A few days ago, I had the opportunity to sit around a table with a group of clergy and a local politician. It was a good conversation. Thoughtful. Honest. The kind of conversation I wish happened more often. But there was one phrase that came up that always makes me cringe. "We need a separation of church and state." I know exactly what people mean when they say it. They're usually pushing back against the growing influence of Christian Nationalism or warning against one reli

There are moments in ministry when you know, before the words even leave your mouth, that people may not stay to hear the end of the sermon. I have lived that moment. Years ago, while serving on the Southern Oregon Coast, the movement for Black Lives Matter was growing in visibility across the country. Conversations about race, justice, policing, and history were becoming louder, more public, and more divisive. Many churches avoided the topic entirely. It feels safer that way

Lent has begun, and yesterday's Ash Wednesday worship service was beautiful in the small chapel at Silverton. There is something profoundly moving about watching people gently trace the sign of the cross on one another’s foreheads. Spouses marking spouses. Friends marking friends. Parents marking children. Relationships becoming something more tender than before. The words, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return,” landing not as doom, but as belonging. It’s

I was listening last week to Kim and Penn Holderness’ podcast, Laugh Lines (it drops on Tuesdays), and I found myself nodding along more than I expected. They were naming the very real struggle of trying to keep people’s spirits up in tumultuous times—how exhausting it can be to show up with humor or lightness when the world feels like it’s unraveling. They also spoke honestly about the tension of wanting to speak up for their neighbors while worrying about the safety of the

The other day, I was chatting with someone when it happened—that familiar tightening I hadn’t felt in a while. My fists were clenched. My shoulders were high. My mind felt foggy and overworked. And suddenly I recognized it. My body was telling me something it has told me before. The feeling was eerily similar to the mental exhaustion I carried during the height of COVID. Not the same circumstances, not the same level of isolation—but the same deep weariness that comes from wo

Nonviolent resistance is not new. It is as old as the prophets who stood in the public square and refused to be silent, as old as Jesus who disrupted unjust systems without raising a sword, as old as communities of faith who have said, again and again, this is not how it has to be. As a United Methodist clergyperson, I am shaped by our Social Principles , which remind us that faith is never meant to be private or passive. The Social Principles call us to affirm the dignity an

I got a phone call at one of my churches this week. “Are you the church with the 'all are welcome' sign out front?” the caller asked. “The one that says ‘All are welcome in this place’ with the rainbow?” I replied cheerfully. “Yes! That’s us!” 🌈 There was a pause. The kind of pause where your spirit quietly whispers, Here we go. “Does that mean… everyone?” “Yes,” I said. “Jesus is pretty clear that all are welcome into relationship with God.” Another pause. Longer this time

An AI generated epic toy battle! Every so often, when I drive down 13th Street heading toward downtown Salem, Oregon, a neighboring city, I pass a house with a fenced yard that faces the street. Inside the yard are large Transformers, action figures, and dolls. Every time I pass by, they’re in different positions—locked in new poses, new standoffs, new imagined clashes. It’s clear the children who live there are staging an epic battle. Good versus evil. Heroes and villains. T