not something you achieve through desire alone or by forcing your way into holiness. In fact, too much striving can lead to temptation. When we push ourselves toward God out of fear or pride, we end up chasing our own expectations instead of accepting what God truly offers. And the truth is, you can’t hold love and hate at the same time. You can’t cling to God with one hand while gripping fear, resentment, or self-will with the other. Something must loosen first—something must be surrendered.

The saints and martyrs understood this. They weren’t holy because they tried harder than everyone else; they were holy because they kept their eyes open. They lived with an attitude of attention and surrender, allowing God to shape their hearts rather than trying to shape God in their own image. And because the world couldn’t see what they were seeing, because it couldn’t understand the Kingdom breaking through, they were often cast aside. Yet even then, they didn’t shut down. They kept loving. They kept trusting. They kept listening for the voice that called them by name.

And these are the same invitations that come to us. God doesn’t ask us to perform or prove anything; only to stay alert for the holy moments that quietly enter our lives and to let the Spirit guide us deeper.

We are still living in that tension today. Scripture refers to it as “this present age,” a time when spiritual darkness still covers those who haven’t yet seen the Kingdom. However, this age is not the final one. God’s return will bring complete light.

Until then, we wait, walk, and stay alert.

And when the Spirit says, “You have an appointment with the Trinity,” we nod, breathe, and walk toward the dawn.

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In the life of the Church, we often observe November as stewardship season. While stewardship is more than just a line item on a budget or a card in the pew, it is a way of life. Stewardship means remembering that everything we have — our time, gifts, resources, and even our very breath — is a gift from God. It is about intentionally and lovingly using all the gifts God has given us.

I grew up with an old Southern saying: “God doesn’t ask for what you don’t have — just what you’re willing to open your hands for.” I believe that is the heart of stewardship: opening our hands. Giving isn’t about guilt or obligation; it’s about trust. Trust that God’s abundance is genuine and that the gifts we possess, even those that may seem small compared to the needs around us, serve a purpose in God’s work: to heal and feed, to teach and comfort, to welcome others into God’s community.

Stewardship is not just about money; it’s about opening our hands. It’s also about opening our hearts. It’s trusting that generosity is the key that unlocks our fists, the trust that loosens our grip on control, and allows us to get closer to the beautiful vision that God has for the world.

When we dedicate our time, resources, or ourselves to God’s work, we are planting seeds. These seeds develop into children’s ministries, outreach initiatives, pastoral care, worship, music, accessibility, and those quiet, often unspoken gifts of service that keep our church community united, even if they often go unnoticed.

A Blessing

Looking back over the past 15 months, I am truly touched by everyone who has offered encouraging words and support during my first and second seminary years. To everyone who has shown kindness to me this year: thank you. Your support has meant everything to me.

The Daughters of the King have been a blessing. I know that many of you take the time to pray for us students. The boxes arrive occasionally in my mailbox as a reminder that others are supporting me. Snacks, handwritten notes, prayers, and reminders that people are thinking about me and this new life. It’s not much in the grand scheme of things, but Lord, those boxes are little sacraments to me: tangible moments when God leans down in my ear and whispers, “You are not walking this path alone.”

I tell you all this to assure you that this work—this work of encouragement, sharing small joys, prayers, and remembrances with your community and those who need them most—this work changes lives.

And you know, I believe that’s a model for the Church as a whole, not just for seminarians but for everyone who sometimes feels forgotten, discouraged, and worn down. Care packages, meals, letters, and phone calls: it’s stewardship. It’s a generosity that’s willing to recognize a person and say, “You matter. You belong.” It’s the Church at its very best—choosing to love those in need and those on the margins.

So, when I say that your generosity matters, I don’t just mean that in a general sense.

When I say your generosity matters, I truly mean it. I speak from personal experience. Your gifts touch real lives, strengthen real ministries, and give real people the strength to keep going when they need it most. Your support builds a future for the Church that no single person could accomplish alone. Your role in this church and community is not just important—it’s essential.

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An Invitation

To those of you who have been following me on Substack, thank you. You can find an option on my Substack to pledge a monthly or yearly contribution to my work here. All of that support funds my summer mission work, when I serve as a chaplain, visiting nursing homes and caring for people who are lonely or hurting. If you are so led, so moved, or so called, your support of this ministry makes it possible. Please know it is received with care and gratitude.

Stewardship as Trust

So, as you pray over your pledge this year, I invite you: pause for a moment and take a breath. Remember how God has blessed and sustained you. Remember the ministries that are most important to your parish and community. Remember the future God is growing in you and through you.

And then, with whatever amount is appropriate for your life, give your gift not out of a sense of duty... but out of trust. Trust that God will take what we offer and multiply it into grace.

May this season of gratitude bring us closer to God’s heart... and to one another.

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All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day, important gateways into the vibrant and radiant core of God, stand side by side like two open invitations to the same mystery. These days are not only about remembering but also about celebrating the lives of those who have gone before us and the impact they’ve had on our faith. On All Saints’ Day, we give thanks for the martyrs and saints who, through their faith and courage, changed the world. These are the ones who heard God’s call and said yes. They were the ones who, through their lives, moved mountains. Some risked or lost everything for the sake of the Gospel. Some worked quietly but steadfastly for justice, mercy, and reconciliation. Each of them, guided by God’s grace, was a light in a dark world and a reminder that holiness is not limited to the cloister or the pulpit. It is born wherever someone says yes to the call of love.

I have enjoyed preaching about several saints over the past year. C. S. Lewis showed us how faith and reason walk together and how the best Christian stories can spark the imagination to explore the Kingdom of God. Martin of Tours laid aside his soldier’s cloak to help the poor, teaching us that Christ often hides Himself in those who suffer. Frances Perkins was the first woman to serve in the U.S. Cabinet. She used her position to bring compassion into public life, creating labor laws based on justice and fairness. Thomas Gallaudet and Henry Winter Syle, two pioneers in Deaf ministry, demonstrated that the Gospel can be seen, signed, and shared in every language of the human heart. Each of these saints moved mountains through the power of love.

The next day, All Souls’ Day, is quieter and more personal. It is the day when we remember all the faithful departed: not just those whose names have been canonized or inscribed in history books, but also those whose names we remember ourselves. Parents, grandparents, teachers, friends, neighbors—each of them is held in God’s mercy. Each is a beloved part of God’s family. This day reminds us that no one is ever forgotten and that no life is too small to matter to God. It’s a time to remember our loved ones, share stories about them, and feel their presence in our lives.

When we speak of the communion of saints, we mean more than just memory. We mean connection—a living fellowship that transcends time and space. The saints are not absent from this world; they are part of that great cloud of witnesses, cheering us on as we run our own race of faith. Every candle we light reminds us that love never truly dies; it only takes a new form. The saints are not only part of our past but also part of our present and future, guiding and inspiring us on our journey of faith.

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In many churches, the names of the departed are read aloud. Candles are lit, bells are rung, and photos are placed on an altar of remembrance. All of these gestures, simple as they may be, reflect the profound mystery that the Church is more than just the people who gather on Sunday morning. The Church also comprises that unseen company of heaven: the souls who now rest in the peace and joy of God’s eternal embrace. This shared ritual of remembrance connects us in a comforting web of love and support.

You can also observe these holy days at home. Create a quiet space with a candle, and if you wish, include a photo of a loved one who has passed away. Light the candle and offer a prayer of gratitude for that person’s life. Read a scripture passage, such as Hebrews 12: 1–2 or John 11:25–26, then sit quietly for a few moments. Feel the way the veil between heaven and earth becomes thinner. Feel your heart know that your loved ones are safe with God. If you have children, invite them to share a story about someone they remember. This simple household ritual can teach your children that love endures beyond death and that we all belong to the family of God. It’s a reminder that love, like the saints we honor, is eternal and unchanging.

Both of these holy days call us to live with grateful hearts and mindful eyes. They remind us that holiness is not about perfection; it is about presence. It is about showing up and showing love, again and again, until our very lives become part of that unending song of praise.

Light a candle. Whisper a name. Give thanks. The veil between heaven and earth is thin this time of year, and if we listen with our hearts, we may still hear the saints singing.

Scripture Reflection

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us.”
— Hebrews 12:1 (NRSVue)

Closing Prayer

O God of the living and the dead,
we give you thanks for the saints who have gone before us
and for the souls who rest in your peace.
Grant us grace to follow their good examples,
to love as they loved,
and to trust your mercy when our own time comes.
Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

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There comes a time when preparing for death is no longer just a distant thought but a current reality. For some, that moment is now. When the body weakens, breathing becomes shallow, and the certainty of death can no longer be denied. As a spiritual companion in Christ, I want to particularly speak to those in this final stage of the journey, not as a doctor or ethicist but as a fellow traveler of faith.

At the end of a faithfully lived life, we face our death. Our death isn’t a departure from faith but its fulfillment. Just as we aimed to live with trust, prayer, and love, we are now called to die with the same faithfulness.

It’s natural to experience fear, sadness, or even resistance as death nears. Scripture never dismisses these feelings. The psalmist cries out, “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me” (Psalm 23:4). The valley is real. The shadow is real. But so is the Shepherd who walks with us.

Dying is part of the moral and spiritual journey of life. We are not diminished when we admit our vulnerability. In fact, recognizing our mortality opens space for God’s strength to support us.

One of the most challenging tasks in our final days is letting go of control over possessions, health, and certain relationships. However, letting go is not the same as giving up. It involves trusting our lives more fully to God’s hands. Letting go means recognizing our limitations and entrusting our future to God’s care. It is a deep act of faith and surrender, not a sign of weakness or defeat.

During this season, some individuals will face decisions about medical care: whether to continue treatments that drain the body or to receive palliative care that focuses on comfort and peace. Choosing not to prolong suffering is not a sign of weak faith. It can be a profound act of trust, a way of saying: “My life is not my own. I am ready to rest in the mercy of God.”1

This discernment—knowing when to persist and when to let go—requires prayer, conversations with loved ones, and deep listening to God. Spiritual guidance at this stage often involves helping the dying person and their family shift from fear to trust, from holding on to surrender.

The Church provides meaningful gifts for the last journey:

• The Eucharist is spiritual nourishment for our journey, reminding us that Christ himself is our daily bread.2

• Confession and forgiveness help us prevent carrying unresolved burdens to the grave.3

• Anointing with oil signifies that our bodies, though fragile, are temples of the Holy Spirit.4

• The community’s prayers, surrounding us with love, remind us that even in death, we are never alone.5

Presence, prayer, and sacrament may not heal physically, but they mend in ways medicine cannot. These spiritual practices provide a unique kind of healing that soothes the soul and brings peace to the heart, offering comfort and solace in the face of death.

For those of us who live in the D/deaf community, silence is not emptiness but presence. In our culture, silence is not a lack of sound but a rich and meaningful way of communicating. Death, similarly, is not a void but a transition into deeper communion with God. It is a moment of profound significance and potential for spiritual growth.

This perspective can offer comfort when words fail and sounds fade; God stays present in the silence, a reassuring presence in the face of death. To those nearing death, I say: you don’t need perfect words; you only need the willingness to rest in God’s embrace.

If you are nearing the end of life, think about these invitations:

• Rest in God’s presence. You don’t need to be “productive” anymore. Just being in God’s love is enough.

• Release old burdens. Ask for forgiveness when possible; let go when it’s not. Trust God to heal what remains unfinished.

• Receive the sacraments. Let the Church’s prayers and rituals support you when your strength wanes.

• Let go of control. Medicine can only support you temporarily, but your life is more than machines. Trust your passing to the Lord who holds you in both life and death.

• Remember your hope. Christ has gone ahead, preparing a place for you. Death is not an end, but a doorway into the fullness of God’s kingdom.

Closing Prayer

Into your hands, O merciful Savior, we commend your servants. Acknowledge, we humbly beseech you, sheep of your own fold, lambs of your own flock, sinners of your redeeming. Receive them into the arms of your mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light. Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

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This past Sunday, I had the privilege of preaching at Christ Church Episcopal in South Pittsburg1. The Gospel lesson was one of those stories that really gets under your skin—the kind that makes you sit a little uneasy in the pew. Preaching it was one thing, but living with it all week was another.

As I prayed over the parable of Lazarus at the gate, I found myself wrestling not only with what Jesus was saying to the congregation but also with what he was saying to me. Sermons don’t just land on the ears of others; they take root in the preacher first. And in this case, the deeper I listened, the more uncomfortable questions surfaced. Who have I failed to notice? Where have I looked away? How many times have I passed by Lazarus without realizing Christ was waiting right there?

There’s a strange kind of blindness that comes with being human. Not the blindness of the eyes, but the blindness of attention. We can walk right past someone in need and never truly notice them.

It’s not that we mean to ignore, but our world trains us to look away—to keep our heads down and focus on the next thing. Over the years, I’ve learned something different through the Rule of St. Benedict. Benedict teaches us to pause, to listen with “the ear of the heart,” and to see Christ in everyday interruptions. That kind of discipline slows us down and helps us notice the person right in front of us.

We don’t always notice what’s happening until someone or something causes us to pause and reflect—but the Benedictine way reminds us that every encounter is a chance for a change of heart.

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But the truth is, the Lazarus at the gate remains there.

For some, Lazarus is the homeless man with a cardboard sign at the red light. For others, it’s the woman in a wheelchair who can’t find a way into the building because there’s no ramp. Sometimes it’s the deaf person left out of a conversation, the child with Down syndrome who isn’t invited to the birthday party, or the young adult with autism who struggles to find belonging in a crowded room. It can even be the neighbor down the street who lives alone and feels invisible.

What these lives share is that they are often overlooked—not because of malice, but out of habit. Nonetheless, each one bears the image of God.

Scripture repeatedly reminds us that God is found where we least expect it, in the wilderness, among the poor, and with the outcasts. The people we pass by are not interruptions to our lives; they are invitations. Invitations to step outside ourselves, see with God’s eyes, and open our hearts.

And here’s the hard truth: if we don’t learn to see Christ in the margins, we might not recognize him at the center of our lives.

As I prepared my sermon, I kept asking myself, ‘Where have I missed something?’ Whom have I overlooked without a second thought? The questions wouldn’t let me go. I reflected a lot and realized I’ve failed more times than I’d like to admit.

One memory came back from when I worked in downtown Jackson, Mississippi. I was walking to grab lunch when I passed a man sitting on the steps outside a store. He didn’t ask for anything—just sat there quietly with tired eyes. I noticed him, but only for a second—then I kept moving, more focused on where I was headed than on who was right in front of me. Later, it hit me: I had brushed past someone who might have needed acknowledgment, a smile, or a moment of kindness.

That memory hurt, but it also became a turning point. Because the moment I slow down and truly look, I realize that Christ has been waiting there all along—in the man on the steps, in the neighbor down the street, and in the faces I’ve missed before.

Here’s my prayer: that we notice Lazarus at our gates. That we are not blinded by routine or distracted by comfort. That in seeing those who are marginalized, we rediscover the face of Christ—not hidden from us, but hidden in plain sight.

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It's the Fourth of July here in Sewanee, and the day began just as you'd expect—fried chicken, green beans, and potato salad on my plate, with families gathering on the lawn outside my window. Folks were playing cornhole and waiting for the parade to start. But as I sat at the bay window, fork in hand, something pulled at my heart.

There was a stillness between the noise, a sacred pause, where the Spirit gently nudged me. My eyes shifted from the celebration outside to something more profound stirring within. The thought came clearly: we are distracted—as a people, as a Church, and sometimes even as followers of Jesus. And that's when this reflection began.

It occurred to me that God doesn't take sides, at least not in the way we typically think.

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God doesn't pledge allegiance to any flag. Zero. Nada. He doesn't anoint presidents or political parties—absolutely none. While God allows human leadership to rise and fall, that doesn't mean He always endorses it. Scripture reminds us again and again that God is not partial (Deut. 10:17; Job 34:19; Acts 10:34). His reign operates on a level no earthly government can claim.

Even when tragedy occurs or a leader is harmed and a nation is shaken, God remains sovereign. Recently, while Donald Trump was the President-Elect of the United States, he was injured when a gunshot grazed his ear. It was a shocking moment that stirred a wide range of emotions across the country. However, even that kind of violence does not catch God off guard. It doesn't indicate divine judgment or favor. Instead, it reminds us that even the most powerful people are still human, still vulnerable, and in need of grace just like everyone else.

Now, I understand this is sensitive ground. And to be clear, I'm not claiming that one political party is good and the other bad. That's not where my heart lies. What I'm struggling with is how quickly we lose our focus when we start acting like God's will is connected to our political preferences.

Some people say the president is evil, while others believe he's been chosen by God. Either way, we risk turning politics into a kind of idol. Satan's real power doesn't come from political systems; it comes from distraction. The enemy doesn't need to run a government—all Satan needs to do is get our eyes off of Jesus.

And while I'm here, let me say this clearly. Christian Nationalism has no place in the Gospel. When our faith is used to promote power, control, or exclusion, it no longer reflects the teachings of Christ. God doesn't bless nationalism wrapped in religious language. Our identity as followers of Jesus must never be confused with loyalty to an earthly nation. Jesus didn't come to build a country. He came to redeem the world.

Christian Nationalism is a belief system that combines national identity with a specific expression of Christian faith. It implies that being truly American means being Christian and that the government should reflect or uphold Christian values as defined by a particular tradition. This belief system often leads to the exclusion or sidelining of those who don't fit that narrow idea, which can distort the Gospel. While loving your country isn't wrong, Christian Nationalism goes further by merging faith with political power, often to the detriment of those who don't fit its narrow definition. This is not the Gospel, which goes beyond national borders and speaks to all people, not just one nation or party.

And somehow, this kind of thinking has found its way into the halls of government. It's transforming the true meaning of American liberty, and more importantly, it's leading many of God's children away from Him.

I believe we are in a season of shaking. God is stirring hearts, disrupting our routines, and calling us back to what matters most. But it's not just happening in politics. God is also speaking through the very fabric of creation. The wildfires across the western United States, record-breaking floods, geomagnetic solar storms, earthquakes, volcanoes, and the warming of ocean waters worldwide—all of it cries out with urgency. As Scripture says, "Creation itself has been groaning" (Romans 8:22), and I believe God is using these signs to awaken His people.

Maybe this moment in our national and global life is part of that sacred disruption. Not because a leader is rising or falling, but because God is calling us to remember who truly reigns. Let's refocus our attention on God's sovereignty, His control over all things, and His just, merciful, and everlasting reign.

Jesus didn't come to take sides; He came to save the world. He didn't run for office or start a campaign. He stood before Pilate and said, "My kingdom is not from this world" (John 18:36). That's the Kingdom we belong to. That's the Kingdom we seek every time we pray, "Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven."

As we light fireworks and sing our patriotic songs, let's do so with gratitude and a sense of perspective. Our true identity isn't found in the stars and stripes; it's found in the One who bore the cross.

God doesn't take sides. He takes control. And His reign is just, merciful, and everlasting.

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Jeremiah takes us to the Potter's house, where clay turns on the wheel. Clay doesn't argue with the Potter, yet how often do I find myself resisting God's hands? Jeremiah's image is both unsettling and hopeful — God won't discard the clay, but He might press it down and start over. That reshaping can hurt, but it's always done with the Potter's steady touch, a touch that reassures us of His unwavering love and care.

Psalm 139 offers a different perspective. Instead of being shaped from clay, we are woven together in love, each thread intentionally chosen by God's design. This reflects the Incarnation in its early form: God takes pleasure in bodies, not just souls. He understands our structure, senses, and limitations, yet still affirms that we are wonderfully made. The God who created us is the same God who entered flesh in Jesus Christ — demonstrating that discipleship is always embodied.

Paul's short letter to Philemon shows how this transformation happens within a community. Onesimus was a slave; Paul dares to call him "a beloved brother." In a world built on hierarchy and ownership, Paul asks Philemon to see with new eyes. That is true accessibility — not just ramps or interpreters (though those are important), but the Gospel's deeper work of breaking down barriers so no one is excluded from belonging. This inclusiveness of God's love makes us all feel accepted and valued, no matter our past or social status.

And then comes Jesus in Luke's Gospel, with a word that cuts straight to the core: 'Count the cost.' Following Him isn't about adding a little religion to our lives. It's surrender. It's carrying the cross. It's being broken and remade through the power of His love. The cross is the wheel where God takes our cracked vessels and reshapes them into something new, a process that fills us with hope and inspiration for the future.

These readings make me pause and ask myself:

• Where am I, like stiff clay in God's hands?

• Which relationships need to be reshaped by Christ's love?

• Am I truly willing to be transformed, even if it costs me everything I believe I cherish?

I recall a season not too long ago when God's reshaping felt especially real. After twenty-six years away from school, I found myself stepping back into the classroom as a seminarian. I carried all kinds of questions: Was I too old for this? Could I keep up with the pace of academic life? What if my deafness made me stand out in ways that felt isolating? I felt like stubborn clay on the wheel, unsure if I could be molded again.

But gradually, through professors who encouraged me, classmates who became friends, and quiet moments where God's presence embraced me, I realized I was being reshaped. I noticed it especially during worship. Sometimes at Evensong, I would take off my cochlear implant to sit in silence. The music still moved me, not through sound but through the vibrations in the walls, the movement of the choir, and the way the entire chapel seemed to breathe. In those moments, I learned that God reshapes us not only through what we hear but also through what we see and feel. The Potter doesn't just work with one kind of clay — He uses all the textures of our lives.

Here's the good news: God never leaves the clay unattended. The Potter's hands are steady, the shaping is done with love, and the vessel He forms is for His purposes. Whether we approach Him through sound or silence, touch or vision, the invitation remains the same: to be reshaped for discipleship.

And maybe that's the core of my current project: to explore how accessibility isn't an afterthought but integral to the Gospel itself. Discipleship transforms us to recognize that God is already accessible — in Christ, in creation, in community — if only we are willing to be reshaped enough to notice.

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What truly stayed with me wasn’t just the opportunity to preach. It was the spirit of the place and how these two congregations embody the Gospel together. From what I’ve seen, St. Thomas and the Church of the Advent are currently the only Episcopal congregations in the country that hold joint worship services for Deaf and hearing communities. Most Deaf Episcopal churches across the nation still worship separately, maintaining their own services and spaces. That makes what’s happening in St. Louis even more remarkable. It felt genuinely inclusive—not just in words, but in actions. Unity was expressed through worship, not just structure. And that directly reflects what our Baptismal Covenant calls us to: to seek and serve Christ in all persons, and to respect the dignity of every human being—worshiping together as one body made that calling feel real, even tangible.

St. Thomas and the Church of the Advent, two distinct congregations with their own unique rhythms, leadership, and fixtures, have beautifully demonstrated the potential of unity in diversity. They have found a way to worship together as one body, honoring their differences while embracing their shared faith. This model, which doesn't merge their governance or liturgical planning but brings them together in the same space every Sunday, stands as a testament to the power of inclusive worship. It's a sight that truly inspires and is a rare occurrence.

During the service, Deaf congregants gathered in a section of the nave, while hearing congregants were more mixed throughout both sides. When Scripture was read, both groups participated simultaneously. Deaf people signed in ASL, and hearing people read aloud in English. Two languages, one reading—at the same time. The Psalms were done differently, but the Old Testament and Epistle readings were shared side by side. It was profoundly moving to witness such an embodied liturgy.

During the Eucharist, the Rev. Emily signed the entire liturgy using SimCom, a communication method that combines signing and voicing. It wasn't pure ASL, but it was clear, intentional, and accessible. Sometimes, she alternated between spoken English and Sign Language, depending on the flow of the service. Rev. Emily, a hearing priest who started learning ASL in college, will be the first to say—it was Deaf people who taught her. This was a gift, freely given, and one she now uses to serve God's people with grace and humility. Watching her lead the Eucharist bilingually wasn't just practical; it was effective. It was pastoral. And it was undeniably beautiful. It shows what's possible when we stop asking which language fits best and instead ask how everyone can fully belong.

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I had the privilege of preaching at both morning services. The 8:00 a.m. service at the Church of the Advent was a small, quiet gathering. I preached using only my voice. At 10:00 a.m., I preached to a combined congregation using SimCom, trying my best to voice and sign at the same time. Let me tell you, that's not easy. SimCom isn't pure ASL. It follows English word order and often misses the richness of either language. Sometimes I had to use two or three signs to convey a single English word. If I truly wanted to preach in pure ASL, I would need to turn off my voice and sign with full visual and spatial expression.

Even with the challenge, I was thankful for the opportunity. I felt seen and heard. I was welcomed into a space that embraced both languages and communities. To me, that is what accessibility truly means. It’s not just a checklist or a trend. It’s about building a relationship. It’s about showing up, learning each other's languages, and creating space for grace.

This visit planted a seed in me. It gave me a glimpse of what a new ministry could look like once I return to the Diocese of Mississippi after completing my seminary studies. The seed is a vision of a community where Deaf and hearing worship not apart from one another but alongside each other. Where inclusion is not just a value written on paper but a reality lived at the altar. This vision, inspired by the inclusive worship I witnessed, has the potential to transform future ministry in Mississippi, making it more accessible and inclusive for all.

I am deeply thankful to St. Thomas and the Church of the Advent for their warm welcome, beautiful liturgy, and the hope they have sparked in me. Their hospitality and inclusiveness have made a lasting impact and have motivated me to carry their spirit forward in my future ministry.

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As the summer sun begins to dip a little earlier each evening, I find myself looking back with a grateful heart. These past few months have been a whirlwind—sacred, challenging, and deeply formative. I've just finished my summer unit of Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE), a required part of seminary training, where we serve in hospitals, rehabilitation centers, and nursing homes to learn the art of pastoral care.

This summer, I ministered in both hospital and long-term care settings in southern Tennessee. My weeks were busy—visiting with patients, walking alongside families, and learning how to be present in rooms where words often fail to convey the full meaning. Some days, all I could do was hold space, listen, or pray silently in my heart. At other times, I felt called to speak the truth gently, to cry with the grieving, or to laugh with someone who needed to feel human again.

Alongside my CPE work, I had the unexpected blessing of teaching American Sign Language at St. Andrew's-Sewanee School during their summer camp program. For two weeks, I worked with curious and bright young campers, introducing them to the beauty of Deaf culture and the expressive depth of American Sign Language. That classroom became a joyful extension of my ministry—another way to bridge communication, build trust, and plant seeds of awareness and inclusion.

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There's one thing I know for sure: I couldn't have done any of this without your unwavering support and belief in my journey. Your presence in my life constantly reminds me of the power of community and the strength it provides.

To my paid subscribers—thank you. Your generosity helped cover my transportation and meal costs this summer. That may seem small, but it wasn't. It meant I didn't have to worry about gas money while giving my all to this work. It allowed me to fully support others without the worry of how I would feed myself between hospital rounds and class prep. For example, there was a day when I was able to spend extra time with a patient because I didn't have to rush to get my next meal. That kind of support makes all the difference, especially when you're providing care from a deep well that also needs tending.

Your gifts, regardless of size, became the quiet grace that powered this ministry, making a meaningful difference in the lives of those I served. Your support was not only financial but also a testament to the strength of collective effort in creating change.

CPE isn't easy. It requires you to show up—not as a perfect chaplain, but as a whole human being. I encountered parts of myself I didn't expect: old wounds, insecurities, questions about what it means to carry the presence of Christ into a hospital room. There were moments when I felt inadequate, questioning my ability to provide comfort. But in those moments, I also found a deeper authority—not based on having the right words, but on simply being present. The Spirit appeared in moments I would've missed if I had been too busy performing or fixing.

One scripture that stayed with me all summer is from 2 Corinthians 12:9—"My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." I experienced that truth in every visit, awkward silence, tears held back or let loose. God's grace met me in my weakness, and somehow, that was enough.

Now I'm turning the page toward the fall semester, with field education on the horizon and a new rhythm of learning and serving ahead. I'm excited to see what new challenges and opportunities this next phase will bring. But before I get swept into the next season, I needed to pause and say: thank you.

Thank you for believing in this calling and making the path a little easier. Your continuous support is vital as I continue to show up with love and compassion to those who need it most and share the beauty of Deaf language and culture with a new generation of learners.

May God bless the road behind us, the path ahead, and the grace that holds us together in between.

With love and deep gratitude,
Jason

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That conversation stayed with me.

As I drove back to Sewanee from a trip home to Mississippi, their voices kept echoing in my mind, not in disagreement but in curiosity. I kept thinking: We all have these thoughts about the afterlife, whether we say them out loud or not. Often, we inherit ideas from childhood, church, or culture without ever stopping to wonder—what do we truly believe?

And as someone shaped by both Episcopal tradition and real-world pastoral encounters, I couldn’t help but want to sit with that question a little longer. This reflection isn’t meant to provide all the answers, but to explore one of the oldest and most tender questions in the Christian life: what happens in the space between death and glory?

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Paul’s Wrestling with the In-Between

In his earliest letters, such as 1 Thessalonians, Paul describes the dead as “asleep,” waiting for Christ’s return. His hope is based on the Jewish apocalyptic tradition: the trumpet will sound, the dead in Christ will rise, and together we’ll be caught up into God’s final victory.

It’s worth pausing here to note: this isn’t what some modern Christians call “the rapture.” Paul isn’t describing a secret disappearance of believers or a timeline of tribulation and escape. What he envisions is deeply communal and cosmic—the resurrection of the dead, the renewal of creation, and Christ’s victory made visible for all. Anglican theology doesn’t teach a rapture doctrine; instead, we affirm the resurrection of the body, the eternal life, and Christ’s return to restore all things, as we confess in the Nicene Creed every Sunday.

At that stage in his ministry, Paul wasn’t worried about where souls go immediately after death—he was waiting for the parousia, the return of Jesus.

But as time passed—and as he faced beatings, imprisonment, and the shadow of his own mortality—Paul’s theology began to shift. In 2 Corinthians, we see him saying that he would “rather be away from the body and at home with the Lord.” By the time he writes Philippians from prison, Paul is clear: “To die is gain... to depart and be with Christ is far better.” Paul still believed in the resurrection of the body, but he now also spoke of a more immediate fellowship with Christ after death.

That tension—where we are both awaiting resurrection and somehow already with Christ—is at the core of what many Christians have contemplated for centuries. Over time, this contemplation gave rise to the doctrine of purgatory.[2]

Purgatory: Development, Not Dogma

The word “purgatory” doesn’t appear in Scripture, but the concept of some purification after death started showing up in early Christian writings. Church Fathers such as Origen and Gregory the Great described a purifying fire—not one of punishment, but of purification—preparing the soul for full communion with God.

Origen, one of the earliest Christian theologians, wrote:

“If a man departs this life with lighter faults, he is condemned to fire which burns away the lighter materials… he is purified from the blemish of sin and made fit for the Kingdom of God, where nothing defiled may enter.” [3]

This wasn’t a fire of hell, but one of healing—refining the soul through God’s mercy. Origen, referencing 1 Corinthians 3, described a purifying fire that prepares believers to fully stand in God's glory. And for those who hear “flame” and imagine pain, consider this: the same fire that appeared to Moses at the burning bush did not destroy the bush; it lit it up. It brought it to life, vibrant and full of green. God's flame doesn't consume to punish; it purifies to renew. Depending on how we’ve lived our life on earth—whether we’ve released our attachments, forgiven others, or let go of pride, control, or unhealthy desires—that purification may be gentle or more intense. In Jewish tradition, there’s a belief that the purification of the soul after death varies in duration and depth, depending on how long it takes for a person to let go of what clings too tightly to this world. That’s the heart of the theory: before entering God's presence, nothing unholy or unhealed remains. It's not punishment; it’s preparation.

As the centuries passed, this became more formalized, especially in the Latin West. By the Middle Ages, purgatory had become a well-defined doctrine, complete with practices such as indulgences and special Masses. The Reformers pushed back hard, viewing those practices as spiritually manipulative and lacking biblical support.

That’s when the Anglican tradition took a clear stance. Article XXII of the Thirty-Nine Articles describes the Roman doctrine of purgatory as “a fond thing, vainly invented,” saying it has no basis in Scripture.[4] Even today, the Episcopal Church does not require belief in purgatory. You won’t find it in the Catechism or in our creeds.

But here’s the thing: we still pray for the dead.

We continue to entrust them to God’s mercy. We still light candles, offer requiem masses, and speak their names aloud in love and trust. This demonstrates our conviction that death isn’t the end of God’s grace and that the communion of saints encompasses those who are not yet fully perfected in glory.

Gregory the Great, writing in the 6th century, put it this way:

“As for certain lesser faults, we must believe that, before the Final Judgment, there is a purifying fire… the flames of transitory punishment may cleanse away the minor faults.” [5]

And he added:

“The holy Church, by the offering of the saving Victim and by the prayers of intercession, helps souls even after death. Thus, what they could not obtain while alive, they may obtain after death.” [6]

Even then, the Church recognized that grace doesn’t end at the grave.

Didn’t Jesus Talk About Hell?

Some readers—particularly from evangelical backgrounds—may ask, “But didn’t Jesus speak of hell as a burning place of eternal torment?”

Well, yes and no. Jesus often used the word Gehenna, which was a real valley outside Jerusalem associated with judgment and unclean things. When He warned about Gehenna, He was drawing on prophetic imagery to describe spiritual danger and separation from God, not laying out a detailed map of the afterlife. [7]

He also mentioned “outer darkness,” “weeping and gnashing of teeth,” and “fire that is not quenched.” These were powerful symbolic warnings—intended to call people to repentance, not scare them into submission. Jesus never described hell as a place where God takes pleasure in punishing people. He was much more focused on proclaiming the Kingdom of Heaven.

So when folks compare purgatory to hell, or say that rejecting a literal, eternal inferno is the same as rejecting Jesus, they’re probably overlooking the bigger picture. Jesus’ message was always more about life than punishment—more about mercy than maps.

An Anglican Middle Way

Many in the Anglican tradition believe, whether or not they use the word purgatory, that God’s ongoing work on the soul after death is about healing rather than punishment or delay, but about preparation. As C. S. Lewis once said:

“Our souls demand Purgatory, don’t they?... I assume that the process of purification will normally involve suffering... I’m sure that if, when I die, I find myself in Purgatory, I shall find it a mercy.” [9]

This isn’t about buying indulgences or fearing fire. It’s about trusting that God finishes what God starts, even beyond the veil of death. Whether we see that as a moment, a process, or simply a mystery wrapped in grace, the core idea remains: God is not done with us, even when we take our last breath.

Holding Hope in Mystery

The Episcopal Church provides a space of open welcome and awe. We may not specify what happens between death and resurrection, but we trust that God’s mercy covers even that in-between space. And we trust, with Paul, that to be absent from the body is somehow to be with the Lord—and yet we still look forward to the day when the trumpet sounds, and we are raised incorruptible.

So, do Episcopalians believe in purgatory? Not officially. But do we believe that love never ends, and that God’s grace is always working to restore us, even after death? I surely do.

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Notes

1. Early Christian imagery often associated death with crossing a river, particularly the River Jordan, which symbolized the transition from the wilderness to the Promised Land (Joshua 3). In pastoral theology and sacred art, a boat on a foggy river or lake has come to represent the soul’s transition between this life and the next. It reflects Paul’s language in Philippians 1:23 about “departing” to be with Christ, implying not an end, but a passage into more profound communion. Getty Images for Unsplash+.

2. For a deeper look at the Apostle Paul’s developing theology of life after death—including the shift from “sleeping” until resurrection to being “with Christ” immediately after death—see Jason D. Boyd, The Development of Paul’s Eschatological Thoughts: Resurrection and Afterlife in Light of E. P. Sanders, March 30, 2025, BIBL 512: New Testament Foundations II, School of Theology, University of the South.

3. Origen. Homilies on Jeremiah and 1 Kings 28. Translated by John Clark Smith. The Fathers of the Church: A New Translation, vol. 97. Washington, D.C.: The Catholic University of America Press, 1998.

4. "The Romish Doctrine concerning Purgatory, Pardons, Worshipping and Adoration, as well of Images as of Reliques, and also Invocation of Saints, is a fond thing vainly invented, and grounded upon no warranty of Scripture, but rather repugnant to the Word of God." The Book of Common Prayer. New York: Church Publishing, 1979. “The Articles of Religion,” p. 872.

5. Gregory the Great, Dialogues, trans. Odo John Zimmerman, Fathers of the Church 39 (Washington, D.C.: The Catholic University of America Press, 1959), 245.

6. Gregory the Great, Moral Reflections on the Book of Job, vol. 1, trans. Brian Kerns, OCSO, Cistercian Studies Series 186 (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications, 2006), 203.

7. See Gehenna references in: Matthew 5:22, 29–30; 10:28; 23:15, 33; Mark 9:43–48; Luke 12:5. Original imagery from Jeremiah 7:30–33.

8. Susan Wilkinson, Abstract image for Unsplash+

9. C. S. Lewis, Letters to Malcolm: Chiefly on Prayer (New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1964), 108.

Before he moved to Texas, we had many meaningful conversations over the years, usually sitting at a coffeehouse table with a warm cup, or often on the patio. There’s something sacred about that kind of table space. It reminds me of how Jesus often taught—not from a pulpit, but around a table, in the middle of everyday conversation.

This time, though, we weren’t sitting face-to-face. We are now four states apart, with me in Sewanee, Tennessee, and him in San Antonio, Texas. Our lives have taken different paths since he moved from Mississippi. But even across the miles, something sacred stirred in our conversation. I was walking on a path, both physical and spiritual, and our talk turned toward deeper waters. He asked me a question I’ve heard before, but never quite like this:

“What good does it do to save the world and lose your own soul, Jesus asked.” (Matthew 16:26; Mark 8:36)

He wasn’t testing me. This wasn’t a quiz or a prompt for a seminary paper. It was a moment of spiritual guidance. And while I wasn’t sure if I needed to answer out loud, I knew the answer was already forming deep in my bones. So I said, “We are to let go of attachments and desires. That’s the only path forward.”

I kept walking, but that question lingered with me. Maybe it always will.

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Jesus’ question is so clear and direct that it leaves no room for unnecessary words: “What good is it to gain the whole world and lose your soul?”

It feels like one of those questions that demands attention more than it requires an answer.

Because we live in a world that urges us to pursue everything—to accumulate, achieve, secure our futures, hustle, build platforms, gain influence, and make something of ourselves—there's nothing inherently wrong with success. However, when it becomes our primary guide, we begin to drift.

The truth is, God often gives us exactly what we need, even when it’s not what we thought we wanted. One of the hardest things to let go of is our own expectations—of ourselves, of others, and of how life is “supposed” to go. But releasing these expectations opens space for the Spirit to move. It allows Jesus to work in us and through us, gently and faithfully. And if we’re honest, letting Jesus take his rightful place at the head of the table in our lives isn’t easy. But that’s where real transformation begins.

The world teaches us to seize and control, but Jesus calls us to surrender and trust.

And here’s the thing: Jesus isn’t anti-world. He’s the One who came to redeem it. But He knows how easy it is for us to trade our soul, our true, rooted, God-shaped identity, for earthly possessions that never satisfy.

When Jesus says “soul” (psyche in Greek), He isn’t just talking about the invisible part of us. He means the entire self—our breath, our being, our purpose, and our relationship with God. Losing that isn’t about losing our emotions or even our beliefs. It’s about losing our true self, the one rooted in God's love. When we become so focused on chasing success, approval, or control, we start to drift away from who we were created to be.

We don’t lose our souls all at once. It happens gradually when we ignore the gifts God has given us, when we cling to desires that are out of alignment with our calling, or when we allow attachments to comfort or status to pull us away from the path of grace. Losing our soul means losing that quiet inner compass that guides us back to our connection with God. It means forgetting what truly matters, even if we seem to have it all together on the outside.

In my hospital chaplaincy work, I’ve met people who have lost nearly everything the world encourages us to hold onto, homes, jobs, health, independence, and yet they radiate peace. They understand who they are in God. I’ve also met others who appear to have it all but are quietly longing for something more. That, I believe, is the soul’s yearning for Christ.

Jesus’ question isn’t a condemnation; it’s an invitation.

An invitation to pause. To reflect on what we’re pursuing. To ask ourselves: Am I trading my soul for something that won't last?

It also reminds us that we are already loved. We don’t need to earn it or chase after someone else’s calling. Sometimes, the most faithful thing we can do is follow the gift God has already given us. That gift could be a talent, a quiet strength, or a calling that feels just right for who we are. That is where grace meets us. That is where the Spirit starts to shape us.

And in our Episcopal tradition, we gather at the Lord’s Table not because we have earned the world, but because we long for grace. At that table, Jesus offers us what we truly need: His presence, His peace, and His very self.

How about going for a walk or settling into a peaceful spot? Take a moment to reflect on what you're holding onto, perhaps something Jesus is gently inviting you to release. Imagine what it might look like today to let Him take His rightful place at the head of your table, guiding and caring for you.

By the time I returned home that evening, the stars had begun to shine through the sky. My legs felt tired, but my soul felt lighter. That sacred question still echoed, not in judgment, but in love.

Jesus asked, “What good is it to gain the whole world and lose your soul?”

Maybe the world isn't what we need to gain after all. Perhaps the gift is already within us, waiting to be discovered. And maybe the best thing we can do is keep Jesus at the center of our lives by focusing on Him in everything we do.

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It's June, and I find myself experiencing Pride Month with an unspoken call within my heart to express something. Not to take a side or wave a flag, but to create a little space. A space to sit with the questions, to breathe, to listen. A space to ask what the Holy Spirit might be doing right here in the middle of all this noise.

Everywhere I turn, people are speaking loudly. Some with voices raised in celebration, others with voices full of anger. Some hold rainbow signs, and some post Bible verses like warnings. And I see them all. I hear them all. I understand where they’re coming from, even when I don’t agree. But here’s what I keep coming back to: the Spirit of God has a habit of showing up in unexpected places. And if we’re too busy yelling or shutting each other out, we might just miss it.

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Listening First

I cherish it when people entrust you with the sacred spaces in their lives. These are the places that are tender, complicated, and too messy to share with everyone. As a chaplain and a seminarian, I have had the privilege of sitting with people who have borne a great deal of pain because of who they are. Some come from churches that told them being gay or lesbian (or anything but straight) was broken. They prayed to be changed. Later, they simply prayed to be seen.

And yet, there are others who have clung to their faith. They attend church. They serve. They pray. They love. Not because it has been easy. But because they trust that God is not finished with the Church. That kind of faith inspires me.

I learned something simple and sacred from them: their lives reflect God. Their joy, their grief, their longing to be loved and understood… It’s holy. If we say that all people are forever marked as Christ’s own, then we should be willing to recognize that mark, even when it appears in unexpected ways.

Wrestling with Scripture

Now I know this is where things can get a little tense. The Bible has been used to say a lot about homosexuality—some of it sincere, some of it harsh. I’ve heard folks quote Romans, Leviticus, and a few verses from the epistles. And I’m not going to pretend those are easy texts. They’ve shaped theology for centuries, and they’ve hurt a lot of people.

But here’s something we don’t discuss enough: the word “homosexuality” doesn’t even appear in the original Hebrew or Greek. It wasn’t part of the biblical languages or the worldview of the people who wrote Scripture. The term didn’t appear in English translations until the mid-20th century—and when it did, it reflected modern ideas of identity, not ancient concepts of relationships or behavior.1

When approaching the Bible, we must do so with humility. Scripture is living and breathing. It speaks to us, but it also asks us to listen carefully, contextually, prayerfully, and in community. As Episcopalian, we’re taught to hold Scripture alongside tradition, reason, and our own lived experience. Not to water it down, but to see how the Spirit is still speaking.

When I read the Gospels, I see Jesus moving toward people whom others pushed away. He sat with outcasts, broke bread with folks the religious leaders avoided, and called people beloved long before they believed it themselves. That doesn’t mean we dismiss every question. But it does mean we ask them while sitting at Jesus’ feet—not pointing fingers, but asking for eyes to see.

The Gospel is Bigger Than Fear

Here’s what I believe: the Gospel is big enough to hold our questions, and God’s love is wide enough to meet us exactly where we are. That love doesn’t leave us unchanged, but it doesn’t shame us into change either. It invites us deeper into communion. And communion is messy. It’s full of people who don’t fit neat categories.

I’ve seen that holy mess in LGBTQ+ folks who had every reason to walk away from the Church, but who stayed. I’ve seen it in their courage, tenderness, and faithfulness. And I’ve seen it in people who were once sure they “knew” what the Bible said, but who started listening—really listening—and found their hearts softened.

Love doesn’t always simplify things. But it does make them sacred.

When Communities Walk Away

We’ve all seen it: churches splitting, denominations disaffiliating, and people drawing lines in the sand over who can be ordained, who can be married, and who can be included. Much of this controversy centers around LGBTQ+ inclusion.

These decisions are often presented as pursuing truth—but I think sometimes they’re more driven by fear. Fear of change. Fear of not understanding. Fear of what rethinking something that once felt settled might mean.

I don’t say this to condemn. I’ve felt that fear myself. But what I’ve come to believe is this: the Holy Spirit doesn’t wait for us to feel comfortable. The Spirit keeps showing up in unexpected places. Even when doors are closed, grace finds a crack and slips in.

I still believe we’re all part of the Body of Christ—even when we disagree. But when we start excluding people, we risk cutting off the very parts of the Body that were sent to teach us how to love more deeply.

A Church That Feels Like Home

I believe the Church should be a place where people don’t have to pretend to belong. No one should have to check their identity at the door just to take Communion. If we mean what we say about the table being open, then we’ve got to live it truly, not just our liturgy.

I’m grateful to be part of a tradition that’s striving to improve. The Episcopal Church hasn’t always gotten it right, but I believe we’re learning to listen more attentively. We’re discovering that welcome is more than words—it’s an active practice.

We still have work to do. But I’ve noticed signs of hope. I’ve seen pastors who create safe spaces. I’ve seen congregations where people share their stories. And I’ve observed the Spirit stirring in places we thought were too settled to change.

Walking Together

So here we are. If you’ve made it this far, thank you. Maybe you’re someone who’s been hurt by the Church. Maybe you’re unsure what to think. Or perhaps you’re just tired of the shouting and the shame.

Wherever you are, there’s a place for you here.

I don’t have all the answers, but I believe in walking together. I believe in sitting with the questions and trusting that love is worth the risk.

If you are LGBTQ+, I want you to know: you are beloved. Not despite who you are, but because of who you are. God is not ashamed to dwell in you.

And if you’re someone still figuring out what you believe, I understand. The Spirit has a way of stretching us. But the Spirit also knows how to hold us together. So let’s keep walking. Let’s keep listening. Let’s keep loving with open hands and open hearts.

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