It’s the “Should.”

You know the one. It’s the voice that whispers while you’re staring at the mountain of laundry you didn’t finish on Saturday, or while you’re nursing a migraine, or while you’re simply trying to find the emotional bandwidth to put on “people clothes” and a “people face.” The voice says you should be in a pew. It says that if you aren’t in a specific building with a specific steeple by 10:00 AM, your faith is somehow leaking out of the cracks of your busy life.

I get a lot of flack for this on Instagram. Every time I post a Sunday reel from my blue porch chair or talk about finding God in the middle of a weed-choked garden, the “Church Police” show up in my comments. They tell me I’m leading people astray. They tell me that “forsaking the gathering” is a spiritual death sentence. So I understand that pressure—the deep, systemic weight of being told that your devotion is measured by your attendance. Even if it is never said directly, you feel it by the worship leader’s disappointment when you have to miss a rehearsal or the head usher’s crestfallen face when you say you can’t serve that week.

But here is the truth we’re going to sit with today: If Sanctuary is a destination or a zip code, then God is only available to the mobile, the healthy, and the rested. If “Church” is a destination we have to travel to, then the single mom, the trauma survivor, and the woman with the chronic illness are effectively locked out of the Kingdom, sentenced for falling away from meeting together.

I’m here to tell you that the walls are a suggestion, not a requirement. Sanctuary isn’t a place you go; it’s a perspective you carry. It’s where your raw, unfiltered reality meets His presence—and that can happen just as easily over a kitchen sink as it can under a cathedral ceiling.

Most of us are nursing a sort of spiritual hangover, and we don’t even realize it. We’ve been conditioned by a “Sacred vs. Secular” divide that tells us God lives in the “holy” buildings—the ones with the hushed hallways and the polished wood—and we live in the “ordinary” world. We’ve been taught that the twenty minutes of a sermon are “spiritual,” while the forty hours of our work week, the midnight feedings, and the endless loop of dishes are just... life. We are instilled with this notion that we have to visit God’s house and sing and pray to beg for his presence among us because we are gathered together there.

This mindset turns our real lives into a distraction from our spiritual lives. We start to feel like we’re “missing” God because we’re stuck at home with the farm goats, the kids, or the never-ending piles of laundry. We think of our domestic chaos as a barrier to the sanctuary, rather than the very place the sanctuary is meant to be built.

For the un-pausable woman, “going to church” often becomes just one more performance on an already crushing to-do list. We have to “get ready” for God. We have to translate our messy, perimenopausal, overstimulated reality into something presentable before we step through those heavy oak doors. But when sanctuary requires a mask, it stops being a sanctuary and starts being a stage.

The “Institutional Hangover” is the lingering belief that God is a landlord waiting for you to visit His house, rather than a Father living in yours. It’s the lie that says holiness is found in the absence of crumbs and chaos. But if the incarnation means anything, it means that God moved into the neighborhood. He isn’t offended by your kitchen sink, and He isn’t waiting for you to “check in” at a specific address before He starts listening.

Biblical “Field Work”

If you look closely at the stories we claim to build our faith on, you’ll notice a recurring theme: God rarely stays inside the lines.

Take Moses, for example. He didn’t find his life-changing sanctuary at a temple or a theological seminar. He found it while he was literally at work, tending sheep on a mundane Tuesday. The burning bush didn’t happen in some kind of a designated holy space; it happened in the middle of a desert, in the dirt, while Moses was likely tired and smelling like livestock. God didn’t tell him to go find a sanctuary; He told him to take his shoes off because the ground he was already standing on was holy.

Then there’s the Road to Emmaus. After the most significant event in human history, the Resurrection, Jesus didn’t head straight for the temple to lead a formal service. Instead, He went for a walk. He joined two confused, grieving friends on a dusty road and had the greatest sermon ever recorded while they were just walking and talking.

In Celtic tradition, there is a concept called “Thin Places”—places where the veil between heaven and earth is so thin you can practically feel the heartbeat of the Divine. For the woman who can’t make it to a pew, these thin places are often found in the most human moments: in the garden where you finally feel grounded, in the quiet of the nursery at 2:00 AM, or in the hospital room where you’re holding a hand and saying a prayer at the same time.

Sanctuary isn’t something we build out of brick and mortar; it’s something God has already planted in the field of our everyday lives. Our job isn’t to travel to it; it’s to recognize that we’re already standing in it.

Finding the Altar in the Ordinary

If we accept that God isn’t confined to a zip code, then we have to change how we view our homes. We have to start seeing our porch chair as a legitimate pew.

For the woman who is overstimulated, chronically ill, or simply exhausted by the demands of an inescapably busy life, that blue chair (or the garden bench, or the kitchen stool) isn’t “Church-lite.” It is a front-line meeting with the Divine.

When you sit there with your coffee and your mess, you are participating in what I call the Liturgy of the Mundane.

We’ve been told that liturgy is something printed in a bulletin, but real liturgy is the rhythm of a life lived in God’s presence. Weeding the garden becomes a physical prayer for growth. Feeding the chickens becomes an act of stewardship. Holding a crying baby at 3:00 AM becomes a vigil more sacred than any candle-lit service.

For many of you, the traditional walls of the church haven’t just been a hurdle; they’ve been a barrier. You’ve stayed away not because you lost your faith, but because you were trying to survive. Maybe the noise of a contemporary service triggered your sensory issues. Maybe the performance of Sunday morning felt like a lie you couldn’t tell anymore. Or maybe the building itself carries the weight of past trauma or the sting of not fitting in.

I want you to hear this clearly: The Sanctuary of the Ordinary is the place where the masks come off. It’s where you can talk with your mouth full, cry without being fixed, and admit you’re tired without being told to pray harder or that you are lacking in anointing. In this sanctuary, you aren’t a guest; you’re a child. And the altar is as close as your own heartbeat.

The Open Door

As part of my doctoral project, I’ve been wrestling with a question: How do we provide a sanctuary for those who have been locked out—or pushed out—of the traditional walls? How do we create a space for the person who loves God but can’t handle the pew pressure?

In a few weeks, I’ll be launching Streams of Grace Church.

This isn’t just another website or a social media group. It is a Digital Sanctuary designed specifically for those of you who need the connection of church without the barriers that keep you out. Whether it’s your physical health, your mental health, a history of trauma, or just the deep-seated feeling that you don’t fit the Sunday morning mold—Streams of Grace is for you.

It is a sanctuary without walls, designed for real life.

You aren’t “away” from the sanctuary because you’re at home today. You are the sanctuary. The Spirit that hovered over the waters at the beginning of time is currently hovering over your kitchen sink. So, go put the kettle on. Take a deep breath. You’re already in church.

The Garden Notes

📚 On the Nightstand

Gerald May’s “The Dark Night of the Soul” translates John of the Cross out of 16th-century mystical theology and into the language of a psychiatrist who spent decades sitting with people in spiritual and psychological unraveling — which makes it unusually well-suited for deconstructing readers carrying trauma, doubt, and depression alongside the faith questions. May is honest about what John left implicit: the dark night is messy, often indistinguishable from clinical depression from the inside, and rarely feels like progress while you’re in it. If you want a companion for the road rather than the source text itself, start here.

🌿 From the Shop

If you want to look at the soil of your heart, I wrote ‘Seeds Weeds and Soul Soil’ with you in mind. Available for free for Kindle Unlimited.

Quote of the Week

Sanctuary isn’t a place you go; it’s a perspective you carry. It’s the radical realization that the veil is thinnest right where your raw reality meets His presence.

The Greenhouse Preview

If today’s article felt like a deep breath of permission, Friday’s Greenhouse is where we move from the “why” to the “how.” For my paid subscribers, I’m opening up the Friday Greenhouse where we’ll be building a “Portable Sanctuary”—including a 3-minute liturgy designed specifically for your kitchen counter and the 5 journaling prompts that will help you map out the “thin places” in your own home. Plus, I’m sharing the first look at our Monthly Field Guide and the Sabbath in the Cracks Tracker—a tool designed to help you stop performing and start noticing God in the grit. Upgrade to the paid tier to join the conversation and get your survival kit for the weekend.

Subscribe now

The Closing Question

In the Comments: If we’re honest, most of us have spent years trying to "get to" a sanctuary. But if your current, messy, un-pausable life was actually a cathedral, where would the altar be? Is it a specific chair, the view from your kitchen window, or that quiet spot in the garden? Tell me where your "portable sanctuary" is located this week—I’d love to hear where God is meeting you in the weeds.

Leave a comment

P.S. 🎓 Doctoral Project Update: The Return of Streams of Grace

My project proposal has been approved! We are just about ready to open the virutal doors to Streams of Grace Church. We are focusing on how we build a ‘sanctuary without walls’ for the church-less. Want to be the first to know when we launch? Sign up here!

Maybe your “quiet time” this morning was interrupted by an incessant rooster, a high-energy toddler, or just the persistent loud noise of your own anxiety.

Maybe you didn’t have the words to pray, or the only words you had were “I’m tired.”

Here is the good news:

God doesn’t need a translator to understand your heart.

He’s not waiting for the “Thees” and “Thous.”

He is the Friend who sits with you in the messy middle of a Saturday, happy just to have you in the room.

The Blessing

A Blessing for the Honest Heart

May you find the courage today to stop performing. May you realize that your “broken sentences” are more precious to the Father than a thousand polished poems.

When the world asks for more than you have, May you hear the Source whisper, “You are enough.” When your brain is foggy and your spirit is dry, May you find an altar in your kitchen and a sanctuary in your chair.

You are a beloved child, not a hired hand. Rest in the truth that you are already heard, exactly as you are, right where you are.

Amen.

Today, I’m so excited to share that Streams of Grace is coming back—but in a brand new way.

I’ve been deep in my doctoral work at Andersonville Theological Seminary. My final project is finally coming to life: we are building a Trauma-Informed Digital Sanctuary for people who find traditional church buildings a barrier—whether due to neurodivergence, chronic illness, time constraints, or past church-hurt.

This is where I need your help.

To make this doctoral project a success, I need to build a “pilot” community. We officially kick off a special 6-week series called “The Soil of the Soul” on May 3rd. We’ll be studying the parable of the sower. And at the end of 6 weeks, you’ll have a chance to share your opinion on how things went.

Would you consider supporting me by joining the Substack feed? It’s completely free, and it would mean the world to me to have some familiar faces in the “digital pews” as I launch this work. Even if you already have a church home you love, your presence helps me build the data and the community I need to complete my degree and serve those who are currently spiritually displaced.

You can sign up here:

Streams of Grace

Home of Streams of Grace Church

By Amanda

Thank you for believing in this mission (and me!) since the beginning. Let’s see what God does in these “streams” starting May 3rd! 🌿🎓

Amanda

I am so glad you’re here. If you’re coming into this weekend feeling a little “touched out,” overstimulated, or like your brain has 47 tabs open and three of them are frozen—you are in the right place.

This week, we’ve been talking about the “Theological Language Barrier.” We’ve been dismantling the idea that we have to put on a “holy roller voice” or talk like Shakespear just to get the Creator of the Universe to notice us.

In the Greenhouse today, we aren’t just talking about the why of prayer, we’re practicing the how. Most of us were raised with a specific “corporate” model of prayer that required us to start with high-level adoration before we were allowed to mention our own needs. It’s a well-rounded model for prayer, but when you’re in the weeds, that can feel like being told to write a formal thank-you note while your house is on fire.

Today, we’re retiring the performance and reclaiming the conversation.

Read more

The “Prayer Voice” Problem

The music slows and softens, and the worship leader breathlessly appeals to God with a tone of voice he’s never used off the stage… “Lord, we just come before you… We beseech your presence… we just ask for your Holy Presence…We just ask that you just prepare our hearts for your Holiness…”

I’m not sure where that ‘holy roller voice’ comes from, but that theological vocabulary is something we’d never use with our friends or our family.

The problem is that we treat God like some high-profile CEO that we need to impress with a polished presentation, rather than a loving Father who has seen us padding around, barefoot and in last year’s faded Christmas pajamas.

It’s almost as if we treat prayer like another performance that has to be done just right in order to get God to listen to us. Prayer becomes work rather than a source of life.

The Performance Trap: Why We Use “Thees” and “Thous”

Growing up, I was taught that formal language was a form of reverence. Referring to God as Thee and Thou was a way of showing that God was distinct from everyone else. But too often, that formal language is an obstacle that creates distance between us and God.

On the other hand, those churchy words help us feel safer because we can talk to God without being honest about where our minds and hearts really are. It’s easier to say “Lord, bless this day” than “Lord, I am so angry at my kids right now I can barely breathe.”

When we translate our feelings into church-speak, we lose the raw data. If I tell God I am ‘seeking His peace’ when I’m actually furious that the car broke down again, I’m inviting Him into a version of my life that doesn’t exist. He wants the fury, not the polished translation.

But when we’re in church, and all we hear is fancy church-speak when we pray, it can make us feel like we don’t know enough about God or we aren’t ‘holy enough’ to pray. We might not even feel like we are worthy of God’s time.

The Theology of the Table: The “Abba” Shift

The Radical “Abba”

In the first century, the names for God were heavy with distance. He was the Adonai, the Elohim, the Unnameable One. You approached Him with sacrifices and trembling. But when Jesus taught His disciples to pray, He didn’t use a title that required a fancy outfit. He used Abba.

Abba isn’t just “Father”—it’s closer to “Papa” or “Daddy.” It’s the word a child uses when they wake up from a nightmare and need to know someone is in the hallway. By shifting the vocabulary, Jesus moved God from the Throne Room to the Living Room. If Jesus’ own “prayer voice” was that of a child talking to a parent, then our attempt to sound like a 17th-century poet isn’t just unnecessary—it’s a step backward.

The Table over the Altar

We have this mental image that God only listens when we are at the “Altar,” the place of performance, perfect lighting, and hushed tones. But look at the Gospels. Jesus didn’t do His best work at the Temple; He did it at the Table.

He talked to God while walking through dusty wheat fields. He prayed while breaking bread with people who had dirt under their fingernails and scandals in their history. These were “Thee-and-Thou-free zones.” The Table is where the masks come off. At a table, you talk with your mouth full; you laugh; you admit you’re tired. When we prioritize the “Table” over the “Altar” in our prayer lives, we realize that God is just as present in the crumbs of our kitchen as He is in the liturgy of a cathedral.

The Friend of Sinners (and the Friend of Your Sighs)

If Jesus was “the friend of sinners,” we have to ask: How did those sinners talk to Him? They didn’t use religious jargon. They used the slang of the docks, the sighs of the weary, and sometimes, the silence of the ashamed.

He didn’t correct their grammar before He healed their hearts.

• He’s comfortable with your slang—because He knows your heart’s dialect.

• He’s comfortable with your sighs—because the Spirit “intercedes with groans too deep for words.”

• He’s comfortable with your silence—because sometimes just sitting in the blue chair with your coffee is the most honest prayer you have.

As a single, perimenopausal mom, I am often overstimulated, full of brain fog, and overwhelmingly tired. When I finally sit down, it isn’t unusual for me to be so tired that I can’t even put two words together, much less make a fancy, formal or even coherent prayer.

There are days when my brain feels like a browser with 47 tabs open, and three of them are frozen. In those moments, ‘thee’ and ‘thou’ feel like a high-level math equation I can’t solve. If prayer requires a clear head, I’m in trouble. But if prayer is a sigh in a porch chair over a coffee, I can do that.

The Sacredness of the Struggle

When we find ourselves unable to pray—when the words feel like ash and the “Thees and Thous” feel like a wall—we are often convinced we are backsliding. But the mystics tell a different story. St. John of the Cross famously wrote about the “Dark Night of the Soul,” a season where the “sensible consolations” of faith disappear.

For the perimenopausal mom or the burnt-out caregiver, the “Dark Night” often looks like brain fog and bone-weariness. John of the Cross argues that this isn’t God leaving us; it’s God stripping away our “performance” so we can meet Him in a deeper, wordless way. When you can’t pray, it might be because God is inviting you to stop talking about Him and start simply existing with Him. It’s the move from the Altar to the Chair.

The Bottle for Your Tears

There is a beautiful, gritty image in the Psalms that says God “collects our tears in a bottle.” If He is attentive enough to track the burning tears leaving your eyes, He is certainly attentive enough to hear the prayer you didn’t have the breath to finish.

God doesn’t just hear the prayers we carefully construct; He “gathers” the ones that leak out of us in the middle of the night. He gathers the sighs, the groans, and the “I can’t do this anymore” whispers. If He loves us as a Father, then He loves the sound of our real voices more than the echoes of our religious ones. He isn’t looking for a lecture on His own holiness; He’s looking for the honest heart of His child.

The “In the Weeds” Reality: Prayer for Your Regular Life

We’ve been taught that ‘real’ prayer sounds like a Collect—one of those perfectly phrased, centuries-old prayers that starts with ‘Almighty God’ and ends with ‘Amen’ in all the right places. And don’t get me wrong, those prayers are beautiful. But they are ‘Sanctuary Prayers.’

When you’re staring at a sick kid at 3:00 AM, or you’re kneeling in the dirt trying to figure out how to pay the electric bill, you don’t need a poem. You need a lifeline. You don’t have the brainpower to translate your panic into ‘Church-ese.’ And the good news? You don’t have to. God doesn’t need you to fix your grammar before He hears your heart.

If we believe that God only hears us when we are articulate, we leave the most vulnerable moments of our lives completely un-shepherded. But a God who is a “very present help in trouble” doesn’t need a polished script; He just needs an honest cry.

The Power of the “Micro-Prayer”

We’ve been sold the lie that for prayer to “count,” it has to happen in a 30-minute block of silence with a leather-bound journal. But for the un-pausable, that 30-minute block is a myth—a “spiritual luxury” we can’t afford.

The Micro-Prayer is the “Sabbath in the cracks.” It’s the “one-breath” prayer breathed while the microwave is running, while you’re kneeling in the dirt, or while you’re gripping the steering wheel in the driveway. It is the practice of “Rest in Motion”—realizing that the connection to the Source doesn’t require you to stop moving; it just requires you to stop performing.

Examples of “Real Language” Prayers

We need to stop calling these “lazy” prayers and start calling them honest prayers. These are the prayers of the “Friend of Sinners” era:

• “I’m done.” — This isn’t a lack of faith; it’s a radical admission of our limits. It’s telling the Creator, “I am a creature, and I have hit the wall.”

• “Help me not to yell.” — This is a prayer for the “nervous system.” It’s asking for a micro-dose of patience in the middle of a sensory meltdown.

Lord, I am touched out. My skin feels too tight, my house feels too loud, and I have absolutely nothing left to pour into anyone else. I don’t have a ‘holy’ thought in my head right now, just a lot of noise. Please be the quiet in my bones since I can’t find any in this room. Help me just to breathe until the next thing needs to happen. Amen.

• “Where are you in this mess?” — This is a “Lament in the Weeds.” It’s the prayer of David and Job. It’s the holy right to ask the Source to show up in the chaos.

• “Thank you for this coffee.” — This is a “Sensory Benediction.” It’s recognizing a small mercy in a hard day. It’s the “Theology of the Table” in a single mug.

“Ugh, God. Today is a lot. The rooster won’t stop, the kids are bickering, and I’m out of creamer. Help me see the good stuff? Brb, someone’s crying.”

• “I’m mad.” You’d tell your best friend if you were angry, so why not tell God? In the Psalms, we see David (or the Psalmist’s) emotions very clearly. God isn’t fragile; the Divine already knows you are mad, so you might as well be honest.

• Silence. Sometimes, the most honest thing you can do is just sit with God in your mess and your chaos, without ever saying a word.

“I’m mad, God. I’m mad that it’s this hard, I’m mad that I’m doing this alone, and I’m mad that I can’t feel You right now. I’m staying in this chair, but I’m not happy about it. Help me want to keep talking.”

The Invitation to Connection

For several years, my youngest daughter called our kitty Momo because she just couldn’t pronounce his full name, Geronimo. We loved her nickname so much that it became his name, and it is how he lives on in our memories since his passing.

God isn’t a grammar teacher waiting with a red pen to correct your prayers. He’s a Father waiting for His child to finish their sentence. He loves the ‘Momo’ versions of our prayers because they come from a heart that finally felt safe enough to stop trying to be impressive.

And that’s how God sees our stumbling prayers. He doesn’t think less of us because we don’t have fancy words. He, more than anyone, understands our broken sentences and poured out hearts, after all, He knows what we need before we do. God is happy that we come to him no matter what our language, the cohesiveness or incoherence of our thoughts.

Prayer isn’t about getting the words right; it’s about getting yourself to the conversation.

The Garden Notes

📚 On the Nightstand

Gerald May’s “The Dark Night of the Soul” translates John of the Cross out of 16th-century mystical theology and into the language of a psychiatrist who spent decades sitting with people in spiritual and psychological unraveling — which makes it unusually well-suited for deconstructing readers carrying trauma, doubt, and depression alongside the faith questions. May is honest about what John left implicit: the dark night is messy, often indistinguishable from clinical depression from the inside, and rarely feels like progress while you’re in it. If you want a companion for the road rather than the source text itself, start here.

🌿 From the Shop

If you want to look at the soil of your heart, I wrote ‘Seeds Weeds and Soul Soil’ with you in mind. Available for free for Kindle Unlimited.

Quote of the Week

For then God stems the flux of our own words and desires... so that we may lean on Him alone, in a quiet, loving attentiveness.

— St. John of the Cross, Dark Night of the Soul

The Greenhouse Preview

We’ve spent today dismantling the 'Prayer Voice,' but on Friday, we’re getting into the practical grit of talking to God like a friend. Upgrade to the paid tier for the full 'Prayer Lab'—including 5-minute rituals and the 'Voice Memo' trick that finally cured my religious performance anxiety. Your support makes this work possible!

Subscribe now

The Closing Question

Leave a comment

P.S. 🎓 Doctoral Project Update: The Return of Streams of Grace

I am currently in the final stages of the project proposal for my doctorate, focusing on how we build a ‘sanctuary without walls’ for the church-less. As soon as the academic ‘weeds’ are cleared and the proposal is approved, we will officially open the digital doors of Streams of Grace Church.

Want to be the first to know when we launch? Sign up here!

But today, we aren’t doing math or practicing rituals.

Today, we are just people.

The Blessing:

May you have the courage to be “unproductive” today.

May you hear the quiet whisper of the Divine telling you that your worth is not found in a volunteer slot, a clean kitchen, or a perfectly managed family.

May your nervous system finally find the “Off” switch, and may you realize that the world will not stop spinning just because you chose to sit down.

May you find a sanctuary in your pajamas, an altar in your backyard, and a liturgy in your own breath.

And as you move through your day, may you remember: You are not a project to be finished or a problem to be solved.

You are a beloved child, and you are allowed to just be.

Pass the Peace:

We all have that one friend who is currently running a spiritual marathon on a broken ankle. The one who is touched out, overwhelmed, and trying to be the source for everyone else.

Forward this blessing to her. Let her know she has a permission slip today to stop performing. Let’s build a community where we celebrate each other’s rest as much as we celebrate each other’s work. 🌿Blessings are meant to be passed on. If these words brought you a bit of peace, would you consider forwarding this email to one person in your life who is currently sorting through their own 'religious clutter'?

The Recap: When the Math Doesn’t Math

On Tuesday, we looked at the “Sunday Sprint”—the irony of a Day of Rest that requires high-stakes logistics, wardrobe battles, and the exhausting “happy family” switch. We looked at the math: if going to church costs you 5 units of energy but only gives back 2, you aren’t backsliding; you’re just running out of fuel. If you missed the deep dive into why the institution often feels like a taskmaster rather than a sanctuary, you can read it here.

The Sanctuary in the Weeds

The greatest lie we’ve been told about faith is that it requires a focused brain and a quiet room. Or that we must be an active church member to grow. But for those of us with “un-pausable” lives—caregivers, parents of many, the neurodivergent, and the bone-tired—quiet is a luxury we don’t have and time is a resource that is very slim.

This week, we are practicing Rest in Motion. We are signaling to our frayed nervous systems that even while our hands are moving, our souls are safe. We aren’t asking God to meet us at a specific GPS coordinate on Sunday morning; we are inviting the Divine into the laundry room, the driveway, and the 3:00 AM wake-up call.

A Note on “The Source”

Before you begin this liturgy, I want you to sit with four words that might be the most liberating thing you hear all week: I am not the source. When you are the person everyone depends on, you subconsciously start to believe that you are the engine keeping the world spinning. You become the source of the peace, the source of the meals, and the source of the emotional stability for everyone around you. It is a heavy, lonely way to live, and it is the fastest path to burnout.

By saying “I am not the source,” you are reclaiming your right to be a human being instead of a power plant. You are admitting that you have limits—and that those limits are not a sin; they are a design feature. You are plugging yourself back into a “Quiet Power” that doesn’t depend on your grit or your performance. You aren’t failing; you’re finally letting the Creator do the heavy lifting.

This Sunday, if you stay in your pajamas and eat cereal for dinner while your kids play Roblox, God is not disappointed in you. In fact, He might be sitting there on the floor with you, unbothered by the noise, glad that His child finally felt safe enough to stop performing.

Read more

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We’ve been deconstructing the idea that we have to be “put together” to encounter the Divine. Instead, we’re finding that the most rebellious and sacred thing we can do is realize that Go…

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Find a few ‘quiet’ minutes today, or as calm and quiet as you have. Sit at your table. Don’t clear it. Don’t “fix” the lighting. Just sit with what is.

1. The Arrival: Place both feet flat on the floor. Rest your hands palms-up on the table surface. Feel the cool wood or the plastic or the tablecloth. Acknowledge: I am here. My body is here. My life is happening here.

   The mess is a sign that life is happening.

2. The Recognition: Look at one “messy” thing on the table, a bill, a stray toy, a crumb. Instead of feeling the urge to fix it, simply say to yourself: “The Divine is present in this, too.”

3. The Breath (Ruach): Inhale deeply for four counts, imagining the “breath of life” filling your lungs. Hold for two. Exhale slowly for six, releasing the pressure to “perform” your faith today. Repeat, if you like. Feel your body relax as you release your breath and the pressure you feel.

4. The Offering: Speak a quiet sentence of honesty. “God, I am tired,” or “God, I am curious,” or “God, I am still frustrated by the church.”

5. The Closing: Slowly turn your palms face-down on the table, feeling the solid surface supporting your weight. Say quietly: "I am grounded in Grace. This space is enough. I am enough." Take one final breath. Remain in the peace or continue on in your day, with the knowledge that God is with you wherever you are.

Read more

We weren’t rushing to get into our Sunday morning church uniforms of khaki pants, pullover shirts, and flu…

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You open the Book. You read a chapter. You close the Book. And five minutes later, you can’t remember a single word.

Our lives are currently a tangled mess of weeds. I mean the constant pings of notifications, the mental load of the grocery list and next week’s field trip, and the low-grade anxiety…

Read more

The Saturday Blessing

May your eyes be cleared of the scales of “us versus them.”
May your heart b…

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We spend so much of our week defending our “positions” and guarding our “truths” that we often forget to tend to our own humanity. Empathy isn’t a natural reflex for most of us; it’s a muscle that requires intentional stretching. Today, let’s practice looking past the labels and into the “image-of-godness” that lives in every face we encounter—including the one in the mirror.

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A while back, the religious right and some Christian nationalists were talking as if empathy is suspect. It’s too “woke,” too feelings-based, too sinful, while people on the left treat it as essential. But empathy, at its simplest, just means this: to unders…

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Sabbath is the ultimate disruption to that mindset. It is the day where we stop producing and start simply being. If God grants us a day of rest regardless of our output, perhaps we can grant our neighbors the grace of a full life regardless of their bank account.

May this blessing settle into the quiet spaces of your Saturday.

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In my main post this week, we looked at the cold, hard data of SNAP and the specific Greek exegesis of Paul’s letters. But in the “greenhouse” of our own hearts, there’s a softer question we have to tend to: Why is our first instinct often to gatekeep grace?

As a doctoral student, I spend a lot of time in the weeds of ancient syntax. But the “weeds” in our modern discourse are often the stereotypes we allow to grow unchecked—the idea that a person in poverty must “earn” the right to a moment of joy, like a birthday cake or a cold soda.

When we look at the Old Testament mandate for gleaning, we see a God who commanded farmers to leave the edges of their fields messy. He didn’t ask the farmers to vet the people walking behind them. He didn’t ask for a work history or a drug test. He simply commanded that the abundance of the land be accessible to those who needed it.

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I saw a pastor on threads railing against people who were on SNAP benefits. He said if they are able-bodied enough to be on TikTok, they can get a job. Clearly, he doesn’t understand that 86% of households receiving SNAP benefits include a child, elderly, or disabled person. I am not sure where the stereotypes came from, but there is this image that peo…

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There is a specific kind of grace found in the second time the angel woke Elijah. The first meal was for survival; the second was for the journey.

On this Saturday, may you lean into the rhythm of the second sleep. This is the day where we stop measuring our worth by our output and start measuring it by our capacity to be loved while doing absolutely not…

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This Greenhouse is a guided retreat for the weary. Before you begin, prepare your space:

• The Bread: Toast a slice of bread so the smell fills the room, or tear a piece from a fresh loaf.

• The Water: Pour a cold glass of water.

• The Atmosphere: Dim the lights, put your phone in another room, and find a chair where you can sit with your feet flat on the floor.

The Call to Rest

In the wilderness, the angel didn’t offer Elijah a sermon. He offered him a loaf baked on hot stones and a jar of water. It was common food for a common struggle. We take this “Communion of the Cave” today to acknowledge that our bodies are the temples where the Spirit resides. We eat because we are human, and we rest because we are loved.

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