Through Stained Glass: Thursday Thoughts on a Friday Afternoon

               It’s late on a Thursday night.

               Western winds roll through Logan County. The Oak and Maple canopies around my house are chatty tonight. The rain is cool, not cold, and when it hits the parched ground, it gives the air a rich, velvety, deeply damp smell of dark loam, clay, and decaying roots. The only flowers still blooming, besides the Mums on my front porch, are the Marigolds. They are vibrant orange and yellow. Oh, and of course, the Morning Glories. Between the rain showers, I saw a Bumblebee crawl into a Flower's cone, drinking deep, tasting, and seeing the goodness of the Creator. The breeze chills my arms, so I put on my Uncle’s Harley flannel. The material is heavy and soft, cozy, like a hug from your favorite person. Or I imagine how it felt when the prodigal returned home to the father.

               The weekend weather reports a noticeable temperature change, especially at night. The winds will grow stronger as the day lengthens tomorrow. If they haven’t already, you'll hear Canada Geese first, then see them flying overhead, following ancient migratory patterns, coming and going. Such is life.

               So much change is happening outside. Trees are changing from Summer’s green to Autumn’s red, gold, and muted hues. Landscapes once thick with Corn are now barren, letting the Earth do what She does. The juvenile Cardinals that visit my yard at sundown, singing a song I like to think is a thanksgiving for refilling the feeder with black sunflower seeds, are growing into their adult plumage. My wind chimes are silent, still entangled in the decaying Sunflower, picked clean by the Sparrows. Entangled, just as we are with God.

As I write this, news about a school shooting comes across my notifications. My joy in the moment is disrupted by the bitter taste of rage and the first fruits of grief.

               Oh, God, Life-giver, Companion to those whose harvest is abundant; Oh, God, attentive Lover of those who grieve and feel empty like the fields—draw near to us all. Comfort our siblings in Oregon after another elementary school shooting. Surround them in their suffering with your healing mercy. Strengthen them in their sorrow to name their grief, express their anger, and hear their prayers—and ours—of lament as we endure yet another senseless act of violence. “Loving God, as we hear the news, see the faces, and listen to the stories of fear, loss, and disconsolation, we pray for your Comfort and your peace. May your Spirit once again move in the midst of this community devastated by this tragedy. May your grace embrace every family, school employee, first responder, and especially the children from this school.” May your Spirit guide us as we seek to free our children from fear that hinders their ability to grow and thrive. Fill us with a new imagination; may we learn from the Trees and let go of the ideologies that stand in the way of your kin-dom being embodied here on earth, as it is in heaven.

It’s late on a Thursday, and I find myself holding two truths at once.

I look forward to Saturday’s Halloween party—a chance to gather in laughter, play, and joy.

At the same time, I grieve the little lives lost—the children who will never have the chance to wear their costumes. Everything is not fine. We weep. We wail.

And still, we go on. I will do my part to live within this paradox: to make room for grief without surrendering the possibility of joy, and to hold sorrow and hope together.

 

Through Stained Glass: Thursday Thoughts on a Friday Afternoon

 A caveat about this week's post: it's long and inspired by the personal essay. Before you read, please click this link and take the Community Health Survey. Our results help our communities thrive and also provide data on how we can best serve our community through our ministry at 1PC.

                    On and off throughout my seminary years, a group of us would get together for supper. At first, we would go out to eat, exploring a new restaurant in Louisville each week. However, this practice ended when we realized it was unsustainable for students with limited incomes like ours.

Eager to cherish our time together, we began preparing our meals. Despite our tiny kitchens, these moments let us exchange ideas for papers, envision ministry beyond school, and, for those with spouses, connect with someone outside the pressures of theological studies. The supper club fostered a stronger sense of community. Although our silverware was mismatched and our plates chipped, none of that mattered because we had each other.

               By our third year, these suppers had become infrequent. We began taking on ministry gigs to gain new experiences, hone our skills, and ultimately make our resumes more appealing. What had once been weekly became occasional gatherings for birthdays or holidays. Looking back on my early seminary years, I realize how much those suppers helped me navigate the stresses of seminary life and of being in a new environment far from family and friends. Occasionally, a memory pops up on my social media, and I’m taken back to those sacred suppers, where a bunch of strangers became family and, in our own upper room way, we tasted and saw that God is good.

               I enjoy sharing a good supper with others. Although I don’t do it often, it’s one of my favorite communal moments. Maybe it’s the cozy feeling of bumping elbows with the person next to me, or the sense of belonging when someone asks, “Can you pass the potatoes?" Perhaps it's also about challenging a society that prioritizes online connection, leaving little time to dine together for a couple of hours as the world keeps turning. No TV. In a perfect setting, no cell phones turned face down on the table. Endless beverages and conversations. And, of course, vinyl spinning in the background.

               The reign of God is like …

               I recently read an article about the decline of people throwing supper parties. It isn’t just supper parties – it’s socializing in general. I’ll link the article here because the data is fascinating. The data I’m curious about is this statement:

Until 1975, half of Americans said they entertained guests at their home every month. Then something changed. Americans stopped throwing parties. Even more fundamental, they stopped visiting one another. From 1975 to 1998, the share of Americans who gave or attended a monthly dinner party declined by half. The share of Americans saying they never entertained people at home tripled.

And as the article notes, for those of us who bemoan organized religion’s decreased attendance, it’s not fallen nearly as quickly as hosting folxs in our homes!

               The article also debunks some myths. For example, it notes that people have moved their gatherings from their homes to restaurants and bars. The data doesn’t support this, and even those in the restaurant industry are noticing more people eating alone. I’m one of them. It isn’t uncommon for me to grab a book or my headphones and head somewhere to eat. By myself. Listening to a book or a podcast. I experience this in the fitness world, too. Go to the local gym, or even the park, and you’ll find a bunch of people listening to podcasts, only to pause and ask, “Are you using this machine?” I once witnessed two people walk into each other at the park because they were both looking down at their cell phones. AT. THE. PARK!

               Yes, there are exceptions. I’m sure those of you with kids often gather with fellow parents to cheer on your child at whatever event they are doing. That’s a form of socializing and community. For sure. I know of two different people who have joined a bowling league within the last three years. The article I linked above notes how running clubs have increased as well in recent years. There are exceptions. Always.

               But I can’t shake the idea that we don’t host supper parties anymore. Tucked away in a box somewhere in my little house are my ‘fancy napkins,’ those plastic things that plates sit on [saucers?], and I think I have matching silverware. I couldn’t tell you the last time I hosted something where I used real plates or didn’t involve watching Netflix or sharing funny memes from our phones. [Yes, this is a way we connect now. I get it.] I guess the nostalgia of my grandparents hosting friends gets the better of me when I think about how digital we’ve become.

               The decline of supper parties is a complex topic. Far too complex for this meandering personal essay, but it is one I want to revisit. I love hosting. I love being intentional with people over dining experiences, preferably without the day's distractions. I’m not so naive as to ignore how different things are now from what they were fifty, sixty, or eighty years ago. I get it. And as much as I don’t mind being alone, I guess I still worry about outsourcing relationships. As a person of faith, I believe embodiment makes love real. Eating together is a spiritual practice. Jesus gave us the Lord’s Supper at, you guessed it, his last supper.

               Maybe that’s it for me. Supper parties are an opportunity to encounter the real us. Where we can be together, separated only by the table in front of us. Maybe I am naive, but I value how the supper party invites a sense of slowness and pushes back against the rush we often experience and accept as normal. I also value how supper parties, from what I remember from seminary, created a community where we all felt supported. In a day and age where technology gets better, the digital world gets bigger, and our social lives get smaller, I want to witness and experience love incarnate.

               I understand the other side of this. In seminary, our lives were quite limited. We were students with predictable schedules and available time, even if we lacked money. But as I mentioned, that changed when ‘the real world' started knocking. Today, it’s easier to create a ‘group chat’ and connect that way than to coordinate schedules for a meal, let alone all the steps that go into hosting a dinner party. I’d love to invite people over, but I realize many don’t like Dogs. I’d love to host folxs for a supper party, but my table seats four, and my dinnerware- I’ve had it for nearly twenty years now. My house is lived in, and nothing about it is ‘museum-esque.’ But Brigid, Tecumseh, and I would love to have you over … just give me a few days to straighten up!

               Dear reader, if you've made it this far, congratulations! I don't have a profound conclusion or sage advice on reviving supper parties. This post was probably an attempt to evoke nostalgia, recalling my seminary days and the fullness those memories still bring. I hope it also reminds us that love can’t be outsourced—a lesson from the latest “This Jungian Life” podcast. Love is a verb as much as it is a noun. It is the core of life, the energy that binds everything together.

               We are more than the three bubbles that appear when we text. We are more than the algorithms we create. We are deeply connected. I want to throw a supper party so we can bear witness to the parts of our lives, creating a space where the True Self can emerge – something Claude will never be able to do for you.

               I don’t know how to end this without acknowledging my curiosity about your experience with supper parties. Do you host parties where the primary focus is eating together? If not, what gets in the way? What’s one of your favorite memories from a supper party you attended over the years? Wouldn’t these be fun to discuss … over supper sometime?

               Finally, as socialization declines, there are many ways to stay engaged in our community. For example, the Lincoln Public Library hosts its annual 1902 Club, an event that brings music, food, and community spirit together in lively ways! This year, it's on Saturday, October 24. Of course, the Saturday before, October 17, we are throwing our annual Halloween Party in the parking lot with games, fire pits for roasting hot dogs and marshmallows, and a dunk tank to raise awareness of food insecurity in Lincoln and Logan County.

               Those supper parties from my seminary days bring me so much joy when I think back on them. I cherish how effortlessly community comes together, and I truly enjoy opening my home to others. The connections formed when we welcome people in are like the mana I need—sharing stories nourishes my soul, and love is the best meal we can ever share together.

Through Stained Glass: Thursday Thoughts on a Friday Afternoon

                When was the last time you were surprised?

               I don’t mean, necessarily, like a surprise party, though that counts.

               What I mean is, like, a moment when you were taken aback, when reality didn’t go as expected.

               Ugh. I’m not explaining this clearly.

               So, let me try this: last Sunday’s Hebrew Bible reading was from Exodus 17. The Israelites were fresh off complaining about food, and they began going on about how they needed water. They began to ‘quarrel’ with Moses and Aaron.

               Pause.

               Did you know chapter 17 is often referred to as the chapter of complaints?

               Unpause.

               First, they had no food. Now they have no water. And again they say, “Why did you bring us out of Egypt, to kill us and our children and livestock with thirst?” I mean, I can’t say I’ve ever been in their situation, but I kind of feel like they have a valid point.

               God hears their complaints once more and responds. God tells Moses to gather the elders, and Moses is to strike the rock. Water then flows out, astonishing the Israelites at God's power. God’s attention to their lives. God’s nearness. God’s ability to keep God’s promise.

               That’s what I mean.

               When was the last time you were surprised by God? When was the last time your spirit was thirsty and God provided refreshment? When were you left in awe of our Creator's goodness and mercy?

               When did you last encounter the good news that God is among us?

               Life has its ups and downs. In both tough and joyful times, we recall God’s goodness. Have you reflected on a difficult season you survived and wondered whether you would make it through? You did. And you will. That’s why I love the stories and myths in our sacred text. God can’t be controlled, yet God is faithful. We might, like the Israelites, have to take the long way and wait a minute, but God surprises us. Always with love.

               I remember, as a child, feeling that some homework assignments were impossible. I would try with all my might, especially with math, to get my brother [who is a math teacher] to do it for me. He was wise. He knew the assignment. He loved me and, in those moments, essentially said, “I love you. I believe in you. I know what you’re capable of. So, I’m going to make you work.” What he gave me helped me for the rest of my life: a belief that I can do something, and that if I can’t, I can ask for help and learn from my mistakes. Sure, he could have just given me the answers. Instead, he taught me to think critically, trust my abilities, and rely on what I learned.

               Do not hear me equating my math homework with what the Israelites endured. That would be silly. Instead, hear me in this example and metaphor [?], which attempts to communicate how God can surprise us by making Themselves known in and through each other. Above all, hear me try to explain that we have a part to play in our collective salvation and liberation!

This reminds me of what I wanted to say in my sermon but didn’t. It’s about a man with two children who asked them to do chores. One initially refused but eventually did the work; the other agreed but then backed out. My main point was that we can change our minds and it’s never too late to start working. We all can do something. Even if we said ‘no’ and if we said ‘yes.’ The story goes something like this:

An old man strolls along a beach after a storm so fierce that thousands of starfish were swept ashore. As he walks, the old man sees a young girl carefully picking up one starfish at a time and tossing it back into the ocean. The old man tells the girl that she is wasting her time—that she can’t possibly save all the starfish, can’t possibly make a real difference. The girl bends down, grabs another starfish, and flings it into the ocean. She says: “Well, I made a difference to that one!”

Our lives are often like that, no? Like a beach covered with starfish. And all we can do is  . . . all we can do.

               You can make a difference. The small next thing you can do is likely where God will surprise you. Don’t ever stop doing the faithful, loving thing. Even when you don’t want to. Even when you feel like you most certainly can. Do it. Complain. Celebrate. Lament. Praise. Do. It. All. God hears it all.

Do something – especially something you wouldn’t like to do or want to do. Then, wait to be surprised! 

***

The photo below has nothing to do with anything I wrote. It simply is a photo of me surprising myself. October 1st is the start of what some call "spooky season." To me, this means we enter the time of year when we allow ourselves to experience feelings we usually try to avoid. Of course, the origins of Halloween are many, but for us Christians, it's a season when we remember the saints in our lives who have completed their baptism in death. Yes, it has nothing to do with the "devil" and everything to do with remembering those who have gone before us and loved us. To make it about the 'devil' is to give too much power to something [death] that has no power over us. We are a people of the resurrection, not death and evil!

Through Stained Glass: Thursday Thoughts on a Friday

 

                              It’s Thursday and, surprisingly, I don’t have many thoughts.

               I'm outside on my patio. My “Nashville” string lights are on, and Moths are flocking to them like children to their favorite Disney character at Disney World. Or so I assume. I’ve never been.

               The neighborhood is quiet. No events at the high school. No children outside enjoying this cool Fall evening. No Cicadas. Not even my wind chimes.

               Silence.

               And, well, Crickets, chirping away. Before the Sun tucked itself behind the Western horizon, the Cardinals were singing, as they always do.

               But now, it’s quiet.

               A neighbor pulls into their driveway across the street, and Brigid barks. She acts as the welcoming committee or feels it’s Her duty to inform the neighbors of any activity in the cul-de-sac.

               Just a few weeks ago it was still light at 7:58 p.m., and the neighbor kids were out playing, jumping on their trampoline and getting yelled at to “Come inside. It’s time to get ready for bed.”

               I don’t mind the silence out here. It’s a nice change of pace from what Summer was like toward the end. Whistles, cheers, sounds from the band, bright lights from the high school football and soccer field: students preparing for competition on the gridiron.

               The occasional loud engine disrupts the evening. But mostly, it’s still. It’s calm. I can feel Creation breathing.

               So I breathe. I’ve got a flannel on because my forearms were getting chilly. In the air, I smell a grill- rather, something being barbecued. My stomach grumbles. Did I have supper?

               On Sunday, we'll read a parable about two sons whom their father asked to work in the vineyard. One initially refuses but later changes his mind and does the work, while the other agrees but never follows through. We’ve all experienced this—intending to do something, but life happens. Soon, the dishes pile up in the sink, and the plant in the corner, with its brown leaves, seems to ask for water. We’ll get to those dishes, water the plant, and all will be well.

               Unless we don’t. And the dishes get grimy, one brown leaf turns to four, and we find ourselves working harder to make things right. But we do the work. We have time to reconsider our choices. We do what needs to be done, even if it isn’t our first choice.

               I’m not sure where this sermon will end up. Jesus' parable is working on me, as it's meant to. We are both the children in the parable. We’ve been both the former and the latter. It’s okay to be both. Being human, especially on days like today, is acceptable.   Yet, I can’t escape this silence.

               More cars. 121 is busy tonight. Where are these folxs rushing to? I hope everyone gets home safely.

               We need silence. We need these still moments to rest, to hear something other than the cacophony of voices clamoring for our attention. What are these Crickets going on about? How many more of these still, quiet nights will we have before the chilled air of the Northwest arrives?

               What is that line from the famous HBO show? Winter is coming.

               Woah, Adam. We are three days into Fall. Don’t rush it!

               I’m not. I’m simply paying attention.

               I’m now listening to the sound of the Amtrak whistle. That train horn always reminds me of Merton, who has this wonderful story about how our thoughts during meditation are like trains pulling into the station. When we're quietly praying or listening for God's gentle, still voice, distractions naturally come. When they do, try to see them as the train’s whistle—welcome them warmly, acknowledge their presence, and then gently send them on their way. This way, we turn interruptions into a peaceful part of our practice.

               I like to think that the first child who said ‘no’ and then did the work had a quiet moment when they heard the urgency in their parent’s request to act. It’s never too late to change our minds. It’s never too late to do the next right thing.

               The thing about being human, as I learn with each passing day, is that we aren’t static beings. Meaning we aren’t stuck in this life. We can change. We evolve. Admitting this and welcoming this reality frees us to choose the better parts of life. Even when we think we’ve missed the train.

               Again, I lean into Merton’s wisdom, who writes, “To be born again is not to become somebody else, but to become ourselves.” (Love and Living)

               The roads are busy with traffic. The noise interrupts this still night. I’m reminded that I’m not alone. There are the Crickets. There’s you. There’s always us.

               Ope, the neighbor's Dogs are out. Brigid assumes her position, alerting the neighborhood to the latest arrival. Tecumseh is in His corner, nose to the air, stealthily sniffing for what I can’t see.

               Ugh. It’s great, right? To know we aren’t alone. To remember we have each other. To proclaim our interdependence.

               I wonder if that’s what silence does.

               Let us hear the good news that God is here. And there. Everywhere.

To choose love.

Maybe that’s the next right thing.

Through Stained Glass: Thursday Thoughts on a Friday Afternoon

As many of you know, I love marking time with the changing seasons. On Tuesday, we move from Summer to Fall, and we will have an equal amount of daylight and darkness. I find these threshold moments the perfect opportunity to reflect on God’s presence in my life, give thanks for where I have been, and lean into God’s wisdom as I move into whatever comes next.

At Kirk Night, we took time to reflect on the summer months, asking ourselves, “What fruit of God’s love did you experience in abundance this summer?” and “What aspects of nature or the changing seasons are you grateful for?” A gratitude practice like this helps us remember that life is a gift and that God is with us. A daily, intentional attitude of gratitude will keep our hands open to expect, allow, and receive life at ever-deeper levels of satisfaction—but never to think we deserve it.

We also reflected on questions that help us prepare for the gradual approach of darkness in the latter part of the year. As summer transitions to fall, consider what you are ready to release. As nights lengthen, what dreams are seeking to surface within you? Change is unavoidable and inherent in our human nature. Whatever your answers, remember that God is with you, and you have the strength and courage to face whatever lies ahead.

With each new day and season, I strive to stay attentive to God’s presence, which calls me not only to change but also to grow. While change is unavoidable, growth remains a choice. I hope to embody a way of being that allows Love to uplift and guide me back to my Original Name. God has given us this life to embrace and collaborate with the Spirit in building the Beloved Community. We are God’s artwork—just like the Maple trees soon to burst with vibrant reds and oranges! Let us remain open to whom God’s Spirit is shaping us to become, and give thanks for the blessings God gives to us.

Through Stained Glass: Thursday Thoughts on a Friday Afternoon

The desk in my study at home faces a window, offering a beautiful view despite the slight inconvenience of opening it and drawing the curtains. From here, I observe the changing seasons—green grass fading to brown, full trees shedding their leaves to reveal bare branches, and Hummingbirds buzzing until the Cardinals, Chickadees, and Robins are the only birds left. I have spent considerable time watching from this window, a practice that reminds me that God’s timing, which transcends our simple clock time (chronos), is always present in our patience and waiting.

               Today, as the gentle rain quietly fell, I was delighted to watch a female Cardinal hanging upside down from one of the few remaining Sunflowers in the yard. She seemed so graceful as she balanced herself on the fragile stalk, using her sturdy, cone-shaped beak to reach the black seed. With some effort, she tugged and pulled until she finally succeeded. I watched with fascination as she cracked open the shell and swallowed the soft inner kernel.

               Being near her, I noticed she was missing some feathers. A quick search reveals that female cardinals usually shed feathers in late summer or early fall after breeding. Wet and eager for food, I hear her sing between pecks about change and growth. Molting may not be painful, but it can be quite exhausting for the bird. It leaves her more vulnerable to temperature changes, reduces the energy she needs for flight, and increases her risk of predation. She looks gnarly, but I suspect she knows to embrace the process. She makes me hopeful.

I often talk about Birds and Nature, which might seem repetitive. Yet, after hearing that an Anthropic researcher left over fears that AI might wipe out humanity within ten years, I feel more despair than ever. I’m not here to argue whether we should use AI—though I can share theological and pastoral perspectives—but I will say this: no AI-generated image has ever given me the same deep awareness as watching a molting female Cardinal in September. It may sound strange, but perhaps Jesus was right when he said, “Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?” The Divine, Eternal Love, God, the Universe – however we describe what is beyond us yet present among us – is here: in you, in me, in the dried Sunflower, and in the Cardinal. And the Cosmic They/Them loves you just as God the Father feeds the Birds and waters the Lilies.

               I guess, beloved reader, what I want to communicate in this post is twofold. First, like the Cardinal, it’s okay to give yourself over to change; to let new life rise within and around you; and to let go of any beliefs, worlds, or thoughts that no longer lead to your True Self. Second, you are not alone in your exhaustion, and it does not define you. Despair is a normal response to the confusion and uncertainty of our current timeline. However, there’s wisdom in the Berry poem shared last week – the one about how the wild things do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. My hope is that by writing often about the Divine and nature, you will come to see the Divine dwelling in you. Maybe you'll be lifted from despair by simply being reminded that you, along with everything, belong to God.

Here's a prayer by theologian and mystic John Philip Newell that I hope draws you deeper to the Love that abides in you.

“You are above me O God; You are beneath; You are in air; You are in earth; You are beside me; You are within.  O God of heaven, you have made your home on earth in the broken body of Creation.  Kindle within me a love for you in all things.”

Under a low gray sky, I looked out my window and saw a Cardinal undergoing change. She wasn’t flustered about Her feathers, nor did She mind my camera. As She ate and I watched Her, we shared a moment of connection – a quiet exchange of gratitude. Hope today was a thing with ... molted feathers.

I hope you will join us Wednesday as we celebrate the Season of Creation with a Taize service. 

Through Stained Glass: Thursday Thoughts on a Friday Afternoon

 The world mourns the loss of Wendell Berry, a remarkable poet, prophet, and pastor. Some may wonder why I called Berry a ‘pastor' since he wasn’t an ordained clergy member. That's a fair question. A quick look into the word 'pastor' reveals it originally relates to caring for animals, much like a shepherd.

Although Berry perhaps was never a literal 'shepherd,' his care for the land had a pastoral quality. One of my early mentors noted that whenever we read about a farmer or character’s relationship to the land in Berry’s writings—whether articles, essays, books, or poems—we could substitute 'church.' This reflects wisdom applicable to those in parish ministry. What I most appreciated about Berry’s fiction was his grasp of Jesus’s command to love our neighbor, regardless of their creaturely state. He also understood the importance of community, frequently emphasizing the value of being rooted in a particular place and of staying committed there.

Berry was a prophet. Reading “The Mad Farmer Liberation” reveals a voice calling in the wilderness, urging us to abandon our indifferent, greedy, and apathetic relationship with creation and to stop the practices that destroy our planet—Earth. I love, as one writer put it about Berry’s prophetic wisdom, “As a cultural conscientious objector, he occupied the rarefied space of a neo-humanist, a Renaissance man in an era of industrial agriculture, technology overdrive, and obsessive consumption. Most importantly, he was a prophet, warning us about the abuse of land, water, and atmosphere for ever-larger food production and the demons of economic development (and data centers).” If ever there were a time for his wisdom here in Central Illinois, it's now.

In seminary, I signed up for a class mainly because Wendell Berry came and spoke the last time it was offered. On the first day, as I reviewed the syllabus, I saw an afternoon set aside for Berry. Despite the heavy workload, I thought it was worth the effort to learn from one of my favorite authors. Unfortunately, when a student dropped the course, the professor canceled it, and I lost my chance to meet Berry. Later that year, in my final Master of Arts in Spirituality class, we read Jayber Crow, which became one of the most important books in my personal library. It’s Berry’s most renowned novel and has taught me the true meaning of membership and belonging. A treasured memory from that period is from the Thomas Merton Center at Bellarmine University, where I listened to Professor Greg Hillis teach Jayber Crow to help us understand and experience the doctrine of the Trinity.

Before moving to Kentucky at twenty-two, I wasn't familiar with Wendell Berry. Soon after, I started reading his poetry and dreaming of living in union with the land like him. His works, along with those of fellow Kentuckian bell hooks and Kentucky transplant Thomas Merton, have greatly influenced my understanding of ecclesiology. Although I know I will never reach his level of literary skill, I aim to grow by drawing inspiration from his art and work—as a pastor to this congregation and as a community member.

One of the first lines I read from Berry in his book A Place on Earth resonated so deeply with my 22-year-old self that it became the subtext for my very first blog. The blog no longer exists, but the words and their impact do:

“Nobody can discover the world for somebody else. Only when we discover it for ourselves does it become common ground and a common bond and we cease to be alone.”

For me, this is Berry in a nutshell. May we discover together our common ground, common bond, and common love – remembering we are never alone. I hope, at the very least, you feel this within the ministry of 1PC.

I don't have a photo of Berry. I could take a picture of the books of his I have -- but that's lame. Instead, here's this one. I invite you to think about your relationship with your place: the air, the ground, the creeks, the creatures above and below. And then remember this line: “There are no unsacred places; there are only sacred and desecrated places."