Southwest Conference Blog

Listening for Similarities: Where Recovery and the Gospel Meet

By Minister Gordon Street, Commissioned Minister, Southwest Conference, United Church of Christ

One of the greatest gifts recovery has given me is a simple spiritual practice:

Listen for similarities, not differences.

It sounds simple, but it has transformed both my recovery and my ministry.

Whether I’m sitting in a recovery meeting, sharing coffee with someone exploring faith, worshiping with a congregation, or talking with someone whose theology is very different from my own, I try to begin with one question:

What experience is this person describing?

Recovery has taught me that people often use different language to describe remarkably similar spiritual experiences.

One person speaks of “being washed in the blood of Jesus.”

Another describes a “spiritual awakening.”

Someone else talks about finding peace after years of anxiety.

Another simply says, “I finally realized I wasn’t alone.”

Different words.

Often, the same experience.

As followers of Christ, we sometimes spend so much energy defining our theological differences that we overlook the work God is already doing in another person’s life.

Jesus rarely began with arguments. He began with people.

He met fishermen where they worked. He shared meals with tax collectors. He welcomed those society pushed aside. Before he changed lives, he built relationships.

That has become a model for my own ministry.

As a person in long-term recovery, I have discovered that the Twelve Steps and the teachings of Jesus are not identical. They come from different histories and serve different purposes.

Yet I believe they often lead us toward many of the same spiritual destination.

Both invite us to practice honesty.

Both call us toward humility.

Both encourage surrender instead of self-sufficiency.

Both teach forgiveness, reconciliation, compassion, service, and hope.

Both remind us that transformation is possible.

The Apostle Paul writes that “the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.” (Galatians 5:22–23)

When I see those qualities growing in someone’s life, I see evidence of God’s Spirit at work.

That is why one sentence has become central to my ministry:

God is an experience, not an idea.

Recovery has taught me that healing begins when we stop trying to win arguments and start listening for the places where our stories meet.

Perhaps that is one of the invitations of the Gospel as well.

Not to erase our differences.

But to begin with the common ground where God’s grace is already at work.

An Invitation

If this reflection resonates with you—or raises questions about recovery, spirituality, or the life of faith—I would love to continue the conversation.

One of the greatest privileges of my ministry is simply listening to people’s stories. Whether over coffee, on Zoom, or by phone, I’d be honored to hear yours.

We don’t have to agree on everything to discover the common ground where hope begins.

Minister Gordon Street, Recovery Spirituality in Action

There are two ways to look at a 250-year-old entity.

by Rev. Paul A. Whitlock

I have a confession to make, and if you’ve been around me for any length of time, it won’t come as a shock: I am still that nerdy, slightly sarcastic pastor who is utterly obsessed with the details. I’m the guy who wants to look past the Cliff Notes version of history, scratch beneath the surface, and figure out what is actually going on.

And this July 4^th weekend, the details are staggering.

The Fourth of July isn’t just any Fourth of July. We have officially crossed the threshold into the year 2026. Our nation celebrated its Semiquincentennial—a terrifyingly long word to spell or pronounce that simply means America is exactly 250 years old.

Two and a half centuries.

Now, if you tune into the television or scroll through social media this weekend, you are going to see a lot of grand celebrations. You’re going to see multi-million-dollar firework spectacles, endless parades, and politicians of every stripe wrapping themselves in the flag, telling us exactly what patriotism is supposed to look like.

For many progressive people of faith, a weekend like this can stir up some pretty complicated feelings.

We are often told by the louder voices in our culture that patriotism means blind allegiance. We are told it means uncritical praise. We are told that to love your country means you have to nod along, smile, and pretend that everything is—and always has been—perfectly fine.

But if you remember, our national anthem doesn’t end with an exclamation point. The song ends with a question mark: “O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave, o’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?”

It’s an ongoing interrogation. And true patriotism doesn’t require us to ignore our history. It demands that we face it.

As we stand today, looking back at 250 years of this grand experiment called America, we have to ask ourselves: What kind of nation are we celebrating?

There are two ways to look at a 250-year-old entity. You can treat it like a monument, or you can treat it like a living tree.

A monument is made of granite or marble. It’s beautiful, it’s grand, and it’s completely dead. It never changes. It doesn’t grow. It doesn’t adapt.

If a monument cracks, you don’t heal it; you just patch the stone. The purpose of a monument is to look backward, to freeze a single moment in time and worship it.

A lot of the patriotism we see on display today is monument-worship. It’s an insistence that the ink dried in 1776, the story is finished, and our only job is to guard the stone.

But our faith calls us to something entirely different. Our faith calls us to look at our country as a living tree. A tree that was planted 250 years ago with some incredibly rich, revolutionary soil—the promises of liberty, equality, and the pursuit of happiness. But a living tree grows. A living tree faces harsh winters. A living tree gets diseased branches that have to be pruned. A living tree requires us to look at the soil and ask: Is every root getting enough water, or are some parts of the garden being left to rot?

When we look at America through the lens of faith, we are practicing what we call prophetic patriotism. We love the tree enough to pull the weeds around it.

Acknowledging the deep wounds of our society—whether it’s the crisis of homelessness on our streets, the systemic bias that still plagues our justice system, or the way we treat the environment—that isn’t un-American. It is the highest form of civic and spiritual responsibility. To love a nation is to hold it to its highest ideals.

The trouble is, the world doesn’t want us to look at the living tree. The world wants to put blinders on us. It wants to pump us full of fear and control exactly what we see.

Why? Because fear sells. Fear keeps people isolated in their tents. Fear convinces us that our neighbors are our enemies.

It is exhausting to live under that kind of cultural anxiety. It is a heavy, crushing pack to wear.

And it is precisely into that kind of exhaustion that Jesus speaks in our Gospel reading from Matthew. He looks at a crowd of people who are worn out by the demands of the world, worn out by religious systems that don’t give a damn about them, worn out by political empires that use them up, and he says:

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

Now, let’s look at the details of that text. When we hear the word “yoke,” we usually think of something restrictive, a symbol of slavery or hard, lonely labor. But a yoke in the ancient world was actually a tool of partnership. A yoke was a wooden frame designed for two oxen to pull together side-by-side.

When Jesus says, “Take my yoke upon you,” he isn’t saying, “Go off and pull a heavy cart by yourself.” He is saying, “Get into the harness with me. Stop trying to carry the weight of the world on your own back. Let’s pull together.”

If America at 250 years old is an unfinished story, then you and I are called to get out of the world’s harness of cynicism and step into Christ’s yoke of justice. Prophetic patriotism means that we refuse to let our faith be locked up in the tent, and we refuse to carry the exhausting lie that things can never get better.

When the world looks at systemic poverty or the defunding of local programs and says, “Well, that’s just the way it is—it’s too heavy a problem to fix,” the church steps into the yoke. We roll up our sleeves. We know that when we pull together, the burden becomes light.

Every time we donate to a food pantry, every time we partner with local nonprofits to demand better housing and safer streets, every time we look at the immigrant and the asylum seeker, and we don’t see a political talking point—we see a child of God, a fellow traveler no different than our own ancestors who risked everything on the Mayflower because they were desperate for safety.

We bring Christ’s rest to the weary parts of our neighborhoods where the world has given up.

Church, humans are notoriously terrible at guessing what the future holds. We look at the shadows, we look at the thick smoke of political division, and we worry that the light at the end of the tunnel is just an oncoming train.

But God is really good at rewriting the future.

As we step into this 250th year of our nation, let us refuse to offer our country the cheap patriotism of blind allegiance. Let us offer it the deep, costly, beautiful gift of prophetic patriotism.

Let us be the light that shines forth love and civility when racism and misogyny rear their heads. Let us be the light of compassion and mercy when policies favor the rich at the expense of the poor. Let us keep our flags of welcome flying high, refusing to let fear dictate our gospel of radical hospitality.

This is our place. To bind up wounds. To comfort the grieving. To feed the hungry. To house the unhoused. And to proclaim the truth to the country we love, for as long as we have breath.

The weight of the next 250 years is too much for any of us to carry alone. But Christ’s yoke is easy, and Jesus’ burden is light. Let’s step into it, roll up our sleeves, and pull together. Thanks be to God. Amen.

Rev. Paul A. Whitlock, Senior Pastor at The Church of the Palms, UCC. Paul is driven by a passionate belief that faith should be active, inclusive, and deeply committed to social justice. A resident of the Southwest, he has developed a great love for the local landscape, spending his off-hours tending to his cacti, though he is just as likely to be found cheering on his favorite sports teams. This year marks a beautiful milestone for Paul and his wife, Wendy, as they celebrate 40 years of marriage. They have three grown children, a couple of very spoiled cats keeping things lively at home, and three spoiled grand-dogs.

Prophetic Patriotism: Reflecting on America at 250

by Rev. Paul A. Whitlock

As our nation approaches its 250th anniversary this July, we find ourselves inundated with grand celebrations, parades, and highly publicized spectacles. For many in progressive communities of faith, this milestone can stir complicated feelings. We are often told that patriotism means blind allegiance, uncritical praise, or aligning ourselves with whatever political philosophy currently holds power.

But as followers of a gospel rooted in justice, love, and truth-telling, we know there is a deeper, more enduring way to love our country.

True patriotism does not require us to ignore our history; rather, it demands that we face it. To love a nation is to hold it to its highest ideals. James Baldwin beautifully captured this sentiment when he wrote, “I love America more than any other country in the world, and, exactly for this reason, I insist on the right to criticize her perpetually.”

Our faith calls us to a form of prophetic patriotism. We can celebrate the profound promises of the Declaration of Independence—liberty, equality, and the pursuit of happiness—while simultaneously lamenting the ways our nation has failed, and continues to fail, to extend those promises to all people. Acknowledging the deep wounds of systemic racism, indigenous displacement, economic inequality, and environmental degradation is not un-American. It is the very definition of civic responsibility.

This Semiquincentennial, let us refuse to let our patriotism be questioned just because it is paired with a thirst for justice. We celebrate not by waving flags at partisan rallies, but by recommitting ourselves to building a more perfect union. We honor our country by feeding the hungry, welcoming the stranger, protecting the marginalized, and continuing the sacred, unfinished work of democracy.

Shalom, Paul

Rev. Paul A. Whitlock, Senior Pastor at The Church of the Palms, UCC. Paul is driven by a passionate belief that faith should be active, inclusive, and deeply committed to social justice. A resident of the Southwest, he has developed a great love for the local landscape, spending his off-hours tending to his cacti, though he is just as likely to be found cheering on his favorite sports teams. This year marks a beautiful milestone for Paul and his wife, Wendy, as they celebrate 40 years of marriage. They have three grown children, a couple of very spoiled grand-cats keeping things lively at home, and three spoiled grand-dogs.

Should worship comfort or challenge? 75/25

by Rev. Bill Utke

Perhaps you’ve heard of the 75/25 principle as it relates to worship. If not, you’re not alone—I came to it unexpectedly through an anti-racism training. But once I heard it, I found it gave me language for something I had long been trying to explain: why worship isn’t meant to be entirely comfortable or familiar.

Some of the most powerful worship experiences of my life happened when I stepped into spaces where the music, prayers, and voices reflected not just one culture, or tradition, but many—each thread woven together into a beautiful, harmonious tapestry. That’s the vision behind the 75/25 principle: a conscious effort to make worship not only meaningful, but mutually sacrificial, and spiritually stretching.

The 75/25 principle suggests that no one should feel more than 75% comfortable in a worship gathering. The remaining 25%—the unfamiliar song, the lyric in another language, the liturgy from a different tradition—is intentional. Even those traditional elements that may not resonate with us personally can serve a purpose. They gently nudge each of us beyond our comfort zones and into someone else’s sacred experience.

Rather than catering to a single preference or culture, this approach cultivates a shared experience of both comfort and discomfort—a kind of holy tension where everyone is, at different moments, both host and guest. In that space, each person gives something, receives something, and encounters God in the difference.

In practice, a worship service shaped by the 75/25 principle might:

Blend gospel rhythms with traditional hymns, and perhaps introduce a Taizé chant in another language.

Move between call-and-response participation and contemplative silence.

Include Scripture read by voices across generations, cultures, and accents.

Welcome expressions like clapping, lament, shouts of joy, or stillness—not as noise or absence, but as part of the sacred conversation.

Why It Matters

Worship is not simply about finding what feels right or familiar—it is about entering a sacred story together. The 75/25 principle reminds us that true worship is not always comfortable. It is transformative. It draws us closer not only to God, but to one another.

At its best, worship becomes a meeting place—where the familiar and the unfamiliar, the personal and the communal, the earthly and the divine all come together. And in that meeting, something holy is born.

Perhaps most importantly, this kind of worship creates space. It makes room not only for different traditions, but for different people. And in doing so, it reflects more fully the expansive, welcoming love at the heart of God.

Rev. William G. Utke has been ordained in the United Church of Christ since 1993. He has served congregations as Pastor and Intentional Interim Minister in Illinois, Michigan, Wisconsin, and Arizona. Since September 2021 he has served as Pastor and Teacher at Desert Garden United Church of Christ in Sun City West, AZ. He lives with is spouse, the Rev. Ann Utke, in Sun City, AZ.

The Messiah Misunderstood: From Ancient Expectations to Modern Distortions

by Christopher Schouten

Throughout history, there has been a recurring tension between the Jesus of the Gospels and the “Messiah” people want him to be. This disconnect wasn’t just a problem in first – century Judea – it is a central struggle in modern American faith today.

The Ancient Expectation: A Lion of Judah

In biblical times, the Jewish people lived under the crushing weight of Roman occupation. Naturally, their expectations for a Messiah were shaped by their immediate suffering. They looked for:

A Military Conqueror: A second King David who would lead a violent revolt to overthrow Caesar.
Nationalistic Superiority: A leader who would restore Israel to geopolitical dominance and judge the surrounding nations.
Political Power: A king who would sit on a literal throne and enforce Jewish law through state power.

The Jesus we know delivered on none of those expectations.

The Reality: The Suffering Servant

Instead of a general on a white horse, they got a carpenter on a donkey. Jesus did not come to replace one earthly empire with another; he came to subvert the very concept of “empire.”

Power in Weakness: He chose a cross over a sword.
Inclusivity: He ate with the “unclean,” the tax collectors, and the enemies of the state.
The Upside – Down Kingdom: He taught that the last shall be first and that true greatness is found in service, not domination.

The Modern Distortion: Christian Nationalism

In modern America, we see a striking parallel to those ancient, erroneous expectations. The rise of Christian Nationalism has essentially “repainted” Jesus to fit a narrative of power, exclusivity, and domination.

The “Americanized” Jesus

This movement has traded the humble Galilean for a figure who mirrors the very Roman authorities Jesus resisted. This distorted version of Christ is used to justify:

The Lust for Power: The belief that Christians are entitled to control the mechanisms of the state to enforce their worldview.
Exclusivity: Moving away from “love your neighbor” toward a “us vs. them” mentality that marginalizes immigrants, the LGBTQ+ community, and those of other faiths.
Domination: Using the Gospel as a tool for cultural supremacy rather than a message of liberation for the oppressed.

By wrapping the cross in the flag, this movement attempts to turn a global message of radical love into a narrow tool for nationalistic control.

Reclaiming the Prophetic Voice

As progressive Christians, our task is not just to point out these distortions, but to actively reclaim the identity of Jesus in the public square. Here is how we can begin to shift the narrative:

1. Centering the Marginalized

Jesus consistently moved toward the edges of society. To reclaim his message, we must ensure our theology and our activism center the voices of those whom the “Empire” seeks to silence.

2. Embracing Radical Non – Violence

In a culture obsessed with “might makes right,” we must proclaim the power of sacrificial love. This means standing against policies of dehumanization and violence, even when it is politically unpopular.

3. Using Our Prophetic Voices

The prophets of the Bible didn’t just comfort the grieving; they “afflicted the comfortable.” Using our prophetic voices means speaking truth to power in the public square – whether through protest, policy advocacy, or community organizing.

4. Redefining “Kingdom” as “Kindom”

We must remind the world that the Kingdom of God is not a territory to be conquered, but a way of treating others characterized by justice, mercy, and humility. Jesus came not to dominate and rule in the traditional sense, but to create a “Kindom” where all people matter and their fundamental dignity as beloved children of God is recognized by all.

The Jesus of history was a threat to the status quo because he refused to play the game of domination. By returning to that radical, inclusive roots, we can offer a weary world a glimpse of the true Christ – the one who heals rather than hurts, and who invites all to the table instead of excluding and demonizing those who are marginalized.

Rethinking Church: What Intentional Communities Can Teach Us

by Rev. Bill Utke

About a decade ago, following twenty years of ordained ministry, I was given a rare gift: time. With the support of my congregation and a grant from the Lilly Foundation’s Clergy Renewal Program, I entered a three-month sabbatical season of rest, reflection, and renewal.

As part of that journey, I spent three weeks living at La’akea, an intentional community on the Big Island of Hawai‘i. Although the course I had planned to attend was canceled just before I arrived, the community still welcomed me as a guest. I lived alongside full members, trial members, and work traders, sharing in the rhythms of their daily life.

What I encountered did not look like church.

And yet, it revealed something essential about what church has been—and what we might aspire to become in today’s world.

Let me be clear: I am not suggesting that congregations adopt every aspect of life at La’akea. The community differs from most churches in significant ways—there is no shared theology, no formal leadership structure, and it embraces lifestyles many congregations would find outside their tradition.

And yet, beneath those differences are practices that echo something deeply biblical: shared life, mutual care, honest speech, and communal discernment. In that sense, La’akea did not challenge my understanding of church as much as it brought me back to the church’s roots.

Shared Values as Covenant

At La’akea, community is grounded in a clearly articulated set of shared values. These are not abstract ideals but lived commitments that guide decisions, relationships, and responsibilities. Everyone who joins the community agrees to uphold them.

This functions much like covenant. It recalls the early church in Acts, where believers ordered their lives around shared commitments, not simply shared beliefs.

Churches often assume belief is enough to hold us together. But belief does not always translate into shared life. What if we were more explicit—not only about what we believe, but how we live together?

Discernment Over Decision-Making

Perhaps the most transformative practice I encountered was consensus decision-making.

Rather than relying on majority vote, La’akea practices communal discernment. A proposal is offered, discussed, and refined by the group. Disagreement is not seen as obstruction, but as engagement.

When it is time to decide, each person responds in one of three ways: agree, step aside, or block. A “block” is rare and signals a serious concern that the proposal violates the community’s core values. On member said, “one only uses a ‘block’ when they are ready to leave the community over the difference of opinion.”

This process echoes Acts 15, where the early church gathers, listens, debates, and ultimately declares what “seems good to the Holy Spirit and to us.”

Consensus takes time. But it also builds trust, deepens commitment, and often leads to stronger outcomes. The decision belongs to the whole community—not just the majority.

Practices That Form Community

What struck me most was that community at La’akea was not left to chance. It was practiced.

Each morning began with a conch shell calling the community together. At breakfast, each person briefly checked in—sharing how they were doing physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

It was simple, but powerful. A daily practice of presence.

Evenings brought shared meals, prepared collaboratively, beginning with a moment of silence, breath, or gratitude. Weekly gatherings called “HeartShare” created space for deeper listening. One person could speak openly while others listened and, with permission, asked questions—without judgment or the need to fix.

These rhythms felt deeply familiar. They echoed the practices of the early church: breaking bread, sharing life, bearing one another’s burdens.

Churches often rely on programs to build community. But programs alone cannot sustain it. Community is formed through repeated practices of presence, listening, and care.

A Culture of Mutual Responsibility

At La’akea, everyone contributed to the life of the community—cooking, cleaning, tending the land. Care was also shared. When someone had a need, they named it, and others responded.

Needs were not hidden. They were spoken.

This reflects the vision of the Body of Christ in 1 Corinthians: if one member suffers, all suffer together. Community depends on both honesty and responsiveness.

Leadership was shared as well. Roles rotated. People were encouraged to step into leadership and grow through experience.

The church speaks of “equipping the saints,” but too often leadership remains concentrated in a few. What if leadership development were better woven into the fabric of congregational life?

Space as Sacred Commons

One of the more eye-opening insights for me was the community’s understanding of space.

The Main House at La’akea—its central gathering place—was held in common. No one could claim it. It belonged to everyone.

In churches, buildings, or certain spaces, can gradually become associated with particular groups or individuals. While understandable, this can create barriers.

What if we reclaimed our buildings as sacred commons—not just for members, but for the wider community? Not as something to protect, but as something to offer?

What Might Church Become?

La’akea does not look like church.

But it embodies something the church has always been called to be: a people shaped not only by belief, but by shared life. A people who listen deeply, speak honestly, care for one another, and trust that wisdom can emerge from the whole.

The invitation is not to abandon our traditions, but to rediscover their heart.

Perhaps the future of the church is not something entirely new, but something deeply ancient: a community where discernment matters more than winning, where leadership is shared and nurtured, where needs are spoken and met with compassion, and where daily life itself becomes a kind of liturgy.

The question is not whether such a church is possible.

The question is whether we are willing to practice our way into it.

Since September 2021, Rev. Bill Utke has been senior pastor of Desert Garden UCC, Sun City West, AZ. Beginning in 1993 he has served churches in Southern Illinois, Michigan and Wisconsin.

Taking a Stand and Bearing Witness

by Rev. James Briney

I think it is a mistake to identify the No Kings gatherings as a protest. Such occasions are far more. They present an opportunity to take a stand and to bear witness. They speak to and transcend the present time.

The roots of what has become of our representative democracy began to take hold in 1970 when state legislatures were organized to favor Gerrymandering based on race, and voter suppression. Conservative think tanks drafted boilerplate language to accomplish their intentions and identified bill sponsors.

On Saturday, March 28th as I stood with the thousands of individuals bearing witness to their belief in democracy and inclusion, I spoke with a man who is older than I am. He has never been an activist, but he has awakened to the necessity of standing for the values he was introduced to in civics class as a schoolboy.

I sought a seat in the Michigan House of Representatives in 1968. I ran as a Republican. The 8-term incumbent I sought to oppose was backed by vestiges of the Klan. The legislator who represented me had done nothing to eliminate redlining and other practices sanctioned in law that stifled opportunities for many of his constituents.

As a post-graduate student in Indianapolis, I served as assistant to the mayor when Dick Lugar held the office. Subsequently he became a United States Senator, serving multiple terms, until he was defeated by a Tea Party candidate in the primary. In recent decades, low voter turnout has favored the nomination and election of extremists. The key to reclaiming what the founders, and veterans who have risked their lives and died, is voting and basing our preferences on reason, information, and facts.

Ethical constructs may acquaint us with the right thing to do. Integrity is doing it. When you know the right thing to do, but are not certain of the outcome, do it anyway. You will be joining a long line of patriots who have taken a stand when it counts and have borne witness throughout our history as a nation.

Finding Our Way Back to the Living

by Rev. Paul A. Whitlock, preached at The Church of the Palms Easter 2026

Ezekiel 37:1-14; John 11:38-44

Friends, siblings, beloved of God:

There is a question that haunts the corridors of human history. It is a question that doesn’t just sit on the pages of our Bibles but rattles in our hearts, minds, and souls when the house is quiet and the news cycle is loud. It is the question the Spirit posed to the prophet Ezekiel as he stood overlooking a valley of bleached, fragmented remains: “Can these bones live?”

Whether we are standing in that ancient valley or sitting in these pews today, the question remains the same. And if we are honest, many of us aren’t just looking at the valley of the shadow of death, the valley of dry bones—we are inhabiting it.

We are a community that prides itself on “extravagant welcome,” but sometimes the person we have the hardest time welcoming is our own exhausted, depleted selves.

We talk about “unconditional love,” but we struggle to apply it to our own lives when we feel like we have nothing left to give. We advocate for “justice,” yet we feel the profound injustice of a world that demands we remain “productive” even when our spirits are fractured.

We know what cataclysmic disruption looks like. We see it in the macro:

the amoral war in Iran that weighs on our collective conscience,
the systemic inequities that keep our neighbors in a cycle of poverty,
the fear of ICE terrorizing our communities,
and the ecological groaning of a planet in distress.

And we see it in the micro:

the sudden silence of a house after a death or a divorce,
the disorientation of retirement,
the betrayal of a chronic illness,
or the suffocating weight of grief.

In these moments, we aren’t just “going through a rough patch.” We are in survival mode. And in survival mode, hope isn’t a strategy—it’s a luxury we simply cannot afford.

I need to be vulnerable with you this morning, because a progressive church that cannot hold the truth of its leaders is not a place of healing. Lately, the weight of the world—the geopolitical violence abroad, the fear tactics of ICE and the personal ache of my own son’s recent divorce—pulled me back down into that valley of shadows.

There were days when the idea of feeling “safe in my own skin” felt like a distant, cruel fantasy.

I found myself in a “tenacious funk,” a spiritual drought that no amount of positive thinking could irrigate.

Eventually, the heaviest of the clouds began to lift, as they often do with time. But I was surprised by what I found on the other side. I expected to emerge “liberated,” like a butterfly from a cocoon. Instead, I found myself utterly depleted. I didn’t feel like a conqueror; I felt like a pile of dry bones.

So, I started asking the “Dry Bone Questions”:

What do I do now?
How am I supposed to do… anything?
What if I never feel like “me” again?

I spent weeks in a state of aimless autopilot. I watered my cacti. I ate a lot of cookies. We all have our numbing mechanisms—the scrolling, the snacking, the busy-work—that take the edge off the pain. But eventually, those habits begin to suck the remaining moisture out of us, leaving us even drier than before.

In the Book of Ezekiel, the “dry bones” weren’t just about physical death. The text tells us they represented a whole people whose national hopes were crushed, whose social ties were severed, and whose homes were deserted. It was a metaphor for Exile.

To be in the valley is to be in exile from your own life. It is the feeling of being a stranger to your own joy. In our own community,

I hear the echoes of this exile every single day. I hear it when a person asks, “Will my family ever heal from this?”
I hear it when a long-time worker says, “I’m retired—who am I now?”
I hear it when someone facing a terminal diagnosis whispers, “I didn’t sign up for this.”

The hard truth we must face together is this: Dry bones do not resurrect themselves. There is no “self-help” manual for the valley of the shadow of death. There is no “five-step plan” to breathe life back into a shattered spirit. We cannot “pull ourselves up by our bootstraps” when we no longer have the strength to even reach for our boots.

In the Gospel of John, we see Jesus standing before the tomb of his friend Lazarus. He lets out a loud cry: “Come forth!” It’s a powerful moment. But for those of us deep in the valley, that command can feel terrifyingly out of reach. When you are a pile of dry bones, “coming forth” feels like an impossible demand. You can’t move. You can’t breathe. You are bound in the grave clothes of your own trauma.

But look closer at the text. Jesus doesn’t just raise Lazarus; there’s a part that many miss. Did you notice? He gives a second command, one to the community standing around the tomb. That’s us, the church: “Unbind him, and let him go.”

In one sentence, this captures the theology of a progressive, justice-seeking church. Resurrection is rarely a solo performance. It is a community group project.

For me, the miracle didn’t come through a booming voice from the clouds or a sudden bolt of divine lightning. It came through the “unbinding” work of human hands.

It was the well-timed text from a member asking, “are you okay?”

It was the unexpected phone call from a friend who didn’t ask “How are you?” but instead said, “Let’s get to together to chat.”

It was a friend who sat and listened to me bewailing my fate, listening to me go on and on and on without offering a single platitude, without trying to “fix” me, and without judgment. When I finally ran out of breath, she asked: “What makes it possible for you to keep your faith in God?”

I had to stop. I had to really look at her. I had to really look at myself and look through the mask I often wear. And the resurrection moment came when I realized the answer wasn’t a “what makes my faith possible”—it was a who – who makes my faith possible.

“You make it possible,” I told her. “People like you, who refuse to give up on me. You give me hope that God still cares.”

Beloved, if, when you look into the mirror, when you look deep within yourself, if you are asking yourself the question, wondering today if these bones can live—look around you.

The answer is found in the person sitting in the pew next to you. It is found in the neighbor who checks in when the lights haven’t been on. It is found in this community’s refusal to let go of the vision of a world where justice and love are the very air we breathe.

St. Teresa of Ávila famously reminded us that Christ has no body now on earth but ours. No hands, no feet, but ours. But in our tradition of justice and extravagant welcome, we must take that further:

Through our ears, Christ hears the cries of the marginalized and the lonely.
Through our presence, Christ companions the lost in the wilderness of their own minds.
Through our voices, Christ speaks the truth about the stubborn resiliency of the human spirit.
Through our labor, Christ offers the refreshment of a shower.

Sharing “God’s unconditional love” isn’t just a slogan on our website. It is the act of being the “living water” for someone who is parched.

It is the act of standing in the valley of shadows with someone and saying, “I don’t know when the breath is coming back, but I will be here with you until it does.”

Can these bones live?

Yes!

They live when we unbind one another.
They live when we stop trying to be “conquerors” and start being companions.
They live when we realize that the “Word of the Lord,” the “Word of God,” the “Word of Love,” isn’t just a book, but the sound of a friend’s voice calling us back into the light.

We are the resurrection. We are the breath. We are the way back to the living. Thanks be to God.

Amen.

Are You Ready to Make History?

The celebration of Christmas is not a sentimental waiting for a baby to be born, but much more an asking for history to be born! —Fr. Richard Rohr, Preparing for Christmas 

What a year! 2025 has been a year of firsts in every living person. And 2025 has been year of first experiences with devastating natural disasters: famine, droughts, etc. 2025 has been a year of many firsts for many nations around the world, including our America’s political/government story.

But Richard Rohr has just reminded us that ‘history is to be born.’ Wasn’t that the story in Bethlehem over 2000 years ago? Asking for a new world order? Asking for brave advocates? Asking for systemic change to make the world safer and more community and caring based? More equity, empowerment versus power over?

‘Love was born on Christmas eve’ say several popular songs and poems.

Taking that to heart would mean for me that love is an action verb. So, what needs born in me to meet the model of life set by Jesus as he ‘grew in stature and knowledge of the Lord.’?

History is to be born. So what do I want my behavior and choices this year to be: who do I choose to be? We do choose! We think we don’t choose much. But that is a myth.

I make conscious and unconscious choices everyday of how to interact with the clerk in the store; how to respond to the pushy driver on my bumper; how to respond when someone states something hateful or derogatory of others. What temperament will I bring inside my home today?

I have heard for many years…what is to be my legacy? I think that is far out ahead of what the real task is. Integrity gets thin in me if my behavior in this moment today isn’t consistent with the hope I have for my legacy of how I hope I am remembered. It is an intentional mindfulness that takes focused pauses in the day to evaluate: “how I am choosing to be, what is my language, my facial expression, my attitude today?”

No small task. To birth history today. Rohr has hit upon a profound idea…it is not the future we are to spend the majority of our energy on. It is the NOW. The Power of Now was written by Eckhart Tolle in 2004 and has sold over 16 million copies in 30 language translations. What have we learned from that popular book? As I look at what the media choses to capture and show us regarding American behaviors in public, I would assume no one has read that book.

But, let us remember, the media is never the whole story. What we say, what we witness, where we interact is where our range of influence is and therein lies my call. “To be whom I am called to be.” Following the Rabbi Jesus’ model and many other peace leaders over centuries. We are a humanity still learning how to ‘birth history’.

My prayer: Creator, help us own the deep awareness that we are living out birthing history with our choices, and it is either working toward hurting others and toward destruction, or making a better world.