community – Southwest Conference Blog

Good Grief! You’ve Changed!

by Rev. Paul Whitlock, Senior Pastor, The Church of the Palms UCC

You likely remember the exact moment the world shifted—the devastating phone call, the quiet hospital room, the empty chair at dinner, or the text you dreaded ever receiving. It is the overwhelming silence that hits when a person who defined your daily life suddenly exists only in your memory. It’s a common story at The Palms.

Most people view grief as a purely emotional arc: you weep, you ache, you miss them, and eventually, time mends the heart. Neuroscience, however, reveals a far more complex biological reality. Deep loss doesn’t just trigger sadness; it fundamentally alters your brain’s structure and function. It reshapes your memories, skews your perception of time, shifts your identity, and rewires how you forecast the future. You aren’t just mourning a person— your brain is forcibly attempting to construct a new reality where they no longer exist, permanently altering who you are in the process.

Psychologists refer to one of grief’s most painful aspects as the “continuing bond.” While your logical mind understands they are gone, your emotional brain has not updated its map of reality. You still reflexively reach for your phone to text them or expect to hear their voice when good news breaks.

This happens because the brain builds loved ones directly into its internal prediction network. Over time, your brain learns:

When I need support, I go to them.
When something exciting happens, I share it with them.
When life is difficult, they are my anchor.

They become built into your brain’s core emotional architecture. When they disappear, your neural network experiences a systemic failure—the world your brain constantly prepares for no longer exists.

Grief is far more than an abstract feeling. Neuroimaging reveals that the pain of social rejection and profound loss activates the same brain regions as physical injury. This is why grieving individuals frequently experience phantom physical symptoms:

Deep body aches and chronic pain
Persistent exhaustion and lethargy
Severe brain fog and inability to focus
A disorienting loss of self

In a literal sense, your brain is treating loss as a physical trauma, desperately trying to adapt to an unrecognizable environment.

After a loss, memories often become hyper-vivid. You might suddenly recall the exact cadence of their laugh, their subtle habits, or mundane moments that now feel invaluable.

This occurs because the hippocampus—the brain’s memory hub—works alongside emotional centers to preserve connections to vital people. The deeper the bond, the stronger the underlying neural pathways. Losing someone close doesn’t feel like losing information; it feels like losing a piece of your personal history, because part of your brain’s timeline was built directly around them.

When a loved one dies, you don’t just lose them—you lose the specific version of yourself that existed alongside them. Relationships don’t just link two people; they form distinct identities. You manifest differently with a childhood friend than with a colleague or parent.

When a key relationship ends, your brain must reorganize its fundamental sense of self.

Psychologists call this “identity reconstruction.” You are not just learning to navigate life without someone; you are discovering who you are in their absence.

Prolonged grief isn’t a sign of weakness; it is a sign of a brain struggling to reconcile two conflicting realities. Your emotional brain insists, “They belong here,” while your logical brain counters, “They are gone.” Running these two competing versions of reality simultaneously creates intense psychological distress, forcing the brain to confront this gap at every trigger.

Many fear moving forward because they equate healing with forgetting. But the brain doesn’t erase meaningful bonds—it evolves them. Over time, the connection shifts from an external presence to an internal blueprint. Their wisdom influences your choices, their humor shapes your perspective, and their voice becomes part of your inner compass.

While tragedy should never be romanticized, neuroscientists recognize a phenomenon known as post-traumatic growth. Following profound loss, the brain can gradually build new pathways rooted in:

Heightened empathy and compassion
Richer emotional awareness
Realigned personal priorities
Deeper gratitude for life and remaining relationships

You cannot return to who you were before the loss, because that version of you belonged to a world where they were still here. The true path of grief isn’t about moving on—it is about moving forward as someone new, carrying the love, the memories, and the transformation with you. On your journey, this new adventure, we walk with you at The Palms.

Shalom, Paul

Thank you, Dolly.

by Dr. Kristina Campbell

Saints sometimes appear in unlikely places, and flags are flying at half-staff to honor a saint of my generation. Dolly Parton was uniquely created, uniquely gifted and uniquely full of life and generosity.

In a world that screams out for humility, Dolly was the incarnation of a humble heart. She never forgot her roots in an impoverished hardscrabble Tennessee home where she was the fourth of twelve children. God’s gift of music appeared early in her life, and Dolly sang before she could play an instrument. Her songs were filled with gratitude, love and a generous heart. Every song Dolly sang felt like a hymn.

Dolly was the definition of authenticity, and confidently showed up in her cotton candy hair, never trying to diminish her southern twang. She was the real deal, and made a real contribution to the world around her. She was a symbol of self-acceptance and grace, musically encouraging others to be the same. One of her guiding values was honesty.

Dolly’s faith was strong and personal. She approached her faith with a humble heart saying, “I have a lot of love to give. I take my work very serious but I don’t take myself serious.”

Married for 59 years, Dolly protected the private and sacred relationship of her marriage. Her husband, Carl Dean was rarely, if ever, seen in public, but he was Dolly’s biggest fan. Dolly understood that some relationships are private and are to be held very close to the heart.

Dolly’s faith was at the core of her being, and she often spoke of growing up in a very open-hearted, faith-based family where she was taught to love and be accepting, and to give more than you receive. The essence of Dolly’s faith is expressed in this quote: “Whether you believe in God or not, you need to be grounded; you need to believe in something greater than yourself. We grew up thinking that other people are just as important as we are.” Dolly acted out these beliefs by embracing all people with a welcoming heart.

While exhibiting her posture of acceptance, Dolly radiated joy, and she approached life with a spirit of fun. Dolly believed that to be a true Christian, our hearts have to be open to everyone. She made a joyful noise.

Dolly’s generosity was apparent in all aspects of her life, but her special passion was the Imagination Library. This program mailed a book each month to children in 42 states and Canada. Dolly’s father was unable to read, and Dolly viewed this as a crippling aspect of his life. Dolly herself read approximately fifty books a year.

So thank you, Dolly for giving us an authentic life well lived. Thank you for your authenticity, your humility, your faith in action, your joie de vivre, your cotton candy hair. There is probably some toe tapping going on in heaven, and a lot of angels singing “We Will Always Love You.”

You Do Not Have to Prove Your Worth

by Gordon Street, Commissioned Minister for Reimagining and Connecting with the God of One’s Own Understanding

Grace does not ask us to prove our worth—it invites us to receive Love and take the next faithful step.

For much of my life, I believed I had something to prove.

I felt the need to prove that I was worthy, that my life mattered, that my recovery was real, and that my calling to ministry was legitimate. Even after becoming a commissioned minister, I sometimes found myself looking for reassurance that my voice and the ministry I offered had value.

Over time, recovery and faith have taught me something different: God never asked me to prove my worth. Grace had already declared that I mattered.

That truth did not come to me all at once. It unfolded gradually through many years of recovery, spiritual growth, discernment, and learning to trust the God I experienced. It came through the people who walked beside me, the communities that welcomed me, and the quiet moments when I sensed a Presence holding my hand and inviting me forward.

I am learning that faith is not always about knowing exactly where we are going. Sometimes faith simply means trusting the Presence that goes with us and taking the next faithful step.

That step may be small. It may be asking for help, telling the truth, letting go of something we cannot control, or simply showing up when we would rather withdraw. We may not feel courageous when we take it. Yet courage is not the absence of fear. Sometimes courage is moving forward while fear is still walking beside us.

This understanding has become central to my ministry, Recovery Spirituality in Action. I often encounter people who feel distant from the church or uncomfortable with traditional religious language. Some carry wounds from religious communities. Others question whether they believe the “right” things or know enough about the Bible to begin a spiritual journey.

My message to them is simple: You do not have to understand God fully before you can begin experiencing God. Start where you are. Speak honestly. Remain willing. Allow the relationship to unfold.

There are many people around us carrying burdens we cannot see. They are weary from trying to meet expectations, appear strong, or prove that they belong. Some may even enter our churches wondering whether they will be accepted before they have said a word.

Perhaps our ministry is not to give weary people one more standard to meet. Perhaps it is to remind them that they matter, that grace is already reaching toward them, and that the next faithful step is enough for today.

The church can become a companion for weary hearts—a place where people do not have to pretend that everything is well before they are welcomed. It can be a place where they are reminded that God is present even when life feels uncertain or overwhelming.

I no longer want to spend my energy trying to prove my calling. I simply want to live it:

Show up.
Offer what is mine to offer.
Trust God with what happens next.

Maybe that invitation is not only for ministers. Perhaps it is for all of us.

We can stop trying to prove that we deserve Love and begin receiving the grace that has been surrounding us all along. We can rest in God’s presence, listen for the Spirit’s gentle movement, and take the next faithful step.

For today, that is enough.

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.

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.

KATRINA

by Dr. Kristina “Tina” Campbell

Last Sunday I had the opportunity to observe Dr. Gloria Smith sit on the floor surrounded by young adults. She was addressing the 20^th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina, an event that took place before most of them were born. In her typically respectful posture toward the young, Dr. Smith carefully explained the rise of the storm and the circumstances that made it so devastating. She went on to clearly describe not only the real-life physical aftermath of Katrina, but the reality of those who were the most physically, emotionally and morally injured…the harsh reality for the poor and disenfranchised. However, Dr. Smith did not stop here. She talked about the importance of the concept of neighbor helping neighbor, how the UCC rolled up its collective sleeves, and began picking up one stick at a time.

Katrina slammed into New Orleans, reportedly as one of the worst five storms in American history, and like the open casket of Emmett Louis Till, forced Americans to see the ugly divide of race. I watched in horror as Brian Williams reported his personal experience with Katrina’s aftermath in an NBC news special that appeared a year after the storm hit. Williams repeated over and over again that the post Katrina situation did not resemble anything that could happen in the United States, and that the human suffering was incredible by modern standards. As the crowd in the Superdome grew to more than 30,000, Williams lost his reporter’s neutrality, and talked about the inhabitants as being “obviously poor” and mostly African American. He went on to report that the Superdome inhabitants were treated roughly by the National Guard, and the whole situation “felt bad.” After the storm passed, and the levees broke, flooding at least 80% of the city, Williams, hoping to use the media’s influence in a positive way, further dropped his neutrality and pleaded with any authorities who would listen to recognize that there were people still in desperate need of help. Williams stated in an interview that he viewed the situation from his own standing as a father and husband, and related back to his childhood values that we are all of equal value. He summarized that the families of color in New Orleans were not treated with equal value.

This news special put my own mind and heart into motion. Who were these people who remained in New Orleans during and after the storm? Why did they stay? How did the rest of the country view them? Why didn’t we know about them before?

The term “underclass” was coined in the United States by journalist Ken Auletta, and it focuses attention on the basement of the American social system (those who are viewed to be “under” the rest of us). Christopher Jencks suggests three different kinds of “underclass”: economic (those who are working age and unable to get steady work); moral (whose with deviant behavioral norms such as addiction) and educational (those lacking in cultural and social skills). These citizens are the least privileged in our culture. Many of those most harshly affected by Katrina were already the poorest of the poor. The people who remained during and after Katrina lacked basic resources to evacuate the area.

Barack Obama responded by saying, “I hope we realize that the people of New Orleans weren’t just abandoned during the hurricane. They were abandoned long ago—to murder and mayhem in the streets, to substandard schools, to dilapidated housing, to inadequate health care, to a pervasive sense of hopelessness.”

The moral question becomes: Will Americans continue to turn a blind eye to the underclass and support political decisions based on hate, privilege and prejudice or will we come together to form a community of hope, picking up one spiritual stick at a time? Will we learn the painful lessons that Katrina was trying to teach? Will we, like Dr. Gloria Smith, pass on our learnings to the next generation, roll up our sleeves, suit up and show up, and say a resounding “no” to hate and hopelessness??? I say it’s time to get to work.

Image by Milano Ryce on flickr

12 Safeguards for Spiritual Caregivers

by Christopher Schouten

For clergy or lay members engaged in the demanding and holy work of pastoral care, sustainability is key. The following safeguards are designed to help you protect your spirit, maintain healthy boundaries, and continue to serve from a place of fullness rather than depletion, preventing burnout and compassion fatigue.

Anchor Yourself in Personal Spiritual Practices You cannot pour out what you have not first received. Your personal time for prayer, scripture study, and quiet contemplation is not a luxury – it is the very source of the grace you extend to others. Protect this time fiercely so you can minister from a place of genuine connection with God.
Acknowledge the Sacred Weight of the Work The stories you hear and the pain you witness are heavy. Acknowledge the emotional and spiritual toll of this ministry. Like Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, it is okay to feel the weight of this work. Naming it prevents the burden from silently crushing your spirit.
Set Healthy Ministry Boundaries Your role is to be a companion, not a savior. Practice compassionate detachment by walking with people in their pain without taking their burdens on as your own. Know when a visit is over, be clear about your availability, and protect your family and personal time.
Actively Give and Receive Care Within Your Team Your care team meetings should be more than just case management. They must be a safe space for you to be vulnerable, to share your own struggles, and to pray for one another. Intentionally practice being a caregiver to your fellow team members.
Know When to Refer You are a spiritual companion, not a professional therapist or social worker. A critical part of responsible pastoral care is recognizing situations that are beyond the scope of your training. See it as a strength, not a failure, to connect someone with professional counseling or other resources.
Practice Spiritual and Emotional Self-Awareness Regularly and prayerfully check in with yourself. What are your personal signs of stress or fatigue? Are you feeling irritable, cynical, or emotionally numb? Pay attention to these signals from your body and spirit as a prompt to seek rest and support.
Embrace the Discipline of Sabbath True Sabbath is more than just a day off; it is a deliberate ceasing from work and worry to delight in God and creation. Intentionally schedule time for rest, hobbies, and activities that replenish your soul and have nothing to do with your ministry role.
Nurture Your Life Outside of Ministry Your identity is more than “pastoral caregiver.” Cultivate your friendships, family relationships, and personal interests. Maintaining a full and varied life provides perspective, joy, and resilience that will, in turn, enrich your ministry.
Seek Continual Spiritual Formation Continue to be a student of faith. Participating in Bible studies, attending workshops, or going on retreats for your own spiritual growth will deepen your wellspring of wisdom and grace, equipping you for the long haul of ministry.
Practice Grace-Filled Self-Compassion You will not always have the right words. You will sometimes feel like you have failed. In these moments, extend the same grace to yourself that you are called to extend to others. Remember that your worth is not in your effectiveness, but in your identity as a beloved child of God.
Reconnect with Your Calling When you feel weary, take time to remember and reflect on why you first felt called to this ministry. Sharing these stories with your team can be a powerful reminder of your shared purpose and God’s faithfulness.
Lean on Church Leadership You are not in this alone. Your senior minister and other church leaders are there to support you. Be honest with them about the team’s weariness and your personal need for support. A healthy ministry is one where caregivers feel seen, valued, and supported by their leadership.

Based on the works of:

Barton, R. H. (2008). Strengthening the Soul of Your Leadership: Seeking God in the Crucible of Ministry. InterVarsity Press.

Burns, B., Chapman, T. D., & Guthrie, D. C. (2013). Resilient Ministry: What Pastors Told Us About Surviving and Thriving. IVP Books.