Recent events in the U.S. have disrupted my equilibrium. I’m hard-pressed, news geek that I am, to listen to daily news. I can hardly bear to hear what new assault our government is making on marginalized, under-resourced, and immigrant populations, while science and ethics are dismissed from the room. I’m an older Boomer, reasonably well-resourced, and there are plenty of days when I feel unequipped to offer my life-skills or passions to change the course of human events.
I owe a debt to song-writer Christopher Grundy, for planting an ear-worm in my brain earlier this year. And lately it’s surfacing more and more often: “Set your face toward Jerusalem.” That mandate comes to us from scripture, Luke 9:51. Shortly after Jesus’s transfiguration (Luke 9:28-36), where three of his disciples witnessed him in glorious conversation with Moses and Elijah, Jesus expressed his determination to go from rural Galilee to Jerusalem, the seat of power for the Jews of the first century CE. Like the prophets before him, Jesus was drawn to confront authority, speaking truth in love to those who routinely inflicted suffering on the marginalized. The expression “setting his face toward Jerusalem” conveys the flint-hard strength of his intention, and his recognition that he is likely to fare no better than the prophets who preceded him.
For me, being a follower of Jesus is a commission to stand with the long-suffering. Perhaps for me, right now, that means setting my face toward Jerusalem – to confront the people in power, who refuse to use their power for the common good. They may be in Washington D.C. or in New York or in the state capitol. In Silicon Valley, or on Wall Street, or in the offices of Big Pharma. Perhaps in the office upstairs or in a mass-detention-center uniform.
Grundy’s song is compelling for me, not so much for his calling his hearers to draw on their courage and determination to confront injustice. Instead, I find most empowering his hope-filled vision of the realization of God’s reign, bringing God’s flowing grace, burning truth, flowering peace, and the commonwealth of God. And most of all, his call to wield the weapon of truth. “Go and speak the truth in love to them.”
Together, may we set our faces toward Jerusalem, wherever it shows up. May we find God’s peace and power in courage to speak the truth. And may that carry us through anger, fear, and despair, closer each day to the Spirit of Life that animates all.
O set your face toward Jerusalem toward the powers that are ranged against all those long suffering go and speak the truth in love to them that the flowing grace of God will never end.
O set your face toward Jerusalem toward the powers that are ranged against all those long suffering go and speak the truth in love to them that the burning love of God will never end.
O set your face toward Jerusalem toward the powers that are ranged against all those long suffering go and speak the truth in love to them that the flowering peace of God will never end.
O set your face toward Jerusalem toward the powers that are ranged against all those long suffering go and speak the truth in love to them that the commonwealth of God will never end….
A Resolution on “Believing into Christ” for the Flourishing of Queer Christians:
Dr. Natalya Cherry, in Believing into Christ: Relational Faith and Human Flourishing (2021), asks, “What does it mean to flourish?”[1] I urge Christians who covenant in Baptism to “believe into Christ,”[2] as we affirm our Niceno-Constantinopolitan creedal statement, to listen deeply to Queer[3] Christians at the intersection of identity and faith.
WhereasThe International Standard Bible Encyclopedia gives three terms that have been translated as “to flourish:” the Hebrew Parach (פָּרַח) and Tsuts (צוּץ) and the Greek Anathallo (ἀναθάλλω), referencing human likenesses to plants in growth potential, need for nurture, renewal, vitality, etc, especially in the Psalms;[4]
Whereas Merriam-Webster offers this definition of “to flourish”:
intransitive 1. :to grow luxuriantly: THRIVE 2. a:to achieve success: PROSPER b:to be in a state of activity or production c:to reach a height of development or influence 3. :to make bold and sweeping gestures
transitive :to wield with dramatic gestures: BRANDISH;[5]
Whereas the people of The Episcopal Church covenant in Baptism to “strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being;”[6]
Whereas the Niceno-Constantinopolitan Creed begins, “when rendered in Latin, Credimus in Deum, literally mean[ing] ‘We believe into God;’”[7]
Whereas credere in Deum, according to Cherry, is “technically translated into English as ‘believing into God;’”[8]
Whereas “it’s one thing to believe God exists, another to believe God’s promises come true, and still a whole other thing to do what translates as ‘believing into God,’”[9] as per Cherry;
Whereas Cherry suggests that human flourishing, especially Christian flourishing, is defined by our credal statement to believe into God, and, by extension, into Christ;[10]
Whereas surveys underreport numbers of people who are [Queer];[11]
Whereas 8% of U.S. adults identify as [Queer] according to a 2024 Pew Research Center survey;[12]
Whereas The Williams Institute, in 2020, reports 5.3 million religious [Queer] adults, of whom 1.5 million are Protestant, 1.3 million are Roman Catholic, 1.3 million are another Christian religion;[13]
Whereas, “our religious narratives have contributed to the unlivability of life for [Queer] people, resulting in suicide;”[14]
Whereas The Episcopal Church, The United Methodist Church, and The Evangelical Lutheran Church have a short but vibrant and public history of out clergy serving, including in episcopal roles, including figures such as Bishop Gene Robinson, Bishop Karen Oliveto, and Bishop Megan Rohrer;[15]
Whereas Jesus says:
I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener…
I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing…You did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you so that you might go and bear fruit–fruit that will last–and so that whatever you ask in my name the Father will give you. This is my command: Love each other. (John 15:1-17 NRSVUE); and
Whereas Paul proclaims the Way of Jesus following the botanical metaphor of vines and branches, encouraging the grafting in of Gentiles (Romans 11), the cultivating of the fruits of the Spirit (Galatians 5), and the co-laboring in God’s garden of the Church (1 Corinthians 3);
Therefore be it resolved, that because Christians have covenanted in Baptism to “believe into Christ”[16] as we affirm our Niceno-Constantinopolitan credal statement of belief in God, we must listen deeply to Queer[17] Christians at the intersection of identity and faith;
Be it further resolved that the “flourishing” witnessed in Queer Christians depends on our “believ[ing] into Christ; and
Be it further resolved that I call on the Church, especially the progressive Protestant Churches in the United States, to “believe into Christ” and to “believe into God” in order to nurture the flourishing of Queer people in specific ways including, but certainly not limited to these:
Listen to the needs of all current members (not only Queer members) of your church to find the “grace margin” between comfort and fear because this is where growth can and will occur toward greater diversity and cultural awareness;[18]
Listen to Queer members of your church to build awareness of their lived experiences of your church culture’s practices (or lack thereof) of welcoming and inclusion toward them, recognizing that each individual experience is unique;
Express and celebrate Queer lives in worship, religious education, and social events by “welcoming not only [Queer people’s] presence but the unique gifts and particularities of their lives as well;”[19]
Learn, continually, through research, direct listening, and educational opportunities language of inclusivity and use what your learn;[20]
Speak through dialogue with local Queer organizations, critical conversations with Queer members of your church, outspoken allyship and advocacy, and outward and visible print and social media publishing your inclusive policies and practices which continually change reflecting your ongoing learning;[21] and
“Believe into Christ” by living out the radical love of Jesus toward every person, recognizing that Jesus’ radical love is Queer and is embodied in Queer Christians, who are a model for flourishing[22] living between fear from marginalization and possibly death and comfort in being a branch of Jesus.
Bibliography
Beck, Brandon. “Keep Your Eyes Ablaze: Living Our Core Values in the Grace Margin.” Sermon. Presented at the Lent 1 11:00 AM Holy Eucharist, February 22, 2026. https://www.facebook.com/share/v/1GZqN6AG2v/.
Episcopal Church. The Book of Common Prayer, and Administration of the Sacraments and Other Rites and Ceremonies of the Church, Together with the Psalter or Psalms of David, according to the Use of the Episcopal Church. New York ; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1979.
Evangelical Lutheran Church in America. Evangelical Lutheran Worship. Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 2006.
[3] Queer remains a controversial term. I use the term with what I hope is bold caution, acknowledged via footnote and continued sous rature of other identifiers such as LGBT or LGBTQ in quoted material. My decision to do so is both personal and political, it is one of “flourishing” and “believing into Christ.” I am Queer, and I do theology in a Queer way. In his foundational text Fear of a Queer Planet (1993), on page xiii, which introduced us to the term “heteronormativity,” Michael Warner says, “Every person who comes to a queer self-understanding knows in one way or another that [their] stigmatization is connected with gender, the family, notions of individual freedom, the state, public speech, consumption and desire, nature and culture, maturation, reproductive politics, racial and national fantasy, class identity, truth and trust, censorship, intimate life and social display, terror and violence, health care, and deep cultural norms about the bearing of the body. Being queer means fighting about these issues all the time, locally and piecemeal but always with consequences. It means being able, more or less articulately, to challenge the common understanding of what gender difference means, or what the state is for, or what ‘health’ entails, or what would define fairness, or what a good relationship to the planet’s environment would be.” Sometimes, the words we give ourselves matter. My use of Queer to identify the population about which I talk in this paper is simply that–my word because it speaks to my experience as a person marginalized by my sexuality and gender identity. Some people like me love this word; others prefer terms of their own. In 2014, in my doctoral dissertation, on page 20, I wrote “Even the progressive Handbook of Research on Educational Leadership for Equity and Diversity in the chapter ‘Creating Inclusive Schools for LGBTIQ Youth, Staff, and Families’ acknowledges [that] ‘Various acronyms associated with identifying queer populations can admittedly be confusing’ and recommends ‘using either LGBTIQ or queer as appropriate descriptors’” (my emphasis now). Because Queer is a noun, adjective, and verb, I use it, as I said, with bold caution. I am a Queer; I am a Queer Person, and I Queer the way I do things in the world. Let all three meanings be heard in the spaces where I use the word. Let all three meanings stand for justice among all people who might find themselves part of communities marginalized because of sexuality or gender identity.
[6] Episcopal Church, The Book of Common Prayer, and Administration of the Sacraments and Other Rites and Ceremonies of the Church, Together with the Psalter or Psalms of David, according to the Use of the Episcopal Church. (New York ; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1979), 305.
[17] Queer remains a controversial term. I use the term with what I hope is bold caution, acknowledged via footnote and continued sous rature of other identifiers such as LGBT or LGBTQ in quoted material. My decision to do so is both personal and political, it is one of “flourishing” and “believing into Christ.” I am Queer, and I do theology in a Queer way. In his foundational text Fear of a Queer Planet (1993), on page xiii, which introduced us to the term “heteronormativity,” Michael Warner says, “Every person who comes to a queer self-understanding knows in one way or another that [their] stigmatization is connected with gender, the family, notions of individual freedom, the state, public speech, consumption and desire, nature and culture, maturation, reproductive politics, racial and national fantasy, class identity, truth and trust, censorship, intimate life and social display, terror and violence, health care, and deep cultural norms about the bearing of the body. Being queer means fighting about these issues all the time, locally and piecemeal but always with consequences. It means being able, more or less articulately, to challenge the common understanding of what gender difference means, or what the state is for, or what ‘health’ entails, or what would define fairness, or what a good relationship to the planet’s environment would be.” Sometimes, the words we give ourselves matter. My use of Queer to identify the population about which I talk in this paper is simply that–my word because it speaks to my experience as a person marginalized by my sexuality and gender identity. Some people like me love this word; others prefer terms of their own. In 2014, in my doctoral dissertation, on page 20, I wrote “Even the progressive Handbook of Research on Educational Leadership for Equity and Diversity in the chapter ‘Creating Inclusive Schools for LGBTIQ Youth, Staff, and Families’ acknowledges [that] ‘Various acronyms associated with identifying queer populations can admittedly be confusing’ and recommends ‘using either LGBTIQ or queer as appropriate descriptors’” (my emphasis now). Because Queer is a noun, adjective, and verb, I use it, as I said, with bold caution. I am a Queer; I am a Queer Person, and I Queer the way I do things in the world. Let all three meanings be heard in the spaces where I use the word. Let all three meanings stand for justice among all people who might find themselves part of communities marginalized because of sexuality or gender identity.
In February during the horrors taking place in Minneapolis, a political leader who touts his Christian faith said that he and his colleagues “respect the dignity of all Americans.” On the surface, his words seem to send a message that resonates with many. Yet, when we think about it, it’s obvious how many people this leader excludes from his call for respect. In contrast, we, as Episcopalians, promise at baptism to respect the dignity of every human being, not just that of our fellow Americans.
And even when he and his colleagues profess to respect the dignity of all Americans, what about the Americans Renee Good and Alex Pretti, not to mention countless other American citizens who have been arrested, beaten, or murdered for exercising their First Amendment rights?
Jesus taught about unconditional love, and unconditional love is inclusive rather than exclusive. Consider those whom Jesus loved: outcasts; the hungry and the poor; the rich young man who couldn’t bear to give up his possessions to follow Jesus; the woman alone at mid-day at the well – a foreigner at that; the sinner; the ritually unclean; the disciple who betrayed him; those who brutalized him and taunted him as he hung upon on the cross.
Martin Hogan, SJ, writes in The Word of God is Living and Active:
As Jesus declares in Luke’s Gospel, “If you love those who love you, what credit is that to you?” Jesus gives expression to a much more self-emptying kind of love. He calls us to live in the same way and gives us the Holy Spirit to help us to love as he loves. (quoted in Sacred Space, 03.09.26)
As St. Paul writes in 1st Corinthians 14:26, “let all things be done for building up,” that is, not for dividing.
And we begin to live into that all-inclusive love when we seek to see all others as we see ourselves and to respect their dignity. Put simply: When we respect the dignity of every human being.
In this exhilarating tale by New York Times bestselling and award-winning author Nnedi Okorafor, a disabled Nigerian American woman pens a wildly successful Sci-fi novel, but as her fame rises, she loses control of the narrative – a surprisingly cutting, yet heartfelt drama about art and love, identity and connection, and, ultimately, what makes us human. This is a story unlike anything you’ve read before.
Her bio describes her as “the global leader of Afrofuturism,” saying,
She writes speculative fiction for adults, young adults, and children…One of the most lauded writers in modern science fiction and fantasy, her honors include the Wole Soyinka Prize for Literature, Nebula, World Fantasy, Locus, Eisner, and multiple Hugo and Lodestar Awards. Born in the United States to Nigerian/Igbo immigrant parents, Nnedi draws deeply from African cultures to create captivating worlds, unforgettable characters, and powerful, evocative stories. She holds a PhD in Literature and two Master’s degrees in Journalism and Literature.
Death of the Author is her latest adult novel, but Okorafor’s repertoire includes the all-ages graphic novel The Space Cat, released in 2025, many series which have been optioned for screen, the Marvel’s Black Panther series: Shuri, Wakanda Forever, and Long Live the King, and numerous other works of sci-fi and fantasy in the genre of africanfuturism and africanjujuism for adults, young adults, and children.
In Death of the Author, Okorafor crafts a narrative in which the main character, Zelu, herself an author, writes a sci-fi novel that changes her life and the lives of her family. Zelu, a paraplegic since a childhood fall from a tree, exists in a marginalized world in many ways – she’s female, Naijamerican, uses a wheelchair, is a writer in a family of doctors and lawyers, rebels against the family’s traditions, has debilitating panic attacks. After her novel gains her fame and fortune, her marginalization takes a new form: wealthy entrepreneurs seek her out to be a part of their fame, and she becomes a part of futuristic science projects that take her beyond the dreams of current humanity, but her family and friends and fans reject her for making the choices she does.
Author Nnedi Okorafor
“This is a story unlike anything you’ve read before,” though, remember. As often as I’ve read theologian Howard Thurman, something he teaches hasn’t ever quite made sense to me until I read Okorafor. One of those Godwink moments happened to me as I read Death of the Author, and it brought one of Thurman’s key concepts of justice work alive for me.
As I was finishing my read of Death of the Author, on Tuesday, March 17, 2026, Joe McDaniel, Jr., and Canon Annette Buchanan of The Executive Council of The Episcopal Church shared a letter they penned entitled, “Awake the Church: Justice, Transparency, and the Freedom to Speak.” In that letter, they say:
Howard Thurman offers a complementary spiritual exhortation for those who would resist complacency: “Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.” Disrupting structural remnants of white supremacy requires not only critique but moral vitality, the courage to act even when action risks discomfort or conflict. Thurman’s charge is to find the sources of moral courage that make one “come alive” and to let those sources compel action for transformation.
McDaniel and Buchanan write in the same spirit as Okorafor; they write against an invasive and persistent White supremacy that refuses to be moved yet must be. Okorafor’s fiction dreams a future of freedom; McDaniel and Buchanan create an action plan to get there.
Through Zelu, Okorafor depicts the same message that McDaniel and Buchanan proclaim in their March 17 letter: we achieve our justice goals when we do what Howard Thurman suggests, when we ask what makes us come alive. And that’s what makes Death of the Author unlike anything you’ve read before. Zelu finds what makes her come alive, over and over again, despite all odds. And, in turn, brings those around her to their aliveness.
By coming alive and bringing others alive, Zelu critiques the oppression all around her and demands that it flex and change not just to accommodate her but to embrace her. Okorafor uses Africanfuturism to demonstrate for us what it feels like to dream the work that McDaniel and Buchanan want us to do here, now.
One of the characters that changes the most in the course of the novel is Zelu’s mother, a Yoruba princess immigrant. She becomes Zelu’s biggest champion and also one of the strongest voices for justice and change, and that takes a lot of personal growth and change on her part. She calls out to American society, “You all spin everything that is not familiar to you as either terrible or less than you. You only see things through your narrow lens and personal experiences.” (238) While Zelu is taking futuristic, sci-fi risks, she is teaching her mother to take ideological risks. Together, they call all of us as readers to challenge our own assumptions and biases and to consider taking risky actions for justice, hope, and a future fit for all people. I feel alive just recognizing the connections between Thurman and Okorafor, McDaniel and Buchanan. How much more alive might we all feel if we step into their dreamed future by waking up and coming alive together?
Based on a sermon given at Reconciliation San Antonio, Sunday February 22, 2026
In Sunday’s reading from Genesis we heard this:
the Lord God commanded the man, “…of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall die.” the woman saw that the tree was good…it was a delight…the tree was to be desired to make one wise, she took of its fruit and ate; and she also gave some to her husband. Then the eyes of both were opened.
Canadian singer-songwriter Alanis Morrisette, in her song “Ablaze,” which she wrote to her children, gives us an important perspective to listen to about this passage:
First thing that you'll notice is some separation from each other Yes, it's a lie we've been believing since time immemorial There was an apple, there was a snake, there was division There was a split, there was a conflict in the fabric of life One became two, and then everyone was out for themselves Everyone was pitted against each other, conflict ruled the realm All our devotions and temperaments are pulled from different wells We seem to easily forget we are made of the same cells My mission is to keep the light in your eyes ablaze My mission is to keep the light in your eyes ablaze
Now, some people who have a lot of power and privilege, and have had for millenia, don’t want us to know that this passage from Genesis might be about something other than sin and separation, other than men over women, other than people becoming afraid of God. Morisette reminds us of something that we have to hear: separation is a lie. We are all created from the same cells.
We might be tempted to hang on everyone being pitted against each other. But we can resist that lie through our love. That’s the way we keep the light in our eyes ablaze.
What does that blazing light in our eyes look and feel like? How do we keep it burning when times are difficult? When the news is bad? When we’re frustrated or hurt by others?
The Episcopal Church of Reconciliation in San Antonio, Texas has five Core Values that embody our dedication to this practice of keeping the light ablaze:
First, we are authentic. We embrace transparency and spontaneity in order to be true to ourselves, to God, and to one another.
Second, we are inclusive. We welcome all persons into our common life and celebrate the gifts and growth that come with diversity.
Third, we are creative. We experience the fusion of the Divine and the human when we express and celebrate all of God’s gifts.
Fourth, we are liturgical. We connect with God in worship through traditional and innovative symbols, rituals, and the arts.
And Fifth, we are community. We become more fully alive and one with God as we connect, care and collaborate.
Still, we can always become more authentic, more inclusive, more creative. We can learn and grow in the ways we connect with God and others in liturgy and community. We can remember our same cells more and let the light in our eyes shine brighter.
We do that work of growth in what is called the grace margin.
The grace margin is a concept I learned from the Rev. Dr. Eric Law, founder of the Kaleidoscope Institute. The Rev Dr. Law says that the grace margin is this place of action between our comfort and our fear. He says that when we are in active Christian community, striving for justice and peace among all people, we have to get into that grace margin, that space between our comfort and our fear, because that is where we can be present for God to do what God does even in the lives of people we just don’t want to be around.
Church of Reconciliation was founded and continues to work in this grace margin. We actively seek ways to learn and grow between comfort and fear. Our Core Values emphasize exactly what the Rev Dr. Law is describing when he talks about the grace margin between comfort and fear, that working space where we have to get out of our own way to let God be God, even when times are difficult, even when the news is bad, even in the lives of people with whom we disagree.
I can sense this grace margin in each and every one of our Core Values, but we also have to acknowledge the growth margin that goes along with the grace margin.
And even though we have that grace margin built into our very DNA at Reconciliation, we’re still sometimes uncomfortable admitting it when something is difficult or news is bad or, especially, when people trespass against us. Sometimes, that discomfort leads to fear. However, we can admit our discomfort and fear to God and each other here. Being able to admit our own trespasses is exactly what allows for growth. We have to ask, how do we get past our discomfort and fear and take action to get back to the blazing light that is in all our same cells?
I offer you this four-part strategy from feminist theologian the Rev. Dr. Kwok Pui Lan, who writes out of her experience growing up in the British Colony of Exploitation known as Hong Kong. She advocates four ways a community can take action to create change in the grace margin. She offers us the challenge of the 4 Ds of Decolonial Theology: Disperse, Disrupt, Develop, and Deepen.
The Rev. Dr. Kwok believes, and I agree, that if we fully intend to remember that we’re all made from the same cells, fully intend to keep the light in our eyes ablaze, then:
We actively disperse power when we remove hierarchical barriers that separate people from God and each other.
We actively disrupt old narratives and interpretations when we listen to stories of real people.
We actively develop theologies when we celebrate local needs and learning styles.
We actively deepen our spiritual life in both body and mind when we pay attention to the physical needs of all people, especially those who have been marginalized.
Here in the grace margin between comfort and fear at Church of Reconciliation our Core Values draw us near to the Rev. Dr. Kwok’s call to disperse power, disrupt old narratives, develop celebratory theologies, and deepen spiritual life for all people.
Even though we ate the fruit of the tree of knowledge and our eyes are open, open to the truth of our oneness with God and each other, we cannot grow complacent or think that our work is finished. We have to remember why we’re here and renew our commitment to our mission in order to keep growing. Our core values matter more than ever as we work to grow in the grace margin so that justice and peace are ever more present among all people. Our mission is to keep the light in our eyes ablaze. Our mission is to keep the light in our eyes ablaze.
Reprinted from “Living God’s Mission,” Jan. 24, 2025
by Pam Tinsley
During this past two weeks, we have collectively remembered two individuals who dedicated their lives to seeking and serving Christ in each person they met. One was a pastor – Martin Luther King, Jr. – who dedicated his short life to civil rights and racial justice. The other was a statesman – President Jimmy Carter – who dedicated his long life to improving innumerable lives through his geopolitical and humanitarian work, in addition to his faithful support of Habitat for Humanity.
As I was reflecting on these two individuals and the many challenges facing our nation and the Church today, the following reflection from Forward Day by Day landed in my inbox:
Ephesians 4:6 One God and Father of all, who is above all and through all and in all.
The Message adds another sentence to this verse that helps me see the implication of Paul’s words: “Everything you are and think and do is permeated with Oneness.” Imagine what our lives, and what the world, would be like if we truly believed this, knew this to be true, and lived this truth out every day.
If those of us who say we know and love God acted as though God was Father of all, above, through, and in all – all people, every living thing on earth, the very earth itself – and that we are permeated with Oneness, how would things change? I think we can begin living this out by offering everyone kindness and compassion. This, then, grows into dignity and respect, which eventually evolves into harmony and peace and ultimately becomes simply Love. This is a world I want to inhabit. It begins with me, now and in each moment. May I live into the Oneness I know exists with God, my neighbor, and all things, and may you, too.
MOVING FORWARD: What step can you take today to living into this Oneness?
I’m reminded that – even in the most challenging of times – each of us is an instrument of God, called to reveal God’s love for all despite the many obstacles. We have voice, and we have agency because we serve the God of love, justice, and peace – and love will cast out fear.
Isaiah 60:1-6 Arise, shine; for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you.
For darkness shall cover the earth, and thick darkness the peoples;
but the Lord will arise upon you, and his glory will appear over you
In a sermon “for dark times,” sub-titled “Why Bullies Fear the Dark,” Lutheran pastor Nadia Bolz-Weber points out that this passage from the Book of Isaiah, a reading for the Feast of the Epiphany, speaks to her of the Magi, the kings who visited the infant Jesus in Bethlehem. She contemplates whether Isaiah the prophet was reminding his Jewish hearers of “Let there be light” from the Biblical creation story, or perhaps of the pillar of fire that led them out of slavery in Egypt toward liberation. She wonders, “Maybe Isaiah’s audience needed reminding as we do, that those who walk in darkness can still see great light.” She adds, “I think maybe The Magi carried the light of Christ within them because they had been close enough for it to soak in. And that is what lit their path [on their way home].” She’s thinking, “Phosphorescence.”
She continues:
“Phosphorescence in case like me, you forgot, works like this: the energy goes in quietly. The transformation happens unseen. And only later—often much later—does the light begin to show, but it’s only visible in the dark. Which is frustrating, frankly, for those of us who prefer immediate results or visible proof….
Phosphorescence.
Maybe this is how a life of faith actually works.
We tend to think of faith as something we work for. A virtue we strive to inhabit. A spiritual New Year’s resolution we keep.
We in the West are very determined people. We set a goal, determine the steps, take action, work hard, and achieve the thing. And look—that works great if you’re training for a 10K or trying to get your real estate license.
But the life of faith operates within a different order of reality. You do not, in fact have to create, muster, manufacture, or maintain your own light. I promise you have been absorbing enough of it for long enough to shine with it.
You have been absorbing God’s light all along—even when you don’t believe it, even when you aren’t paying attention, even when you are phoning it in, even when you are pious as all get out.
Because that is just what gently happens when we get to do things like baptize babies while renouncing evil in the process. This is what quietly happens when we light candles and say prayers, and read Scripture aloud and sing hymns… even when we don’t really “feel it”.
So if you too don’t feel particularly radiant right now—if it feels like Isaiah describes, that darkness covers the earth and thick darkness the peoples—and you are convinced you cannot possibly rub two sticks together to somehow create a spark, just know this:
Maybe you don’t have to. In fact, I wonder if manufacturing our own brightness can obscure a gentler light that God has provided for the path ahead.
And so when things get dark—and they will—the light of God’s word, shines enough to be a lamp unto our feet. Stumbling, maybe. Dancing, sometimes. But always the next step is lit. Not because you have made yourself dazzling.
But because the Light has already found you.
And no. I still do not know what the future holds.
All I know is that in Christ, in prayer, in word, in sacrament, we have quietly, unsuspectingly been absorbing everything we need to phosphorescently light the path before us wherever that leads.
Because the light of Christ does not vanish when the world goes dark.
It lingers.
It lingers in those of us who have sat in the presence of forgiveness—and thought nothing was happening.
It lingers in the children in these pews who seem distracted by coloring, but who are absorbing Scripture without realizing it.
It lingers in all who have heard that a light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it.
And then one day— when the power fails, when the star disappears, when certainty collapses—
there you are.
Glowing just a bit.Not because you are shining with your own goodness or faith. But because you were once close enough to the Light of the world that it soaked into you. And that kind of light has a way of leading people by another road.
Love in Action at Church of Reconciliation quarterly parking lot, drive-up Food Bank distribution and come-and-take clothing swap with donuts, tacos, and coffee. In December, a special visit from Mr. and Mrs. Claus with free photos for families accompanied the event. Blog author Brandon Beck is shown accompanying Mrs. Claus. Photo courtesy of Brandon Beck
by Brandon Beck
Dr. Natalya Cherry of Brite Divinity School, in a lecture to an Introduction to Christian Theology course, said, “We have to define theology so it doesn’t get co-opted by our oppressors” (Jan. 17, 2026). As a staunch post-modernist, I resist defining anything. I often quote Inigo Montoya from the 1987 Rob Reiner classic film The Princess Bride, “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.” While Inigo Montoya spoke these words to his companion Vizzini in response to his repeated misuse of the word, “Inconceivable!” with intention to point out Vizzini’s error, I use them in order to register my belief that all words defy definition and are merely “sound and fury, signifying nothing.” (Shakespeare’s Macbeth).
Yet, Dr. Cherry’s words have caused me to pause. If she is correct and defining theology prevents it from being co-opted by our oppressors, then it stands to reason that defining other foundational words would protect them from co-optation as well.
The art of definition and the very act of putting words into the world takes on an entirely new weight and significance when we are charged with preventing oppressors from co-opting them.
In a world overrun with words everywhere from classrooms to social media, the sides of buses to the skins of cars, sweatshirts to yard signs, how can we make our words mean what we want them to mean? How can we align our words to Jesus’ genuine Love? How can we prevent our words from being co-opted by our oppressors?
What if it has less to do with the words themselves and more to do with how our actions align with our words? I believe that our words are defined less by more words and more by the way we live them out.
In the First Letter from John, we learn a little more about aligning our words with Jesus’ genuine Love and our actions with those words:
For this is the message you have heard from the beginning, that we should love one another. (3:11)
Do not be astonished…that the world hates you…we have passed from death to life because we love… (3:13-14)
Little children, let us love not in word or speech but in deed and truth. And by this we will know that we are from the truth and will reassure our hearts before [God] whenever our hearts condemn us, for God is greater than our hearts, and [God] knows everything. (3:18-20) (NRSVUE)
John teaches us as he was taught by Jesus to love not in word or speech but in deed and truth. Our words matter, but the way we behave matters more. Most importantly, we have to act in love.
And herein we return to that powerful call to define. If we don’t define love, then it will be co-opted by our oppressors. Jesus’ genuine Love is the love we must define and then with which we must act in the world. We must define Jesus’ genuine Love and then act with that genuine love against the oppressors.
Fortunately, Paul defined Jesus’ genuine Love for us already:
Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable; it keeps no record of wrongs;it does not rejoice in wrongdoing but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. (1 Cor 13:4-7 NRSVUE)
All that’s left for us is to live out that genuine Jesus Love.
On Jan. 6, The Feast of the Epiphany, we enter the green season of ordinary time, formerly known as the season of Epiphany. I’ve always liked having a whole season of revelation, or recognition, right there between Christmastide and Lent. It’s a time when the church focuses on how the life of Jesus cast new light on how God is active in the world. It’s a time when I try to pay better attention to what God might be doing right in my neighborhood. I’m drawn to seeking to discover where God is working and, as Jewish scholars have said, seeking to be “covered in the dust of my rabbi” – following Jesus so closely that I’m wearing the dust kicked up by his passing.
Br. Lucas Hall, SSJE, describes this as participating in divine life. He writes, “God is active, because life is active. Life moves. Life responds. God gave life, not as a static dispenser of some good gift, but rather by living, and inviting his whole Creation – including us – to participate in that divine life.” Often, participation with God takes us down unexpected paths. I think of the magi, after their encounter with the Christ Child, being warned in a dream to avoid returning to Herod. Matthew’s Gospel tells us they “left for their own country by another road.”
Inspired by the kings’ journey home, singer-songwriter Christopher Grundy offers a spine-stiffening song of resistance in “Take us Home by Another Way”:
Spirit, take us home, take us home by another way, take us long way ’round the tyrants and their schemes, Give us strength to walk Show us dreams of a better day and we’ll pave the way with justice going home by another way.
Grundy’s song echoes the Black church’s conviction that God “makes a way out of no way,” bringing creativity, agency, and resilience to combat oppression and discrimination.
Steve Garnaas-Holmes offers inspiration for daily life, as we confront the need to go home by another way:
By another road
They left for their own country by another road.
—Matthew 2.12
Life is one different road
after another.
Even now, on the twelfth day of Christmas,
it's not too late to be changed.
God is seldom on the road we planned
but one we were forced into.
Jesus' miracles and parables are other roads;
grace is always a detour.
Holy One, give me faith to let go, to turn,
to see grace where there was none.
Give me faith to be nudged, and to trust.
Give me the courage of new roads.
“Grace is always a detour.” May the words of the poem become our prayer as we walk through the weeks following Epiphany:
“Holy One, give me faith to let go, to turn, to see grace where there was none. Give me faith to be nudged, and to trust. Give me the courage of new roads.”
With thanks to Diana Butler Bass for introducing me to the songs of Christopher Grundy.
I was struck by an essay, The Greater Good, which the Irish Jesuits posted last month on their Sacred Space website:
In an individualist culture, perhaps more than ever, we need to learn from the lesson placed before us by Christ the King. We are our brothers’ and our sisters’ keepers. ‘We live in each other’s shadow,’ as one Irish saying puts it. While independence is all fine and well, inter-dependence is the greater good – a kind heart and open hand. The plight of war refugees has been well documented, but there were and are disquieting voices raising opposition.
The Irish Rune on hospitality says: We saw a stranger yesterday. We put food in the eating place, Drink in the drinking place, Music in the listening place. And with the sacred name of the triune God We were blessed, and our house, Our cattle and our dear ones. As the lark says in her song: Often, often, often goes the Christ In the stranger’s guise.
It is not uniquely Irish, of course, for many cultures instinctively know that we need to honour the heart of the stranger; we need to recognise how much like us the person is; we need to remember the humanity of each and every person. Welcoming the stranger blesses us as well as it aids the recipient of our hospitality.
In God’s family, there are no strangers, only kin or clan, as we might say. Kinship is God’s dream come true. It’s about imagining a circle of compassion and then imagining no one standing outside that circle. For whatever you do with love has eternal value.
Today Christ the King says to us, ‘What you do for others, you do for me.’ – Tom Cox, The Sacred Heart Messenger, November 2023
During this past month, I’ve found myself being the recipient of love and care rather than being the giver – to which I’m much more accustomed. As I’ve begun preparation for a bone marrow transplant, the importance of community speaks deeply to me. Although I’m certainly embraced by family, friends, and parish communities, I’m now being embraced by an ever-expanding network of caregivers, i.e., a new community. Outpatient clinic and hospital providers come together to form a team, of which I’m also an integral part. It’s clear that we are all walking this journey together, step by step. We were strangers yet now we are a community, dependent upon and honoring the particular gifts each one offers to complete the whole and pointing toward something greater than any one of us. And I am blessed not only by their professionalism, but also the warmth and hope that each person radiates.
Living God's Mission 