The Whitney Plantation is a nonprofit museum on the site of a former plantation established in 1752, where people who were enslaved were forced to labor growing indigo, sugar, and rice. Its educational goal is to teach visitors “about the history of slavery and its ongoing impact, which fosters empathy, critical thinking, and a commitment to social justice.”

A few weeks earlier, I prepared a scripture reflection on Matthew 20:25–28 for the community I pastor, including this teaching of Jesus: “anyone among you who wishes to be first must serve the needs of all, as if enslaved” (The Inclusive Bible translation). For past preaching, I’ve researched enslavement in the ancient world, which wasn’t necessarily a lifelong condition. It could be punishment for a crime for a few years, or the result of one people group being conquered by another. And it had nothing to do with skin color. For those of us raised in the U.S., trying to wrap our minds around that is part of digging deeper into these Bible passages. In my homily, I shared with my community that I would be asking myself at Whitney Plantation, Could I imagine being one of the people enslaved there?

The indoor and outdoor museum at the Whitney Plantation offer opportunities for visitors to learn about the more than 350 people who were enslaved there as well as others who endured forced labor. Near the beginning of the indoor exhibit, people pass through a re-created “door of no return” like the one at Goree Island, Senegal, “as a memorial to all who suffered deportation from their homes in Africa.” On the walls, quotes from narratives and interviews (from decades later) tell of how individuals felt when abducted from their villages, placed on an auction block and sold as though they were property, or separated from family members they would never see again.

In an area so shaped by Catholicism, the exhibit reveals the theological distortions that allowed such cruelty. A quote from Pope Nicholas in 1452 granted permission to the Portuguese king to subjugate non-Christians and “reduce their persons to perpetual slavery,” worse even than was practiced in the ancient world. Five centuries later, Pope John Paul II called disregarding the humanity of African people what it is: sin. During a visit to Goree Island in 1992, he said it “must be confessed” that this sin against humanity and God was carried out often by “people who were baptized, but did not live their faith.” His words are printed over an image of the Middle Passage transporting enslaved people across the Atlantic Ocean.

As I walked outside on a self-guided tour of the various sites (with audio recordings to be played at each), I was grateful for the embodied experience of being on that land on a warm October day. October is the beginning of the sugar cane harvest, I learned. I had read years ago in Adam Hochschild’s Bury the Chains that sugar production was particularly brutal, with enslaved people being maimed and killed while harvesting and processing the plants. That history was more real to me as I stood before enormous kettles that the workers labored over, heating the sugar until it crystallized. I’ve worked on enough farms and gardens that I could imagine at least a little what it would feel like to have to keep going even in the heat, all muscles straining toward exhaustion. When I began to picture the loss of lives and limbs, the suffering they endured overwhelmed me. Even more so when I continued on the path to the memorial to children who died, and the mothers who bore them and buried them.

As I went through the outdoor stations trying to picture the people being remembered, there was a strange coincidence that is still stirring my soul. In the memorial to children and on two other walls engraved with the names historians have found of people on that plantation and elsewhere in Louisiana, a common name was Celeste. Celeste, born circa 1810. Celeste, born circa 1833. Celeste, sold at 28 years old. Celeste, died at two-and-a-half years old.

I’ve met fewer than a dozen people named Celeste. Finding my name again and again on the memorial walls startled me at first. It also strengthened the connection I was seeking to build, with compassion for people with many names, who not only suffered but also showed resilience and strength I can scarcely imagine.

Four days later, I saw that resilience and inner strength powerfully depicted in the opera Omar. It was composed by Michael Abels and Rhiannon Giddens, an artist I already greatly admired. Giddens, who also wrote the libretto, wove together roots music styles and drew inspiration from the brief narrative of Omar Ibn Said, a West African Muslim scholar who was enslaved in South Carolina and wrote his life story in Arabic in 1831. Beyond his individual story, the characters bring to life various aspects of the history of slavery in the Americas. For example, the combination of song and set design for the depiction of the Middle Passage was one of the most powerful works of art and historical narrative I have seen. I was also moved by the depiction of Omar clinging to the faith he has devoted his life to, Islam, submission to the one God, in the face of pressures to submit to slaveholder religion. One of the other characters, Julie, who was born into slavery, speaks of “my Jesus.” I heard that, too, as defying slaveholder religion and asserting her full humanity in relationship to the divine whose image she bears.

People have created many rationalizations and distortions to dismiss the humanity of others. Staying grounded in our shared humanity is an antidote to the supremacist thinking that has poisoned our society. It may not be possible to fully understand another person’s experiences, but with the work of curators, artists, and others telling powerful stories, we can all keep striving for empathy.

Reading and listening

Omar finished its three-show run at the Lyric Opera in Chicago. But the multimedia website includes video and audio recordings, articles about the opera, and a link to the text of Omar Ibn Said’s narrative.

“What Actually Matters About AI Right Now: A war almost began, not because a machine wanted something or “went rogue,” but because a machine was wrong, and human beings believed it.” By Kelly Hayes.

Growing up in inner-city D.C. in the 1980s and 1990s, I remember hearing Motown and soul music at backyard cookouts on July 4. Even the phrase “proud to be an American” didn’t make much sense, since we learned at the bilingual elementary school I attended that all of the Americas are American, not only the U.S. The faith community where I grew up supported our Central American neighbors who had fled violence by authoritarian regimes backed by the U.S. government. And we protested various military interventions around the globe. The U.S.’s actions were more often cause for shame than pride.

The 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence is approaching. Is there any way I would say I’m proud to be an American?

Arthur Krystal, in an essay on the occasion of the anniversary, noted that national pride has dropped in recent years. He quoted George Orwell’s definition of patriotism as “devotion to a particular place and a particular way of life, which one believes to be the best in the world.” I sent the article to my dearest friend, who still lives in the part of D.C. where we both grew up, as fodder for future conversation.

Visiting my hometown in early June, I went with Helen to one of my favorite spots there (or anywhere), the National Arboretum. Farther away from downtown, we got a reprieve from the national guard troops who are patrolling D.C. as an occupying force. In the meadow containing the original U.S. Capitol columns, we walked and talked about nationalism, patriotism, and fascism. We reject the disgusting displays currently taking place in the capital and beyond for this holiday. But does that mean ceding any sense of patriotism to the authoritarians and their followers? Helen asked. Is there anything good we would claim that could be called patriotic?

“There are certainly places in the U.S. that are among the most beautiful places I’ve been in the world,” I replied. One being Pictured Rocks in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, which I saw on that trip 15 years ago. “And I find a lot to admire in U.S. history.” Especially the resilience of Africans brought to the colonies against their will, and their descendants. They built this nation, often literally—including the U.S. Capitol building.

But the idea of loving an entire country, or feeling proud to be a citizen of it, is foreign to me. I get stuck simply thinking about how to define that country: by its borders? I wish borders were no more than invisible lines with welcome signs on the other side, as with travel between states within the U.S. By its way of life? If there’s anything good about what could be called the U.S. way of life, it is that we are a nation of many cultures, a nation where immigrants are essential to our strength and wholeness.

In the past year, the current U.S government gave the name of a military operation, Operation Midway Blitz, to its attack on Chicago targeting our immigrant neighbors and making the rest of us collateral damage. From my window I saw federal agents in head-to-toe camouflage tactical gear abduct a construction worker from his job site, Gestapo-style. They tear-gassed our block when there were children and elders outside. I learned that I did have some trust in our national government when even that limited amount was violated.

At our house dinner this week, I was talking with several of my housemates about patriotism and related ideas. One who is from the Philippines pointed out that in a colonized nation, the desire for independence and self-determination is one definition of nationalism.

While my hometown remains occupied by the U.S military and my current city is still menaced by federal agents, my strongest emotion in relation to this country is a desire for everyone to be free.

I want to believe we’ll get there someday.

Reading and listening

Everyone Who Is Gone Is Here: The United States, Central America, and the Making of a Crisis. By Jonathan Blitzer. New York: Penguin Random House, 2024.

This is an excellent work of long-form journalism. Sections of the book take place in the neighborhood where I grew up, Mount Pleasant in Washington, D.C., where many people from El Salvador and Guatemala fled. I grew up knowing a lot of this awful history, including hearing some of it directly from my neighbors and seeing the effects of the trauma they endured in their lives and the lives of their children who were my playmates and classmates. Knowing about the U.S. government’s support for death squads in Central America formed my beliefs about this country where I was born and raised.

While working on my homily for this coming Sunday, my mind keeps going back to Bernice Johnson Reagon’s setting of a few verses from the Gospel reading (Matthew 11:28–30): “Come unto me.” My favorite recording is this one from NPR, with Sweet Honey in the Rock singing this song at minute 5:38.

Correction: the original post that went out by email referred to Pictured Rocks as Painted Rocks.

The song came back to me often in the longest January on record. Early in the month, a family member who was also a cherished friend died. Stephen’s obituary describes him as “a man of immense heart, intellect, and generosity,” and he was. I wanted to travel to the West Coast for his memorial service, especially to see Vivian, his spouse, who I also cherish. Instead I stayed in Chicago and was one of the readers in a joyous wedding for a couple who found later-in-life love. Oh my heart.

I’ve continued caring for neighbors whose loved ones were detained this fall. During those six weeks of living under siege by federal agents, I don’t think my nervous system ever calmed all the way down. The retreat I went on in November with the community I pastor, Moveable Feast, was, as hoped, an opportunity to heal. Amid the sirenless quiet of the Michigan woods, poetry and collagemaking, and singing together, my body released its high alert.

Until January 8 when we heard reports of Gregory Bovino and Customs and Border Patrol agents returning to Chicago. Our state senator called for resuming school watch. It was a Tuesday night, and I signed up for the following morning. I planned an outfit that included snowpants-overalls — a wonderfully warm winter item I learned about from an activist friend in the Twin Cities. I sent her a message thanking her again for showing me how to stay warm and stand up to fascism at the same time.

I came home the next morning from an uneventful school watch in Chicago to the news that the federal agents had in fact flooded the Twin Cities and murdered Renee Good while her wife was nearby. At a vigil here that evening, local author and activist Kelly Hayes spoke about “the Cost of Staying Human.”

Even though we know ICE has killed before … their brutality has not hardened or corrupted us. We are still shaken and heartbroken by their violence. That is the cost of staying human in inhuman times — and it’s a cost we pay in defense of our neighbors and in defense of our own humanity.

It was painful to hear reports of ICE escalating the tactics they used here in Chicago, since I can imagine what they are going through in Twin Cities. After the murder of Alex Pretti, I saw a digital flyer suggesting going outside and lighting a candle at 7 p.m. that Saturday evening. I contacted many of my neighbors to invite them to join us on our porch or light candles in their own porches or front windows. We strengthened and expanded our connections after federal agents tear-gassed our block one Sunday morning in October. One of our neighbors who was most affected by that brutality responded immediately to say she wanted to join us in lighting candles for Minnesota, writing “my heart is breaking.” Oh our hearts.

Throughout all of this, I’ve been reading The Book of Delights by Ross Gay. I met him by chance on Christmas Eve, earlier in the day, at Midtown Scholars Bookstore in Harrisburg. He kindly signed a copy of the book for me. Once I began reading it, I discovered that he wrote all of the short essays between his 42nd and 43rd birthdays, the year of life I am in now.

The book is making me more aware of those moments of joy in my own daily life. I delight in the new leaves on the prayer plant in my front window, furled tightly with their stripes of green and pink. I delight in my eight-month-old housemate vocalizing with enthusiasm as she tries new foods at the dinner table.

Yesterday morning, as happens some days, I was taking our dog down to the backyard at the same time that one of my housemates was carrying her infant daughter to the car to take her to day care before going to work. As they reached the garage, they turned toward me to wish me a good day. My youngest housemate smiled at me with the genuineness that only a baby can share, since she has not yet learned all the different things she may want or need to communicate with a smile. She simply smiled at me before I smiled back. Oh my heart.

* Quinn Chapel AME Church is the setting for Molly Ringwald’s guest appearance and when Carmy shares in Al-Anon, Jeremy Allen White’s brilliant, intense monologue later in the season. I couldn’t keep watching The Bear, at least for now. I don’t need television extending the emotional rollercoaster beyond what daily life does already. But I was impressed by the show.

Reading and listening

The story I wrote about Quinn Chapel AME Church was published this week:

“Historic church teaches about the past and engages the present: The oldest Black congregation in Chicago restores its historic building while reaching out as history is made in the city today.” By Celeste Kennel-Shank. Faith and Leadership, February 3, 2026.

I’ve been listening the beautiful song “We Rise” by queer Jewish musician Batya Levine, and getting to know more of their music on Soundcloud.

I also enjoyed a TEDxOshkosh talk by my friend Shola Adegbite, “The World is a Marketplace: Lessons from the Yoruba Culture.”

So when the church body in which I’m ordained wanted to visit and officially recognize my ministry as pastor of Moveable Feast, I saw it as an opportunity to celebrate the whole community. I found myself encouraged as I created a list of what all of us connected to Moveable Feast have done in the past year. It’s not even a complete list. Some highlights I shared were

• Building bridges with interfaith partners, including practicing mutual aid with Jewish Free Loan Chicago and beginning to plan an interfaith iftar this coming Ramadan.

• Creating and caring for a pollinator plant corridor in our neighborhoods for migrating monarch butterflies and other vulnerable creatures.

• Joining Christians for a Free Palestine in Solidarity Circles, screening a film and holding a panel discussion.

• Welcoming the births of three children and delighting in them as they grow and learn alongside us.

• Starting a community meal initiative, Gather Together, with neighbors cooking with neighbors and eating together. At our first meal on October 18, some who attended had just come back to our neighborhood still carrying their signs from the No Kings Rally.

• Protesting at the No Kings Rally, at Broadview, and in many other ways standing against the injustices of this federal administration.

• Responding to federal agents menacing our vulnerable neighbors and our communities, and continuing to help asylum-seeking families build new lives in Chicago.

• Nurturing social action through shared contemplation on Sunday mornings: preaching the good news together, imparting the lessons of Ignatian exercises, playing music, sharing original compositions of poetry and song.

This weekend we will have our first Moveable Feast retreat in the woods in Michigan. I am grateful to gather with community to pause and rest. I know that I can’t figure out on my own what healing looks like after the trauma of the past six weeks.

Rumor has it we will finally move out of crisis mode and most Customs and Border Patrol agents will leave the city this weekend. While I’m grateful for every time we were able to prevent an abduction by federal agents, far too many families were torn apart. Like many of our neighbors, I find that my nervous system remains on high alert. Ten days after federal agents tear-gassed my block, on October 24 I witnessed agents in head-to-toe camouflage tactical gear taking a worker from the crew rebuilding a neighbor’s front steps. When I’m in my dining room my eyes often stray out the window to where I saw fascism unfolding before my eyes. I see again in my mind’s eye not only the phalanx of agents but also the handcuffed man’s head bowed as he exercised his right to remain silent.

These are times when the myth of self-sufficiency shows itself especially to be false. I’m grateful for colleagues, neighbors, and my faith community as we mourn the harm, rage against the injustice, and seek healing together. Like many before us, we are in this for the long haul, and we need each other to keep going.

Book 50% off through end of November

Maybe you know someone who might like to receive my book, What You Sow Is a Bare Seed, a biography of countercultural disciples, as a holiday present. Until the end of this month, it is 50% off from the publisher, Wipf & Stock. Use code CONFSHIP at checkout. Shipping by Media Mail is free. I think it’s pretty good, but you don’t have to take my word for it. Just ask Brian McLaren, author of Life after Doom: “My life has been enriched with the overflow of the community you will meet in Celeste Kennel-Shank’s new book.” Or Carol Howard, author of Healing Spiritual Wounds: “Celeste Kennel-Shank tells this story with such hope and grace that in the process of reading, I could feel that hope and grace extend to us.” Or Jennifer M. McBride, author of You Shall Not Condemn, “As a pastor attentive to practical wisdom, a journalist skilled at storytelling, and a former member of this remarkable Community, Kennel-Shank reminds us that what they experienced, we may experience too.”

Reading and listening

“ICE Kidnapped My Neighbor in Broad Daylight. The Aftermath Left Me Reeling. Watching disappearances in our community leaves psychological trauma, but we can counter it with our solidarity.” By Freddy Martinez, Truthout. October 25, 2025

I’ve been reading Thomas Merton’s Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander. I got it out from the library to try to find this quote in its pages: “You do not need to know precisely what is happening, or exactly where it is all going, what you need is to recognize the possibilities and challenges offered by the present moment and to embrace them with courage, faith and hope.”

While talking about our struggle to bear the unbearable in recent weeks, a friend reminded me of the hymn, “I don’t want to get adjusted to this world.” We often used to play Iris Dement’s album Lifeline when we lived in intentional community together. We don’t have to adjust to what is happening because we know that another world is possible. In the solidarity that we’ve also seen in recent weeks, we are seeing that other world come into being.

They shattered the peace and beauty of that day in our area of the city. I was having lunch with a friend on a patio when I saw messages from our housemates and neighbors and raced home. The agents were gone, and I saw that my housemates were physically OK. The five-year-old was comforted by what his parents told him about our neighbors helping each other.

Drawing on my hospital chaplain training, I listened to my neighbors tell their stories from a couple of hours earlier. The previous time I had lengthy conversations with them, we were at our block party a few weeks ago. I ate a tamarind frozen-fruit bar from the paleta cart we rented, and when my hands became sticky, a neighbor handed me a wipe as her one-year-old twins sat on neighbors’ knees and other children enjoyed the bouncy house. Our block is the best of what city life offers: an economically and culturally diverse group of people who genuinely care about each other, planting gardens, sharing food, and connecting with broader groups and causes.

The outpouring of concern and desire to help has been unlike anything I’ve seen in a lifetime of social-justice activism. And yet it’s a sign of how awful the escalation by federal agents has been that so many people feel they have to do something. Agents continue taking people. And many of my neighbors are staying inside for days.

One of the traditions I learned about working on the south and west sides of Chicago is to have block clubs. The organization My Block My Hood My City helps organize and provide resources for them. I love my block. I love my neighborhood. I love my city.

The local news source I trust the most is called Block Club. In an article about the school watches we’ve organized in the past two weeks, there was a partial summary of the brutality of the past month:

… federal agents have shot at least two people, killing one; repeatedly tear-gassed protesters and first responders; shot rubber bullets at protesters; detained U.S. citizens, including children; handcuffed a Chicago alderperson in a hospital; smoke bombed and tear-gassed a Chicago street; fired a chemical weapon at a TV reporter and detained a journalist, among other incidents.

More than 1,000 people have been detained, Russell Hott, [then] ICE field director in Chicago, told Block Club.

This week we add to that the tear gassing of my neighbors on Sunday. They did it again on Tuesday, in the part of the city where I worked as a chaplain for three years. Agents had already conducted a military-style raid a few blocks away from the hospital where I worked, in a neighborhood that became dear to me. One of my core values as a chaplain is to honor the inherent dignity of each person. Federal agents did the opposite. They dragged people from their beds, where the unexpectedly hot temperatures in early October prompted sleeping with few clothes, separating children from their parents and loading their bare bodies into trucks.

We live in a time of competing narratives. Where I see blocks with resilient, caring communities, agents see battlegrounds in Operation Midway Blitz. In their worldview, terrifying the children and elders of our community keeps theirs safe. And if the rest of us resist, they count us as enemies.

I know that I trust my housemates and neighbors. I trust what I see with my own eyes, and I have seen no evidence that our neighbors who are being taken by federal agents are involved in any criminal activity. I know when I hear this federal administration talking about the murder rate in Chicago that they are lying. Our murder rate is lower in comparison with previous years and other cities. Our efforts to end gun violence are showing signs of success. Yes, Chicago still has its problems. But we are solving them. If there’s chaos, it’s because federal agents created it. I’ve tried not to speculate. Yet it’s hard not to imagine that agents are trying to escalate the situation to a point where they can justify sending in the military.

In recent months I’ve heard from loved ones in my hometown, D.C., occupied by the National Guard. I saw a photograph of guard members picking up trash in the D.C. park where I used to catch the city bus home from high school. It was so absurd I almost laughed and cried at the same time.

So far, the courts have blocked guard members from entering Chicago. If they do come into the city, will it be less chaotic than the present? Or will it be worse?

Is there anything worse than willfully making children afraid?

Reading and Listening

These two “cozy fantasy” novels in which ordinary people overcome threats from imperial agents gave me hope. I’d recommend them for older teenagers through elder adults: Sarah Beth Durst, The Spellshop (2024) and The Enchanted Greenhouse (2025). One endorser described The Enchanted Greenhouse as “a beautiful, profoundly hopeful love letter to the magic of community.” Indeed.

I’ve found solace and solidarity in Julian Davis Reid’s recently released album Vocation, especially “Moan (For Hearts of Flesh),” which is truly a song for this moment.

It got me thinking about which other books were transformative for me in some way. I looked up at our bookshelves we built in our living room (up to our ceiling, which was very important to me).

I also remembered a post I’d written 11 years ago while I was on staff at the Christian Century magazine and the website was a hungry beast for original content. (If you can relate, I recommend Sad Desk Salad: not a book that changed my life, but a fun satirical novel.) It turned out to be a worthwhile exercise to think of ten books I’d read multiple times.

A decade later, it’s noteworthy which of the books that brought me back for multiple reads are also ones that were transformative for me. Along with Are You My Mother? by Alison Bechdel, these books have been the most influential in my life and thinking:

1. Another Country, by James Baldwin. During my high school years, this was perhaps the most formative book that I and several of my closest friends read, assigned in African American Literature class. Like Baldwin’s characters, we learned how history’s affects us in the present as we navigated our own interracial friendships and relationships, .

2. Down Girl, by Kate Manne. In this 2017 book, Manne distinguishes between sexism and misogyny: sexism is an ideology that holds women are not capable of all of the same tasks or roles as men. Misogyny is any behavior that undermines, belittles, and punishes women to enforce the norms of patriarchy. Its logic can recognize that in many cases a woman is more talented, capable, or accomplished than the average man, but it maintains that women must be subordinate to men. Since reading that, I have seen that distinction over and over, and it has sharpened my analysis and response.

3. Gifts of Grace, by Mary Schramm. The understanding that all of us, at any age and in any walk of life, have gifts to share with the world shaped the community that Mary Schramm and her husband, John, started—which I wrote a book about—and formed me in my faith and approach to life.

4. The Return of the Prodigal Son, by Henri J.M. Nouwen. Nouwen’s insights from exploring each character in the biblical story, and Rembrandt’s painting of the parable, resonate with my own spiritual and emotional challenges. I learn something new each time I read it, which I did again earlier this year.

5. Silence, by Shusaku Endo — I believe Endo captures the heart of Christianity in the climax of the main character’s transformation.

6. Stamped from the Beginning, by Ibram X. Kendi. This history of the U.S. offers analysis of racist and anti-racist ideas, groups, and movements. I got from the introduction the phrase “human hierarchies” that I have in the mission statement and liturgy of Moveable Feast, the community I pastor: We are “daily striving to dismantle racism, classism, misogyny, and all human hierarchies within ourselves, our community, our society, and the world,” among our other characteristics.

7. and 8. Trauma Stewardship and The Age of Overwhelm, by Laura van Dernoot Lipsky with Connie Burk. I see these as essential books for pastors and activists— though they’re for all who through their work are exposed to pain and brokenness in the world, including that of the earth itself. They helped me understand how my work affects me and to let go of outcomes.

9–11. The Westmark trilogy, by Lloyd Alexander. Theo is the fictional character to whom I most relate. He fails to meet the (very high) ethical standards he held for himself as he moves from youth into adulthood. Yet he continues to strive for a just society.

For those of who may be thinking, What about the Bible? Aren’t you a pastor? Well, I’m in the camp that holds the Bible is a library, a collection of histories, letters, prophecies, biographies, and more. But from those that could be called books, these nine complete my list of 20 books that changed me (and are still transformative): Samuel, Isaiah, Psalms, all four Gospels, and the Revelation of John.

During the question-and-answer portion of the event with Alison Bechdel earlier this month, many young writers and artists in the audience asked her advice. She advised to not focus on the outcome, success, or any imagined future point. Instead, she tries to enjoy the work. Another audience member asked her, essentially, which books she comes back to, works that have changed her life. She replied, the writings of Virginia Woolf—another author who likely couldn’t have imagined the effect of her work on her readers far beyond her lifetime.

Reading and listening

I wrote two essays for Café, an online magazine published by Women of the ELCA:

The spiritual life of gardening

“Though my gardens are at the edge of buildings and sidewalks and empty lots, still I am joining the myriad generations who have labored in this way since God put human beings in a garden to serve and preserve the soil.”

Faith reflections: Genesis 1: 11-13, 29-30

“We all know the benefits of eating our vegetables. Yet, being food is not the only way plants nourish us.”

Last month, I took part in a meditative time led by Julian Davis Reid and Tramaine Parker with Notes of Rest, with words and music about practices of rest and sabbath. They also shared the song “Mercy We Need,” which taps into grief both personal and political. And Reid’s album Rest Assured combining jazz piano with familiar hymns keeps me grounded in weary times.

When I worked for the Christian Century magazine, part of my job description was looking at metrics: What percentage of email newsletter recipients opened the email? How many pageviews on this article vs. that one? How many minutes did each reader stay on the website before moving on to something else?

That habit of looking to numbers stayed with me after becoming an independent writer and pastor, and especially after I published my first book in August 2023. Often I have felt like a failure when I see how many more books others sell, how many more subscribers they have to their newsletters, and — most harmful of all — how many people are part of other faith communities.

I had one such bout of acute self-criticism this February, seeing numbers indicating that another pastor-author is ten times more successful than me. In that moment, I chose my Lenten fast for this year. I fasted from numerical measures of success.

This is also an outgrowth of reframing my thinking about health. In our culture we’re surrounded by metrics that supposedly determine our well-being: numbers on a scale, number of steps walked in a day, number of years lived or hoped to live. Like most things that benefit from self-examination, the problem isn’t the thing itself, but rather the power we give it in our lives, the power we let it have over us.

I shared this in conversation with a kindred spirit in my clergywomen writing group, Melissa Earley, who recently went from pastoring a large church to a tiny one. When I spoke about the size of the faith community I lead, she mentioned that her current congregation was voted the best place to worship in its county, even as relatively few people attend. She wrote about it:

For a lot of my ministry, I’ve thought of the Sunday gig as the main show. And I was the star. I evaluated the strength of the church by the number of people in worship.

Now she’s focused on how the Spirit is moving in people’s lives, whether they show up to volunteer in the church’s food pantry or join the reading group or are among the small group who attend on Sundays. In her community and in mine, we are seeking signs of thriving in how the people are engaging, not how many of us there are. Growth doesn’t have to mean increasing. It can be measured in other ways, including for us as pastors and leaders. We offer what we have to give from our gifts, and if that’s not what a larger number of people are looking for, it doesn’t necessarily mean we’re doing something wrong.

It is a sign of growth for me to live within my limited capacity. If I push myself to do more — especially to fight off feelings of failure — I risk burnout. I’d rather enjoy what we have, and look for signs of well-being and growth just as we are.

Reading and listening

The Christian Century magazine asked dozens of writers, “What is the Bible for?” I replied, “Connecting God’s people across millennia through story.” Read the paragraph elaborating on my response on the CC website.

For the baseball fans out there and beyond, I loved this essay by Darren Saint-Ulysse in Sojourners magazine’s April issue, “Being a Baseball Fan Is Great for Your Spiritual Development”:

Allowing ourselves to be surprised by improbable victories is part of life’s joy — even when those victories are accompanied by predictable losses.

I also appreciated Kaya Oakes’ reflection on the death of Pope Francis:

“Francis: The Legacy of a Stalled Reformer”

He welcomed the marginalized and reimagined the Church’s tone, but his vision was often interrupted in the corridors of power.

“A Light That Sustains,” from Rosemarie Freeney Harding, an excerpt republished by the Center for Action and Contemplation:

“The Light became a kind of touchstone in my life. It was so much love. Like an infinite compassion. . . . All these journeys I’ve been on, these spiritual practices and traditions—from the Mennonites to Bawa Muhaiyaddeen and the Dalai Lama—the meditation, the prayers; I’ve been trying to sustain what the Light gave me.”

Last month I saw Beth Gibbons in concert, and I’m still feeling the reverberations. I have a clear memory of the first time I heard her voice: I was a teenager at Tower Records in Dupont Circle, D.C. and chose a Portishead CD at one of the listening stations. Twenty-five years later, her latest solo album, Lives Outgrown, resonates with me as I continue to reflect on being middle-aged and find my own response to the invitation in the first track, “Tell Me Who You Are Today.”

When even the present moment is rough, as it is politically, I remember how my grandmother would say “This, too, shall pass.” I am too much a lover of history to think we are the first people to be going through a time such as this. An essay by Howard Zinn recalls instances in the 20th century of people who struggled for justice, toppled tyrants, and proved that “the apparent overwhelming power of those who have the guns and the money” is not in fact invincible. Zinn argues that “this gives us the energy to act, and at least the possibility of sending this spinning top of a world in a different direction. . . . to live now as we think human beings should live, in defiance of all that is bad around us, is itself a marvelous victory.”

Those words buoy me — until climate despair threatens to pull me into its churning waters again. I’m reading a book about grief and other emotions related to living in a time of advancing climate change. The essays in Solastalgia, published in 2023, resonate deeply with a lot of what I’m feeling. Yet when they express faith in collective action, I wonder if they would say the same now, after the U.S. withdrew from the Paris climate agreement for a second time. The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change wrote in 2022 that it was possible globally to “halve emissions by 2030.” Maybe some new technology can save the earth, or maybe there are enough global governments and industries to cut back greenhouse-gas emissions enough without U.S. participation. But I’m not counting on it.

During the years when I was a hospital chaplain, I learned the value of bearing witness. I couldn’t change the outcomes for seriously ill people. I could only accompany them and their loved ones in the midst of suffering and hope. I waited and watched with them for signs of healing. Yet I had enough detachment to recognize, at times, that it was a matter of people not being able to accept what they were hearing and seeing, and that the person in the hospital bed would not recover.

I fear that is the case with our earth today, that humans may have done so much damage that it is already too late. While we don’t know exactly how it will unfold, we do know the planet and its creatures are suffering already. Whether or not the earth can recover, we can bear witness to what is hard and what is beautiful among people, other creatures, and the land itself.

Doing that well requires moving away from orientation toward the future. I am letting go of outcomes in my activism. I’m not striving for longevity. I’m focusing instead on loving myself and the people around me today, without knowing what the future holds.

Reading and listening

I was more vulnerable in my writing that I often am in these columns for the March 2025 issue of the Christian Century magazine. If they touch a chord, please feel free to be in touch.

“Transfiguration,” by Celeste Kennel-Shank

Peter, James, and John are all of us.

“Ash Wednesday,” by Celeste Kennel-Shank

Isaiah and Matthew invite us into deeper solidarity. None is well until all are well.

With the 45th anniversary of Romero’s death on March 24, I’m revisiting the words of the Salvadoran archbishop, who took “the risks of life that history demands of us.” For more on the context, here’s a post I wrote ten years ago: “Oscar Romero’s grain of wheat”

I also recently contributed to Sojourners magazine’s “The Best Faith and Justice Books of the Century (So Far)”

Among what I’ve read from other writers, I wanted to highlight these two pieces:

“Churches and immigration: The clarity of Jesus’ call,” by Isaac Villegas. Faith & Leadership

“We understood our embodied witness of ecclesial sanctuary as a collective act of discipleship in opposition to the federal administration’s anti-immigrant policies.”

“Which church is dying?” by Debie Thomas, the Christian Century, September 2024

The church of empire might be. But I’m not ready to call time of death on the mystical body of Christ.

At a community member’s recommendation, I listened to a conversation between Joerg Rieger and Miguel De La Torre as part of the Truth in Tough Times series.

“Solidarity is at the core.” — Rieger

“With solidarity comes community.” — De La Torre

Whether or not you celebrate the holiday this coming Sunday, Sufjan Stevens’ song “The Transfiguration” is worth a listen, if only for the instrumentation.

Book news

There’s a new-ish independent bookstore three blocks from my house, Restoried Bookshop, and its wonderful owner kindly featured my book on the Chicago authors shelf.

(I bought the book to the right of mine in this photo, partly because it make me laugh out loud as I flipped through it. Who couldn’t use a good belly laugh these days?)

I’m happy to talk to small groups or congregations on topics connecting to my book, What You Sow Is a Bare Seed: A Countercultural Christian Community during Five Decades of Change, as well as my experience in congregations and as a journalist covering the US religious landscape. If you’re interested, you can reply to this email. And if you are a professor or are inclined to pass this on to professors who might be interested in adding by seminary students (and possible some college students also), here’s my pitch:

What You Sow Is a Bare Seed offers an in-depth case study for field education courses and beyond, weaving together historical and theological context on the wider church and society with compelling stories of real people, presenting congregational dynamics in an engaging way. Professors who are interested in an exam copy can fill out this form. The author, Celeste Kennel-Shank, welcomes opportunities to talk to classes.

My Grandpa Shank was one of the foremost role models of my life, a person who balanced an open mind with strong principles. We became especially close in the final years of his life. When I was 21, he was diagnosed with acute leukemia and chose hospice care. My father and his siblings allowed me to take part in the bedside vigil in my grandfather’s final days—an incredible gift for which I’m still grateful. That experience set in motion my path to considering pastoral ministry.

Initially I imagined that would only be health-care chaplaincy, the role I had when I was ordained. The pastor and family friend whom I asked to preach at my ordination knew my Grandpa Shank well. In his sermon, he spoke of me taking up my grandfather’s mantle. I still aspire to live up to that description.

There have so many times when I wished I could talk with my grandfather about ministry, especially being a bivocational pastor as he was. (He was also a chemistry teacher and later employed in business.) My father believed he would have been delighted that I became a pastor, which he told me as one of his many ways of offering his own support.

Five years after my ordination, I surprised myself by branching out from chaplaincy and becoming an associate pastor. That was December 2019.

At my ordination ten years ago, I had a fair amount of knowledge of the challenges of hospital chaplaincy and accompanying people at the end of their lives and their loved ones’ lives. But I don’t know that I could have imagined the pain that being a congregational pastor would bring to my life. I’m not suggesting it is this way for everyone, though I also know that I’m not alone. There are many like me who thought frequently about leaving pastoral ministry during the past few years. And some did leave.

I understand now as never before why so many people have left church altogether. I could have been satisfied with my career in writing and editing for faith-based publications. I’d still be making good use of my master of divinity degree. Yet even after many months of painful questions, I still felt called to pastoral ministry. Having my own will to continue reach such a low point, I see it as the Holy Spirit helping me persevere. Reading St. Paul’s second letter to the Corinthians this week for a writing assignment, I found deep resonance with these words: “Therefore, since it is by God’s mercy that we are engaged in this ministry, we do not lose heart” (2 Cor. 4:1).

In the current season with my new faith community, I’m grateful that ministry holds as many delights as challenges. This Sunday—Gaudete Sunday, meaning “rejoice”—I look forward to the joy of ministering alongside the extraordinary people who are part of Moveable Feast.

In preparation for seeing the musical Les Miserables in early January as a gift to my older niece and my mother-in-law, I’ve been listening to the soundtrack again. I know so many of the lyrics by heart, and yet my reaction sometimes still surprises me. This week my eyes brimmed with tears at Jean Valjean’s line, God “gave me hope when hope was gone” / God “gave me strength to journey on.”

Book update

Hey, I hear my book could be the perfect gift for someone in your life who likes biographies. Get it from Bookshop and choose a bricks-and-mortar store to receive a portion of your purchase. Here are some nice things other people said about What You Sow Is a Bare Seed:

“Celeste Kennel-Shank tells this story with such hope and grace that in the process of reading, I could feel that hope and grace extend to us.” —Carol Howard, author of Healing Spiritual Wounds

“As a pastor attentive to practical wisdom, a journalist skilled at storytelling, and a former member of this remarkable community, Kennel-Shank reminds us that what they experienced, we may experience too.” —Jennifer M. McBride, author of Radical Discipleship

Reading and listening

The album After the Longest Night by Steve Thorngate, a local musician and friend, has lovely original and traditional songs for the Advent, Christmas, and Epiphany seasons.

I’ve also been listening to more Rhiannon Giddens after reading this beautiful review by Josina Guess. She reminds us that “hard times can make us tap into our creativity and resilience. No powers above or below the earth can take those capacities from us.”

For those who will be preaching or leading scripture studies in January and February, check out the lectionary columns I wrote for Sojourners magazine:

“There Is Always a Way Out: January reflections on scripture from the Revised Common Lectionary, Cycle C.”

THE PROPHETS ARE not the first biblical voices I turn to when hope is in short supply. Rather, reading them, I often think: Here we are again. … Yet, when I dug into the passages from the prophet Isaiah in this month’s readings, I found hope. If all were already lost, there would be no point to the prophet’s work. Instead, Isaiah proclaims that individual and social change are and continue to be possible.

“How Is God Calling You Now? February reflections on scripture from the Revised Common Lectionary, Cycle C.”

​​Jeremiah encourages people not to be anxious in a time of drought. How do I interpret that when applied to climate anxiety and dangerous political upheaval?

*The J didn’t stand for anything; it was just an initial. I find it both perplexing and hilarious that my great-grandparents did not choose any name to give their son as a middle name. They were keeping it simple as plain Mennonites, I guess.

Soon after that, family and friends of my godmother Karen Jacob gathered in northern Michigan for an exhibit of her artwork and to say goodbye. It was a true celebration of her life, and raised money for a local mutual aid group and for voter education in Michigan. She exhorted us all to “fight like hell for the living,” in the words of Mother Jones, and to “carry on the work.” Karen died on September 15 and we’ll gather tomorrow for a memorial service, this time to mourn as well as to celebrate the amazing woman she was.

Four years of major losses and the accompanying grief have really worn me down. So it was right on time that my friend and colleague Krista Dutt invited me to be part of a cohort focusing on caring for ourselves while caring for others. Krista works for Mennonite Central Committee, a relief, development, and peacebuilding organization. MCC partners with the community I pastor, Moveable Feast, in efforts with our neighbors to welcome families from South America seeking asylum in Chicago. 

We each received a copy of Rest Is Resistance by Tricia Hersey in the cohort. This is exactly the book I need to continue moving out of burnout and overwhelm and into a sustainable way to do the work I feel called to do. Hersey writes,

Resting is for everyone caught up in the web of grind culture. We must never forget that grind culture is a sinister collaboration between capitalism and white supremacy. When viewed from this lens, we are all caught up in these toxic systems. . . . Those who are wealthy, as well as those who are poor, are caught up in the spiritual deficiency that occurs when you are tied to a system like capitalism in any way.

Another gift of being part of this MCC cohort is funding to take a retreat. Krista gave us a set of questions to think through the obstacles we face to truly rest and find restoration for its own sake. Since I’ve been thinking about the nature of time lately, I decided that I could rest most fully with a full 24 hours of not needing to look at a clock. Later this month, my beloved and I plan to do just that, staying at a small house on farmland in Michigan. I hope to gain some insights that I can continue to apply as I mourn, rest, and carry on the work.

Book update

I’m happy to talk to small groups or congregations on topics connecting to my book, What You Sow Is a Bare Seed: A Countercultural Christian Community during Five Decades of Change, as well as my experience in urban congregations and as a journalist covering the US religious landscape. If you’re interested, you can reply to this email. And if you are a professor or are inclined to pass this on to professors who might be interested in adding by seminary students (and possible some college students also): What You Sow Is a Bare Seed offers an in-depth case study for field education and contextual learning, weaving together research into the wider church and society with compelling stories of real people, describing congregational dynamics in an engaging way. If you are interested in an exam copy, please fill out this form. I’m also happy to talk to classes.

Watching and listening

The television shows I find the most engaging are ones with characters in a setting I can scarcely imagine myself in (Russian spies during the cold war, queens in quasi-historical medieval times) to explore an aspect of life I can very much relate to. For example, how The Americans examines the nature of marriage or House of the Dragon depicts sexism and misogyny. Among comedies, I love Girls5eva, about four women who were part of a one-hit-wonder band in 2000, which is also about becoming reconciled to being middle aged and everything that entails. The songs that are part of the show are hilarious and at times deeply moving. I listen to “Bend Not Break” while stretching every morning. So much stretching. “The Medium Time” is not only about show business, but, in my opinion, about accepting our mistakes and roads not taken, and appreciating life even if it’s not what we once dreamed. 

I’ve also been enjoying solo work by Sara Bareilles, especially “King of Anything.”

Saving Time by Jenny Odell made me aware of how much our language around time relates to money: we spend time, we buy time, a travel delay costs us an hour, and so on. Odell details how, especially over the past two centuries, our view of time became bound up with work for wages, “the necessity of selling your time,” she writes. 

Odell makes clear how productivity culture distorts our idea of time, just as how our economy distorts whose time and labor is considered worth a high income or even a living wage. The culture of busyness and the need for many to sell as much of their time as possible through wage labor “uphold the same system,” Odell writes. There is a social or financial cost (or both) to resisting this. But those for whom the cost is primarily a social cost can consider not paying it. Doing that “opens the door to an important recognition: not of shared consequences, but of a shared cause.” The growing number of workers who are unionizing and those who run themselves ragged trying to do everything can alike ask, Who is benefiting from the work I am doing, and what are the costs to my well-being? 

Oliver Burkeman was one of those harried people trying to be efficient and productive. Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals begins with his own realization, after trying various time management methods, that “the more you try to manage your time with the goal of achieving a feeling of total control, and freedom from the inevitable constraints of being human, the more stressful, empty, and frustrating life gets. But the more you confront the facts of finitude instead—and work with them, rather than against them—the more productive, meaningful, and joyful life becomes. I don’t think the feeling of anxiety ever completely goes away; we’re limited, apparently, in our capacity to embrace our limitations. But I’m aware of no other time management technique that’s half as effective as just facing the way things truly are.”

That acceptance can reorient us to how we relate to other people and time itself. One of Oliver Burkeman’s best insights is about how our orientation to time can cause us to treat time instrumentally and even use other people toward a future goal. “Our obsession with extracting the greatest future value out of our time blinds us to the reality that, in fact, the moment of truth is always now—that life is nothing but a succession of present moments,” Burkeman writes. 

The question remains for me after reading Odell and Burkeman, How do we decide what our time is worth, when we consider that by sharing our time in one way we can’t in another?

Even in a wage relationship, we can expect respect from each other, yet we do not owe our clients or employers more than that respect to do the work we said we’d do. I have found this dynamic can be even harder in nonprofit, cause-driven work. We give our time to clients or employers in exchange for money, and, if we’re lucky, a sense of being part of a common cause. 

I am self-employed. Each time I set rates for editing projects, or take on a writing assignment, I am essentially asking myself, What is an hour of my time worth? Since my first book was published last year, I add into the mix various ways of promoting my book, which all are uncertain in their reward. 

Burkeman offers “a partial solution to the problem of an overly instrumentalized life. We might seek to incorporate into our daily lives more things we do for their own sake alone . . . activities in which the only thing we’re trying to get from them is the doing itself.” Instead of worrying about whether we’re using our time optimally, we can enjoy our days to the greatest extent possible by throwing out the whole notion of time being spent well or wasted.

Just as time is not money, work is not life. Time is a gift. We freely receive our moments and our days. We share time in various ways and with various people, and we do well to keep enough to meet our own needs before we share with others.  

Book update

I had two book events in recent months. In May in Minneapolis I met with the people from three congregations and beyond to discuss the topic Shared Spaces, Shared Leadership—a conversation about how we live out our social justice commitments in our congregational and building relationships, touching on topics of gender equity, racial justice, and neighborhood change. I drew on stories from my book What You Sow Is a Bare Seed: A Countercultural Christian Community during Five Decades of Change, as well as my experience in urban congregations and as a journalist covering the US religious landscape. In June in Goshen, Indiana, I spoke with leaders from congregations in the same region as my faith community about Seasons in the Life of a Congregation. Both talks could be adapted to many different contexts. Please let me know if you’re interested in having me speak to your community or organization. (You can reply to this email.)

If you are a professor or are inclined to pass this on to professors who might be interested in assigning my book to seminary students (and possible some college students also), here are the details: What You Sow Is a Bare Seed: A Countercultural Christian Community during Five Decades of Change offers an in-depth case study for field education and contextual learning, weaving together research into the wider church and society with compelling stories of real people, describing congregational dynamics in an engaging way. If you are interested in an exam copy, please fill out this form.

Reading and listening

An article I wrote based on my book appears in the August issue of the Christian Century: “My childhood congregation was a progressive Christian dream come true: So why don’t more of the people who grew up there practice Christianity as adults?” 

About two dozen of us—mostly born in the late 1960s through late 1980s—spent all or much of our childhood in this community. As we stood talking that weekend in 2016, I felt a kinship even with those I knew least. We hadn’t been able to find anything else like the Community of Christ in our lives, no other place where we felt so at home.

And a review I wrote appeared in a recent issue of Anabaptist World: “Flourishing by simplifying.” 

“Above my kitchen sink is a window, as there was in each of my grandparents’ homes. When I’m washing dishes, among other times, I often think of my Plain Mennonite and Amish ancestors.”

I’ve been revisiting Björk’s 1997 album Homogenic, which was a favorite during my high-school years. I often listen to the song “All Is Full of Love” during my morning time when I seek to empty my mind of thoughts and worries, before I begin my workday and answering emails and texts. The lyrics facilitate that when Bjork sings, “Your phone is off the hook / Your doors are shut.” I smile remembering the ’90s.

A few months ago a friend invited me to join her to hear Emily Nagoski speak. In the discussion, Nagoski mentioned the book she co-authored with her sister Amelia several years ago, Burnout: The Secret to Unlocking the Stress Cycle. In particular, she mentioned a worksheet to help make one’s schedule feel less overwhelming, which is a challenge for me. 

Once I got the book, I was surprised by the definition of burnout: emotional exhaustion from caring for others a great deal for a long time, diminished ability to offer compassion and empathy, and persistent struggle to feel that your work is having any effect on the problems you’re addressing. This described precisely how I felt from August until sometime recently. As I read, I could see that this was the weight I had carried for half a year, but at some point I had set it down. It was one of those moments that are the best of what a social psychology term or diagnosis can offer: a feeling of not being alone or hopelessly broken, but rather that others are going through similar struggles.

I didn’t recognize I was burned out because I thought of that as causing one to stop and withdraw from the work they are doing. I had kept going in multiple areas of activism and community leadership even while feeling exhausted. What helped me move through feelings of failure and burnout was a growing acceptance of what I cannot control. Each of our capacity to change an outcome is limited. Even our collective ability through building bonds of solidarity and joining justice movements is no guarantee that we will win. This doesn’t mean we don’t try. Feelings of futility are a warning sign for burnout. 

I built on the insights about burnout, from the book and my experience with it, by starting Saving Time: Discovering a Life Beyond the Clock, by Jenny Odell. The alternate subtitle is Discovering a Life Beyond Productivity Culture. I doubt it’s an accident that both of these books have pink covers. I suspect it’s not only because both are authored by women but because of what Burnout calls Human Giver Syndrome, which affects everyone raised as a girl to varying degrees. Building on Kate Manne’s excellent book Down Girl: The Logic of Misogyny, Human Giver Syndrome is the idea that women have a moral obligation to generously care for the needs of others while looking attractive and staying calm while doing so.

And Odell writes, “I doubt burnout has ever solely been about not having enough hours in the day.” So much of the plentiful advice out there on time management is focused on quantity and not quality. It operates within a mindset of life as “work and refreshment-for-more-work,” she writes.

The phrase “quality time” suggests time when we are not working, and especially time enjoyed with friends and family. It doesn’t necessarily have to include doing anything. Quality time is the opposite of productivity. 

Last week, I enjoyed quality time with several of my favorite people before, during, and after the total solar eclipse. One headline reported that the eclipse “Cost America Almost $700 Million in Lost Productivity. It then specified that it was “U.S. employers” who would lose “at least $694M in missing output while workers gaze” at the sky. Employers lost money, but we gained quality time. It was high-quality not only because it was likely a once-in-a-lifetime experience. It was the opportunity to slow down and pay attention. Not only for the three minutes and 15 seconds of total eclipse where we gathered in Berne, Indiana, but for an hour beforehand we watched the sky and the color of the plants change around us. It could not be rushed, and it produced nothing but memories. 

Book event

I’m having a book event in Minneapolis! If you are inclined, please share this announcement with anyone you know in the Twin Cities area who might be interested:

Shared Spaces, Shared Leadership 

May 2, 7–8 p.m. in Plymouth Congregational Church’s chapel, Minneapolis 

Join author the Rev. Celeste Kennel-Shank for a conversation about how we live out our social justice commitments in our congregational and building relationships, and in our neighborhoods. Kennel-Shank, past president of the Associated Church Press, will draw from her recently published book What You Sow Is a Bare Seed: A Countercultural Christian Community during Five Decades of Change, as well as her experience in urban congregations and as a journalist. Copies of the book will be available on a sliding scale of $15–$25.

Reading and listening

Since there was a lot of grief mixed with my months of burnout, I appreciate Kathryn Schulz’s book Lost & Found: Reflections on Grief, Gratitude, and Happiness.

This Hilton Als essay (April 8 in the New Yorker) on a new book about trans actress Candy Darling and his own experiences as a gay man was poignant and beautiful. Candy Darling is the subject of the first verse of “Walk on the Wild Side,” by Lou Reed, on the fantastic album Transformer.

She was also the inspiration for “Candy Says” by Lou Reed and the Velvet Underground. Anohni, a trans singer who collaborated with Reed, covered the song. This video includes the heartbreaking and hopeful lyrics in captioning and rendered in Anohni’s inimitable voice.

Then, 21 years ago this month, I fell in love with the person I would marry. His calling was with organized labor as an attorney working for unions. 

I decided to stay stateside and pursue my vocation here, through journalism and pastoral ministry. My years of more-intensive hospital chaplaincy were a cross-cultural experience as powerful as living abroad would have been. I encountered people struggling to survive amid some of the most desperate poverty that exists in the United States. I saw its wide-ranging effects. As one example, I accompanied parents enduring pregnancy and infant loss, and learned that the infant mortality rate was much higher than other parts of the United States, which is already above that other other wealthy nations. Poverty is one primary cause, and a growing body of research points to racist mistreatment as another. 

I also worked alongside both unionized and non-unionized workers—and saw the difference that collective bargaining makes. In 2012 I had a front-row seat for the historic Chicago Teachers Union strike, and was an ally on the picket lines with teachers at a neighborhood school in 2019. CTU is an exemplar of democratic decision-making. Together, members have pushed back against austerity measures that redistribute wealth to the richest away from funding for public goods and workers’ wages.

Jane McAlevey’s writing helped me to see the bigger picture of what I was observing through my and my husband’s work. I was deeply saddened to read recently that McAlevey has terminal cancer. I hoped I might have the chance to meet her in person someday and tell her how much I admire her. Since that looks unlikely, I wanted to share this appreciation while she’s still alive.

I reviewed McAlevey’s 2020 book A Collective Bargain: Unions, Organizing, and the Fight for Democracy. I wrote:

Solidarity is essential for democracy, Jane McAlevey argues, and labor unions are one of the best tools we have to build it. . . . Organizing and strikes still work. 

Successful union campaigns are proof that even stark differences can be overcome when people see what they can achieve together in a way that benefits everyone, McAlevey’s writing and organizing show. McAlevey’s approach as an organizer advocates fighting for all of the issues affecting workers in a given campaign, such as affordable housing, immigrant rights, and more-reliable public transportation. 

McAlevey wrote as someone who believed in the power of the labor movement at a time when it seemed like everyone else was just trying to hang on to the last few shreds of its gains, or worse still, preserve them only for a select few. McAlevey didn’t lose faith in organizing and strikes, and not only to increase wages or improve workplace conditions but to build solidarity.

Solidarity and mutual aid are terms that have been used widely in the past four years, making their meanings less exact. But at the center of all of these efforts is the belief that our interest is bound up with that of others: our coworkers, our neighbors, and beyond. 

Two profiles in the New Yorker detail the strengths of McAlevey’s work, and how her speaking and her book No Shortcuts inspired teachers in West Virginia and Los Angeles in planning their strikes in the 2010s: 

Organizing is not an art of telling people what to do, McAlevey explains, but of listening for what they cannot abide. “Anger is there before you are,” the opening page of “No Shortcuts” declares. “Channel it, don’t defuse it.”

Excellent writing by Eleni Schirmer connects McAlevey’s insights and recent history with the past hundred years of the labor movement. Schirmer highlights why it remains relevant:

Most of all, organizing prepares people to leverage our most devastating weapon: the ability to withhold our participation in a system that denies us our power. When we collectively refuse to work or pay rent or endorse candidates who deny our basic needs, we disturb the logic that the system must run at all costs, even our own lives. 

One way I’ve taken part in those efforts in the past two years is through canvassing with a local independent political organization, allied with a union. We’re currently fighting for Bring Chicago Home, to generate dedicated funding for affordable housing. (If you are a voter in Chicago, vote yes on March 19!) In this organizing moment, we owe gratitude to Jane McAlevey for shaping for our vision and strategy. 

Book update

Earlier this month, I joined the book club of a small church that chose my book as its most recent selection. We had a lively discussion over Zoom. They told me they usually peter out but went long this time and didn’t exhaust the questions or observations they had. If your church or book group would like to read What You Sow Is a Bare Seed, please let me know. I may be able to help with a discount for multiple copies of the book. And depending on your location, I’d be delighted to join you in person or by video conference call. 

Reading and listening

Among several resources on grief that a colleague recommended to me, I most appreciated Lose, Love, Live: The Spiritual Gifts of Loss and Change, by Dan Moseley. It named as natural unexpected emotions that some of us struggle with in grief, such as guilt and anger. I deeply appreciated the exercises in the discovery journal—and I generally have an aversion to questions for reflection. 

I haven’t seen Dan Levy’s new film Good Grief yet, but I want to after hearing him on the We Can Do Hard Things podcast. The conversation touched on many of the same themes as Moseley’s book. Grief is complicated, Amanda Doyle says, and often we’re mourning so much more than what the loss appears to be on the surface, or “the one the world is telling you happened to you?” I could also especially relate to how Glennon Doyle describes being a person who tries to fix things and figure them out by writing. But grief can give us the emotional clarity of a kindergartner and the only words we can form are “I’m so sad.” 

Both Moseley’s book and the podcast emphasize the power of friendship, of how healing comes alongside companions who will stick with you in messy grief. For those of you who have been those friends and companions for me, whether in one long conversation or with regularly checking in and meeting up, thank you.  

To return to the first thread, here’s the Resistance Revival Chorus with Rhiannon Giddens singing “All You Fascists Bound To Lose” by Woody Guthrie. “We’re getting organized!”

This fall I have felt like everywhere I turn is endless need. Even among others who try to do what we can to show compassion and work for justice, it’s hard to feel like we can only chip away a little bit at the block of suffering before us. We humans have made such a sorry state of things.

I wish I could spend Advent, the four weeks of waiting before Christmas, in quiet contemplation, taking stock of the year, sitting with the dark as well as the light. But the dominant culture being what it is, I’m figuring out what’s possible. So I’m noticing the mix of everything at the holidays.

As much as I love the incarnation, I embrace that this season isn’t just about Jesus being born. It’s about longing for the grown-up Jesus to shake up the whole world order. The scriptures for this Sunday in the Revised Common Lectionary are a mix of that desire along with the promise that it will come to pass.

I can’t stop noticing the pain around and within me this time of year. But I can try to see and hear the joy as well, and not let it be overcome.

Book deal: 50% off until end of the day today

Wipf & Stock, publisher of What You Sow Is a Bare Seed: A Countercultural Christian Community during Five Decades of Change in the Church, is offering 50% off my book and the rest of its online catalogue through the end of the day today, November 30, 2023. It is available as an ebook, paperback, or hardcover plus free domestic shipping by media mail this month. Use code “CONFSHIP” at checkout. *Select Media Mail at checkout for free shipping.*

If you miss the deal or simply prefer to shop elsewhere, I’d be delighted if you consider my book as a gift possibility for the people in your life who love inspiring true stories about people seeking to put their faith into action and work for a more-just world.

Reading and listening

“God’s face shines (Isaiah 7:10-16; Psalm 80:1-7, 17-19): Can we sense the Holy Spirit’s presence as God’s face shining upon us?”

As much as I want to separate myself, my congregation, and kindred people of faith out from my list of people whose prayers make God angry—we’re not like that kind of Christian or like those religious people—I can’t do it. We’re all God’s people. We all place our hopes in the same God, however different those hopes might be. We all call on the same God to save us, however differently we might envision salvation. We all want God’s face to shine on us, that we may be restored.

I wrote this post published on the Christian Century website in 2019. It’s still relevant as I think about these verses from Psalm 80 in the lectionary again this week.

This time of year, I love listening to Steve Thorngate’s album After the Longest Night. His original songs for Advent, Christmas, and Epiphany include positive language for darkness, and beautiful traditional words such as the O Antiphons while avoiding supersessionism. It’s available as a digital album or CD.

The past decade included enough grief to fill me with compassion for those who are formally diagnosed with infertility and who have struggled with the adoption process. U.S. society, including religious spaces, often neglects to acknowledge the varied experiences, often painful ones, that lead to childlessness. Like many others, I have frequent interactions with people who think it’s a casual question to ask if I have children. I sometimes feel defensive. I don’t want to tell my whole story—nor is the asker prepared to hear it, despite being the one who brought up the topic—but I also want to avoid getting labeled selfish or weird. Leaving other people’s opinions to them, I know that I am an advocate for parents wherever possible. And I cherish being an engaged aunt, godmother, member of a multigenerational cohousing community, pastor, and friend. In all of my vocations, I care for people of all ages and other creatures.

I would have much less time and energy for all of my work and activities if I were a mother. I’m grateful to Elizabeth Felicetti for naming that. In her new book, Unexpected Abundance: The Fruitful Lives of Women without Children, she writes, “As women who have children explore and embrace the ways in which motherhood enriches their lives, we who are barren—by choice or not—need to be allowed to celebrate the fruit that our lives can bear because we don’t have children.” Elizabeth tells the stories of childless women in a variety of vocations, such as the biblical Mary and Martha, St. Clare of Assisi, Pauli Murray, and Dolly Parton—who describes her songs as her children. 

That resonates with me as, like Elizabeth, I brought my first book into the world this week. We’re part of the same writing group, and it has been wonderful to encourage each other through researching, writing, and revising. Now I look forward to seeing how our books take on lives of their own as readers find and engage with them.

Book update: It’s out!

What You Sow Is a Bare Seed: A Countercultural Christian Community during Five Decades of Change is available for purchase directly from the publisher. (I expect it to be on Bookshop and Kindle within a couple of weeks.) In the meantime, if you buy from from Wipf & Stock, there is a 40% discount through September 30, 2023. After clicking Buy, proceed to the page “Your Cart” and enter the coupon code, RENEWAL, in the Discounts field.

Reading and listening

Recovery from surgery was the perfect time to read Heather Corinna’s What Fresh Hell Is This? Perimenopause, Menopause, Other Indignities and You. The heading for the book description on Corinna’s website, “what to expect when you’re not expected to expect anything anymore” gives a taste of how hilarious and candid the book is about all of middle age. (Readers who have been around at least a month know that I turned 40 on July 9.) 

This pair of New York Times articles about menopause and hormone therapy was also clarifying:

Women Have Been Misled About Menopause by Susan Dominus. Published Feb. 1, 2023, Updated June 15, 2023

5 Things to Know About Menopause and Hormone Therapy

There has long been an effective, F.D.A.-approved treatment for some menopausal symptoms, but too few women have a clear picture of its risks and benefits.

More recently, I read and appreciated “A prophet is never welcome,” by Kaya Oakes, Residuum, August 1, 2023.

“Sinéad O'Connor gave Gen X Catholic girls a model for what it means to stop being good and start asking for justice.” 

I’ve been listening Sugar Nova’s debut album Halogen. The vocalist is my friend Rachel, who is also an amazing, creative woman who has not borne children.

To purchase my new book at 40% off—the paperback costs $18.60 plus shipping—please visit the publisher’s website and click “Buy.” Proceed to the page “Your Cart” and enter the coupon code RENEWAL in the Discounts field. Offer good through September 30, 2023.

Read what people are saying about the book:

The Rev. Carol Howard, pastor and author of Healing Spiritual Wounds

In What you Sow Is a Bare Seed, Celeste Kennel-Shank tells this story with such hope and grace that in the process of reading, I could feel that hope and grace extend to us. As people worry about what the future of the church might be, Kennel-Shank reminds us why we must be.

Brian McLaren, author of Do I Stay Christian?

Why should you read about a small church you’ve probably never heard of? One reason: because a small, informal, experimental faith community, like one tiny seed, can have a great impact, both on its members and on the people and communities the members impact. I know, because I am one of the latter. My life has been enriched with the overflow of the community you will meet in Celeste Kennel-Shank’s new book.

The Rev. Teresa Hord Owens, General Minister and President of the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) in the US and Canada

The Rev. Celeste Kennel-Shank has given great insights into the power of an understanding of Christian community that is tied to the followership of Jesus rather than loyalty to specific institutional expressions of Christianity. The Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) has long struggled to live into the vitality of the Christian witness in community rather than the preservation of institutions as priority. Celeste reminds us that there are those who share this view, and that we must continue to work to ensure that it is the witness of the gospel of Christ in community that will be the hallmark of the Christian movement.

The Rev. Jennifer M. McBride, Ph.D., author of You Shall Not Condemn and Radical Discipleship and president of the International Bonhoeffer Society – English Language Section

In the midst of a rapidly shifting religious landscape, we would do well to remember the insight grounding Celeste Kennel-Shank’s work: the lessons others have learned before about how to be a church faithful to the radical demands of the gospel apply to us today. Kennel-Shank has offered us a compelling and concrete model in the Community of Christ—a church that intentionally connected worship with social justice in a sustained way for over half a century. As a pastor attentive to practical wisdom, a journalist skilled at story-telling, and a former member of this remarkable Community, Kennel-Shank reminds us that what they experienced, we may experience too.

Here’s the full link again just in case you have any trouble with the one above:

https://wipfandstock.com/9781666771077/what-you-sow-is-a-bare-seed/

Thinking about this after I celebrated my 40th birthday on Sunday, it stands out to me that while we may have an equal number of hours a week, it is vastly unequal how many years each of us gets. It’s unfair also. As much as US society wants to imagine that if we follow a diet, exercise daily, pray fervently—or you name it—we will live a long life, that’s simply not the case for everyone. 

None of us chooses our genetic makeup, and we often can’t change what we’re exposed to in our environment. A few weeks ago there was a day when Chicago had the worst air of any city in the world. As Canadian wildfire smoke blew into our atmosphere, our air went above 250 on a 500 point scale—with 500 being the worst. Learning about the air quality index, I was even more alarmed to see how bad our air quality is on days when there aren’t warnings. 

Yesterday my cohousing community spent 90 minutes in the basement, like many of our neighbors in our county, because of tornadoes. The toddler enjoyed the surprise extension of bedtime, but the rest of us were uncomfortably aware of how quickly disaster could come upon us.

When I was born in the early 1980s, my father was an organizer for the National Committee for a Sane Nuclear Policy, called SANE. The threat of widespread nuclear devastation was very real. As a preteen I read books about the suffering of Japanese people for decades after the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombings. I grew up knowing that there were world-ending perils, and I also lived my life. And the world didn’t end. 

Looking back four decades later, I’m not sure yet if it is a hopeful thought. Maybe humanity will come back from the brink of destruction again this time. Or perhaps it’s too late, even if behavior changes as climate change harms an increasing number of people, including wealthy Western ones. Or maybe humanity will yet wipe itself out with nuclear weapons. Who knows?

I definitely don’t. For that reason, I’m grateful for the years I’ve lived. It’s natural that many people have mixed feelings about turning 40, or even dread it. But gratitude is truly what I came up with as I thought about how I’m feeling. (A funny way to put it, I know, but at 40 I’ve stopped trying to change my quirks. Also, Enneagram Ones know what I’m talking about.) 

Yet turning 40 is sobering, what with being roughly the midpoint of the current life expectancy for a North American. During twelve years of hospital chaplaincy, I’ve accompanied people of widely varying lifespans. I’ve honored a request from a grieving woman to bless the body of her child, miscarried at 15 weeks gestation. I’ve listened to bereaved families tell their stories of an elder who lived past 100. And many losses in between. I count myself lucky and blessed for every chance to bear witness to someone’s life. Including mine, four decades so far.

Book update

My manuscript for What You Sow Is a Bare Seed: A Countercultural Christian Community during Five Decades of Change has an anticipated release date: August 15! I’ve submitted my final corrections, and now I’m making an index. I hope to see the cover design soon.

Last week a dear person from the Community of Christ, Judith Anderson Glass, died in her early eighties. I’m grateful for the time she took to share her memories and reflections about the Community with me, and for the articles she published in the Community’s publications, Stance and the Lenten Booklet. They are part of the legacy of a remarkable life.  

Reading & listening

What My Bones Know: A Memoir of Healing from Complex Trauma, by Stephanie Foo, (Ballantine Books, 2022). Foo expertly weaves together first-person narrative with her interviews with researchers. She creates a readable (if painfully rough at points) account of what we know about the effects of trauma repeated over years and the treatments that can open a way to heal. 

The Long Afterlife of Libertarianism: As a movement, it has imploded. As a credo, it’s here to stay. New Yorker. By Benjamin Wallace-Wells. New Yorker June 5, 2023 issue

Reckless Disregard: A revered Supreme Court ruling protected the robust debate vital to democracy—but made it harder to constrain misinformation. Can we do better? By Jeannie Suk Gersen. New Yorker. May 22, 2023 issue

On childhood birthdays, I loved putting Stevie Wonder’s record Hotter than July on the turntable and playing “Happy Birthday.” In addition to its activist history (it was part of the successful campaign to make the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday a national holiday), its chorus is way more fun than the traditional birthday song.

In Chicago, we’re eleven days into a new mayoral administration. Since the runoff, several friends and neighbors have commented to me that while they prefer the new mayor to the alternative, they think the obstacles are too great to be surmounted and nothing will really improve. 

But I’ve also encountered neighbors setting aside apathy engendered by the city’s history of corruption. I’ve seen and heard hope as I haven’t before. For 16 years, I’ve lived in this city and worked in some of the areas hit hardest by the austerity measures of previous administrations. I’m well aware of the challenges we’re facing. Also that it was a slim majority of people who saw their self-interest as better served by new approaches. 

No leader is a savior. Real change involves hard work from all of us. We’re all flawed, and yet there’s a difference between mistakes caused by hubris and ones made while risking something bold and new. 

As I prepare to preach this Sunday, on the feast of Pentecost, I try to imagine what it was like for Jesus’ closest friends, but especially Peter. All of them deserted Jesus and fled—Peter denied three times that he even knew Jesus. And yet, out of his failure, the Holy Spirit propels Peter into a new vocation. It doesn’t erase the past, but incorporates it into a new reality. Rowan Williams writes, “Life in the Spirit unites truthfulness and hope.”

After its miraculous beginnings and the communal life of the early church, Christianity has had a winding history. Each of us likely has our own list of horrific events and eras that distress us the most. Yet many of us hold another list, too, of people and periods that buoy us toward transformation in our own lives and the world.

Peter gives us a promise in his sermon on Pentecost, quoting from the Prophet Joel: God’s Spirit will be poured out on all flesh. In case some hearers still wanted to think, “surely he didn’t mean those people over there,” Peter and Joel emphasize that the promise is for all who have flesh.

In a sermon in the Community of Christ, the ecumenical group I wrote a book about, longtime member Doug Huron described Christianity as holding a “promise of radical inclusiveness.” Even as it is “a promise that is always being broken,” still, “the good news is available to all.” 

Andrew Wells-Dang, another Community member, appreciated how Doug was cynical, hearing from his homilies “this is how it’s always been and how they treated the prophets. The church has also oppressed people through its history, and yet we’re still here.” It was also a message of hope, Andrew said. “You recognize all the obstacles, but still, we have a chance to do this.” Or, as Elizabeth O’Connor of the Church of the Saviour in DC, a mentor and partner congregation to the Community, put it in her book Journey Inward, Journey Outward, “Things do not have to be as they are; laws can be changed and dehumanizing structures overthrown.” 

Whether we tend toward optimism or pessimism, reality is likely to include both victories and setbacks. In the midst of it all, we may be served by holding on to both cynicism and hope.

Book update

My manuscript for What You Sow Is a Bare Seed: A Countercultural Christian Community during Five Decades of Change has been through copy editing and I am responding to author queries. I still don’t have an estimated release date, but it’s exciting for things to be moving toward that point.

Reading & listening

“The Short Life of Baby Milo.” By Frances Stead Sellers, Thomas Simonetti, and Maggie Penman. The Washington Post, May 19, 2023. 

“A Fire Started in Waco. Thirty Years Later, It’s Still Burning.” By Daniel Immerwahr, The New Yorker, May 8, 2023 issue.

“Wildflowers,” by the Wailin’ Jennys. My first semester of college, a woman in the dorm room next door to me played Tom Petty’s “Wildflowers” every morning. I never told her I could hear it. She was an athlete with a bit of a tough exterior, and I didn’t want to risk embarrassing her if she felt vulnerable about needing those moments of affirmation. And the song is lovely for that, even lovelier with the harmonies in this cover by the Wailin’ Jennys. For this season, I’m the one listening to it every morning.

I wrote about all 51 years of the Community’s life together, as well as the wider context it was part of, taking a journalist’s approach. I don’t think objectivity is a necessary or realistic goal for journalists. Yet there are times when we are more removed from our subjects than others. Writing this book, I met some people for the first time and read articles and books by people I never had a chance to meet. Those parts of the project were similar to any research and interviewing I have done in my career. 

In other cases, I researched and wrote biographies of people I spent time with weekly if not daily between the ages of seven and 17—perhaps the most formative decade in anyone’s life. Some of those dear people are now among the cloud of witnesses, including my father, who died while I was working on this book. Instead of writer’s block, I had a different obstacle. I took what I called grief breaks at moments when I was overwhelmed that I couldn’t talk with Dora or Doug, that I couldn’t ask a question of Sally or Phil, that I hadn’t known Valborg or Carrol better. My grief is also for the Community itself: it ended as a formal worshiping body in 2016 after local members made a faithful and courageous decision to let it go and to give our building to a partner in mission. It is still a loss, even as I felt resurrection power when I visited the health and action center currently housed in La Casa.

This Easter Sunday was a strange one for me for a variety of reasons. I had no sermon to preach, no worship to lead. And it was the anniversary of the last time I spoke to my father. I visited family and joined Assembly Mennonite Church for worship. There was an interpretive dance to a song I love, Jim Croegaert’s “Was It a Morning Like This?”* Being an actual gardener and not merely mistaken for one, I love the idea of the earth and grass rejoicing at the weight of Jesus’ body walking on them again.

Periodically in the past year, a thought appeared in my mind: “We buried my father in the ground.” Sometimes this is my first thought in the morning after a dream where my father is still alive. Grief is bewildering. 

With that state of mind, I listen to the stories of Jesus’ post-resurrection appearances in these weeks after Easter. I imagine how Jesus’ dearest friends felt after enduring his death, laying his body to rest, and then encountering him living again. I can’t make any more sense of these stories than I can of my own grief. I can simply listen with wonder. 

* Some of you may be thinking, “That sounds familiar, but how do I know that song?” If you grew up with contemporary Christian music, you probably heard Sandi Patty’s more-famous cover of this song.

Book update

My book manuscript is currently in an editing and typesetting queue. After several more steps in the process, I hope it will be released later this year—possibly just in time for me to send you a bunch of messages suggesting it as a holiday present. Sorry in advance. 

To make it up to you a little, here are two more hilarious voice-to-text transcription errors that I found while fact checking:

Can you imagine the Zoomies?

“I don’t remember when the dog started using cocaine.” 

Aren’t we all glad?

“I guess they should be glad they’re not squirrels.

Reading & listening

I’ve been learning more about the harm-reduction approach to addiction. This first-person essay describes beautifully why we need this approach.

“The message I sent by giving him naloxone and instructing him on how to prevent an overdose wasn’t permission to get high, but to stay safe and alive and to know that he was a valuable human being—whether or not he continued to use drugs.”

“Living in Adoption’s Emotional Aftermath,” by Larissa MacFarquhar, The New Yorker, April 10, 2023 Issue

Gearing up to promote my book, as mentioned above, brings all sorts of temptations to compare myself with others and find myself wanting. “Angel” by First Aid Kit is an antidote. 

Most or all of what I know about the Groundhog Day tradition came from that movie. Only this week, I learned that the holiday originated with my ethnic group, the German-speaking immigrants who came to be called the Pennsylvania Dutch (an anglicization of Deutsch). Skipping over some complicated history, here’s a fun fact: the German ritual was watching a badger emerge from its den on Candlemas. Along with Saint Brigid’s Day and Imbolc in the Celtic parts of Europe, the first two days of February celebrate the halfway point until the spring equinox. 

I’ve been thinking more about the various holidays marking the seasons after reading Wintering: The power of rest and retreat in difficult times by Katherine May. She begins by asserting that winters can begin any time, metaphorically speaking. Tragedy and injustice, pain and grief can leave us with only enough energy to survive each day. “We may drift through years in which we feel like a negative presence in the world,” May writes, “but we are capable of coming back again.” As life remains in the roots of trees and perennials, each of us can store up what we need until the seasons change. Our capacity for wisdom and compassion can expand.

Since Solstice, I have been listening to Sufjan Stevens’ “Sister Winter” (blowing right past Epiphany though it is a Christmas song.) More light peeks around my curtains each morning, but I have not resumed my three-seasons waking time. My body, healing, must rest more. Sister Winter embraces me.

In “Sister Winter,” the lyrics express less than the way the instrumentation changes from the beginning to the end. (This is even more true with another of my favorites, “Casimir Pulaski Day.”) We move toward a return to joy. Like the coming of spring in our snowy areas, it is often in fits and starts, with setbacks like April storms or stretches stuck in the mud. But whether or not burrowing mammals see their shadows, no winter lasts forever.

Book update

I’ve signed a book contract with Wipf & Stock for What You Sow Is a Bare Seed: A Countercultural Christian Community during Five Decades of Change in the Church. From now until the end of March I’ll be finalizing my manuscript, citations, and bibliography. If you are so inclined, I welcome prayer and good wishes for energy and focus.

Reading & listening

In addition to the above books and songs, Mudhouse Sabbath: An Invitation to a Life of Spiritual Discipline. By Lauren F. Winner (Paraclete Press, 2007). In the section on sabbath, Winner makes note of the argument that was trendy at the time (and still today) that resting makes you more productive at other times. Without disputing that, Winner notes that “rest for the sake of future productivity is at odds with the spirit of the sabbath.” Amen.

Jennifer Gonnerman, “The Total Package: The lives of UPS workers and the chances of a strike.” The New Yorker. January 16, 2023. 

I’ve also been listening to more Nina Simone. The range is incredible—from the warmth of “Here Comes the Sun” to the potency of her political songs, which do not spare anyone her anger at racism. There are a surprising number of her concert recordings available on music streaming services, allowing us to hear the resonances in our time.