Tag: faith

I hate what happens when you genuinely care for people.

Because when you care, you give. You pray, labor, sacrifice, and remain present even when your body says rest and your heart says retreat. But when you care, you open yourself to the inevitable: the heartbreak. The disappointment. The silence after the investment. The betrayal after the trust.

And deep down, you know it’s coming. You can sense it before it arrives. You try to brace for it. You even entertain the idea of becoming calloused enough to not feel it so deeply. But no matter how much you prepare, pain still finds its way in. That’s the strange paradox of pastoring: you are asked to be fully present, wholly available, spiritually discerning, and emotionally intelligent—while also guarding your heart from being shattered repeatedly.

I’ve often heard, “Don’t take it personally,” when people walk away from the congregation, speak poorly of a ministry effort, or misrepresent what pastoral leadership really entails. And while the advice is often well-meaning, I struggle with it. Because I am a person. I do take it personally. My humanity is not a separate compartment from my calling—it’s intertwined with it.

Someone once told me, “You’ll have to learn how to lead while bleeding.” I’ve never forgotten those words. But as I’ve grown, I’ve also come to believe this: ministry doesn’t require sepsis to prove your dedication. You don’t have to die inside to stay faithful to your post. You don’t need to sacrifice your wholeness to prove your worth.

Instead, I’ve found something more meaningful: the sacred space of holding humanity and holiness together. The pastoral role is not to bleed out, but to feel deeply without infecting others. I don’t want to become numb. I want to be authentic. And authenticity means admitting: some days, this is hard. Not because I don’t love God. But because I love people—and loving people means risking heartbreak.

Is there an answer to how we navigate the personal from the prophetic? Can a pastor bring their full self—heart, mind, spirit, and scars—into the pulpit and still walk in power?

I believe we can. I believe authenticity is not only possible—it’s necessary.

But we have to take our cues from Jesus. In the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus was fully divine, but also fully human. He didn’t pretend that the weight of the cross was light. He questioned. He lamented. He asked for another way. And then… He accepted the assignment.

That garden moment gives me permission to be honest with God. To weep. To feel. To ask. To hope. And still to lead.

Maybe we’re all in some kind of garden right now—struggling with obedience and honesty at the same time. Hoping to arrive at peace while still reeling from pain. Maybe that’s what Paul meant when he said strength is made perfect in weakness. Maybe the hard places don’t disqualify us—they disciple us.

I don’t have all the answers. I just know some days, I wish it didn’t hurt so much.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s the step of faith.

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Prayer of Reflection:

God of Gethsemane and Calvary,
Teach us to lead with tender strength.
Give us space to feel,
Permission to question,
And courage to continue.

Guard our hearts,
But don’t let them grow cold.
Let our humanity remain a gift,
Not a liability.

And when we’re in our garden moments—
Bleeding, bargaining, or broken—
Remind us:
You were there too.
And You stayed.

Amen.

A Reflection on Frederick Douglass, Washington, and the Unconsidered Christ

On this side of Independence Day, I find myself haunted by the words of Frederick Douglass. In 1852, he stood before a crowd and asked pointedly, “What, to the American slave, is your Fourth of July?” His answer was sharp and unsparing:

“…a day that reveals to him, more than all other days in the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim.”

Today, nearly two centuries later, we are still forced to wrestle with the same hypocrisy. Recent events in Washington have laid bare the moral contradictions that Douglass decried. Laws debated and policies passed in grand chambers seem to disregard the very people Christ prioritized — the poor, the foreigner, the outcast, the Black and brown bodies that built this nation with blood and sweat and tears.

Where was Christ in these deliberations? His name was not called. His heart was not sought. His cross was not lifted. Instead, we witnessed once more the American penchant for political theater that secures power but forsakes the least of these.

The poor were rejected.
Budgets were balanced on their backs. Relief delayed, assistance cut, while billionaires celebrated new tax loopholes.

The foreigner was vilified.
Families fleeing violence were met with barbed wire and bureaucratic cruelty.

Black people were told to wait — again.
Wait for justice, wait for dignity, wait for their full humanity to be recognized. As if we have not waited long enough.

And so Douglass’s words echo with fresh relevance, indicting a nation that preaches liberty while practicing exclusion, that celebrates freedom while perpetuating systems that choke the very breath from the oppressed.

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The Testimony of Scripture

The Word of God stands in holy opposition to the machinery of colonialism, imperialism, and greed. Consider these words:

“Do not oppress the foreigner; you yourselves know how it feels to be foreigners, because you were foreigners in Egypt.”
(Exodus 23:9)

“Woe to those who make unjust laws, to those who issue oppressive decrees, to deprive the poor of their rights and withhold justice from the oppressed of my people.”
(Isaiah 10:1-2)

“He has filled the hungry with good things, but has sent the rich away empty.”
(Luke 1:53)

These are not passive suggestions — they are divine demands. God’s law was always bent toward protecting the vulnerable, always suspicious of empire. Jesus was born under occupation, executed by an imperial power, and rose to declare a kingdom not of this world.

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My Rejection of Colonialism and Imperialism

As a disciple of Jesus Christ, I reject the colonial imagination that built this nation on stolen land and enslaved labor. I reject the imperial impulse that sends drones instead of diplomats, that sees military might as salvation. I reject a Christianity co-opted by nationalism, that wraps the cross in a flag and dares to call it holy.

Instead, I stand with the Christ who flipped tables, who touched lepers, who broke bread with traitors and sinners. I stand with the Christ who said:

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor… to set the oppressed free.”
(Luke 4:18)

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So What is the Fourth of July to Me?

It is a reminder that the work is unfinished. That fireworks crackle over graves of enslaved ancestors. That freedom is still unequally distributed. That God’s call to “let justice roll on like a river” (Amos 5:24) is still unheeded by many in power.

But it is also a reminder of hope. Because every Douglass rises again in new generations — truth-tellers, justice-seekers, peacemakers who refuse to bow to empire. And the same Spirit that stirred Douglass still moves, unsettling our comfort, compelling us toward a more faithful, more liberating witness.

May we listen. May we rise. May we refuse to celebrate a freedom that is not truly for all. And may we live in such a way that Christ is not merely an afterthought in our politics, but the very cornerstone of our public life.

A Prayer for This Nation and for the Oppressed

Gracious and righteous God,
We come before you heavy with the weight of injustice,
yet hopeful because we know you hear the cries of the oppressed.

You are the God who sees —
who saw Hagar weeping in the wilderness,
who heard the blood of Abel crying from the ground,
who stood with the Hebrew slaves against Pharaoh’s empire.

See us now, O God.
Hear the anguish of the poor, the foreigner, the Black and brown bodies
still bearing the scars of systemic violence.
Break our hearts for what breaks yours.

Forgive us for our complacency,
for the ways we have benefited from systems of power
that crush your children.
Cleanse us from the lies of nationalism that confuse the flag with the cross.

Rise up within us a holy anger against injustice
and a holy love that refuses to let hatred win.
Make us instruments of your peace,
warriors for your justice,
and sowers of your reconciling love.

May your kingdom come —
not as empire, not as colonial conquest,
but as liberating good news to the poor,
sight for the blind, freedom for the captive.

Let justice roll down like waters, O God,
and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.
And let it begin in us.

In the name of Jesus, who stood with the oppressed
and conquered the powers of this world by love,
we pray. Amen.