I was on a “staycation” last week. Anna and I had carved out space for a few days to recharge, which was lovely. You see, there are many extra needs when an administration goes all in on cruelty towards those whose biggest crime is poverty, and our community is trying to respond with compassion.

Our church has kept striving to meet the moment here in Minnesota, together with several community groups around us. So it seems like needs pile up, like leaves falling from maple trees onto the everyday ground of life in autumn 2026.

Added to an already overfull fall season, my mom died a month ago. We held her celebration of life two weeks ago. There has been even more to tend, from planning to cleaning to thank you notes.

So the space last week was a gift. While we could not “get away” on a vacation, there was plenty of joy in visits to nearby state parks with our dogs to breathe the air. The staycation provided a chance to savor a few cultural events near us as well.

We went to an event at the Cedar Cultural Center in Minneapolis last Tuesday. The mission of the Cedar Cultural Center is to promote intercultural appreciation and understanding through the presentation of global music and dance. It is located in a neighborhood where Scandinavian immigrants were numerous when my wife and I were young. Different immigrants live in Cedar-Riverside. Now many Somali neighbors reside there. Open-faced sandwiches gave way to sambusas.

Perhaps you have heard that the current administration in DC is not positively disposed toward Somalis these days. The government’s outrageous actions toward Ilhan Omar were simply added on to cruelty toward the Somali community. Yet the Cedar Cultural Center continues to adapt with its vibrant mission right there in Ilhan Omar’s district.

We saw that an a cappella group called Windborne was going to give a concert. We knew nothing about the group ahead of time. We saw that they sing global songs and messages of justice, and we are kind of in favor of that. So we took a chance and got tickets.

Windborne blew us away! They reminded us for two hours why we need music just now, especially before this bruising election. What a soul-nurturing gift!

As they burst into their first song, “Lady of the Harbor,” we heard the tensions of those who would welcome immigrants and those who would stoke fears. The harmonies teased out the tension of immigration in our day. The song, written by Joe Jencks, begins with recognition that “our families from Poland, Britain, France and Germany gazed upon the lady” years before - the Statue of Liberty. Those weary immigrants found welcome.

But now powerful people stoke fears. So the song continues “now we’re locking down the borderland, we’re filling up the jails, and we say they don’t belong…” Hearing these words in Minneapolis where so many children of immigrants stood up to hatred robed in ICE this year, it landed resoundingly. Music has a way of opening hearts to possibilities.

Windborne invited us to consider -“Will we fall into our fears, and turn our backs against the lady?” And then the voices reminded us of the better way - “No, we’ll welcome them with open arms…shine on, shine on, sweet lady of the harbor.” After the song, they said how much they wanted to share it all over the country, but particularly in Minneapolis. What a great start.

The songs over the evening included English medieval settings and Appalachian coal mining experiences, along with a song recounting what it is like trying to make a living as a folk song quartet in a Spotify world. It takes a quarter million streams to pay a month’s rent at .4 cents a play! Humor, emotion, story, and rich harmonies were interwoven in a way that moved and united us.

When they invited hundreds of Minnesotans there in Cedar-Riverside join them in singing Woody Guthrie’s “All You Fascists Bound to Lose,” you could feel the spirits rising in joyful resistance.

Windborne’s songs did not just point us to noticing the authoritarian playbook at work now. They also joined us to the union movement over the past century. To the ways women have fought for dignity in one culture after another. To the long fight for racial justice across lands. Windborne let us know through song how long the journey has already been going on, and how we are joined with many other hearts beating for change through the centuries on that journey now.

It was two hours of soulful depth, harmonic breadth, and buoyant life. I needed it.

There is one week to go till the election in the US, and we have just heard about Serbia and about Brazil as they defeated right-wing authoritarianism. We can do this, too, inspired by the lady of the harbor and Woody Guthrie and buoyant harmonization.

If you would like to hear their song, here is one place to find it:

Can three Missouri women save American democracy?

The simple answer is No, of course not. Democracy does not work that way, hinging on just a few individuals (even though people like John Roberts are thrilled to imagine a unitary executive). But three Missouri women invite us along on the urgent task of saving democracy.

To be clear, I am a proud, life-long Minnesotan. Aside from college years in Iowa and summers in California, a year in Denmark and another in Michigan, I have lived in Minnesota my whole life. I was a proud Minnesotan even before the response to the Metro Surge and all of 2026 challenges. But I am even prouder now to see Minnesotans standing up for immigrants in the face of ignorant rhetoric and brutal ICE tactics.

So I must confess this at the start. I have never asked, “What can I learn from Missouri?” Yet here I am, learning from Missouri. Well, specifically from three writers in Missouri: , , and .

I first read Sarah Kendzior’s books at the recommendation of a friend. I gobbled down Hiding in Plain Sight and They Knew in short order. I learned about Donald Trump’s criminal network, the Epstein files, transnational syndicates, and how Joe Biden and Merrick Garland were not going to help us.

So I started reading Kendzior on Substack. Every single article is personal, wise, hard-hitting about truth, and resonates when I look at our world today. Her studies of post-Soviet descent into autocracy, and all the ways the US has been mirroring that process, have helped me see seriously what it will take to save democracy.

These days, as Kendzior deals with AI, her prescient calls about truth and media ring even clearer. The current administration is a mafia masquerading as a government, and corporate structures connected to Putin, Netanyahu, and Silicon Valley are propping it up and profiting from it. It will take a lot of us to counteract this.

Which is where Jess Piper comes in. She ran for Congress in Missouri in 2022. An English teacher in a deep red district, she did not have much chance of winning, but she ran anyway. She talked with people in rural spaces who had not had a candidate to vote for - aside from Republicans. Piper reminded Missouri residents what could be possible with a people-centered campaign.

She listened deeply and responded. Piper lost that campaign, but has kept on going into rural spaces in Missouri, Illinois, and Iowa. She wrote about speaking at a gathering of 70 people in a town of 60. She encourages others in Missouri to run in places that Rahm Emmanuel never thought Democrats should bother funding. And the funny thing is, more and more and more people began to show up. More and more races are contested.

Piper and Michele Hornish work together on a strategy for resourcing and supporting candidates in places that establishment Dems have neglected. They know from Missouri’s politics how decades of Republican control have eroded women’s rights and gutted education. They agitate and energize people to respond with democratic force. Hornish is the executive director of Every State Blue.

Hornish writes a weekly article for Small Deeds Done where she buoys us up in the face of the ongoing onslaught from the administration. She reminds us what is possible when we act with principle and care for people’s needs. At the end of her weekly columns are small, manageable actions we can take that add up to democracy in motion.

Michele Hornish has also been writing on an almost-daily basis about the contrasts in priorities for the administration. For instance, rather than supporting ACA subsidies to the tune of about $30 million, the regime has given tax breaks of $83 million to 5 tech companies to build data centers. Follow the money to know who imperils democracy.

I get frustrated how often current media point to “stars” like Gavin Newsom or Jon Ossoff. The truth be told, my hope does not come from hyped-up stars or singular talents. My hope comes from people I see reaching out for the good of neighbors and those who will follow us. Those who show up at actions. Those who deliver groceries or show up at mosques in support or write postcards.

I appreciate the old saying from Rabbi Tarfon: “It is not your responsibility to finish the work of perfecting the world, but neither are you free to desist from it.” Our time is now so that we do not desist.

These three Missouri women who are writing on Substack (and other platforms) are making it possible to continue in hopeful, aware, connected action for the sake of democracy. They remind me to find strength from “regular people” who show up, like the people in the congregation where I serve or the community mutual aid members who respond again and again to the needs brought on by the injustices of this time.

If you need hope, wisdom, and good companions to keep your heart going in 2026, take a moment to read , and . And then talk with a few people around you. That is where democracy rises. We have work to do, and we are not alone but are surrounded by people making good trouble.

I was talking to a friend yesterday who said a variation of a sentiment I keep hearing from people. He said, “I go to sleep thinking it cannot get worse. Then I wake up to the news - and it is even worse!” These times can knock us around so much that we lose sight of the truth beyond the crazy news cycle.

Today is a painful anniversary of Hamas’ violence against Israeli Jews. There has been enormous devastation and violence in Gaza in the three years since then. Grief piles up. Courageous people nevertheless make a commitment that I cannot ignore.

The future is peace, they insist. They assert there are two types of people - those who live with this truth in mind, and those who do not…yet. The “yet” is so powerful in that assertion!

I was watching PBS News Hour a month ago when I saw Aziz Abu Sarah and Maoz Inon speaking about their friendship, their recent book, and their commitment to peace-making.

Aziz Abu Sarah is a Palestinian whose brother (and other loved ones) died because of Israeli Defense Force (IDF) violence. Maoz Inon is an Israeli Jew whose parents were killed by Hamas on October 7, 2023.

They have plenty of reasons NOT to trust each other. They would be justified NOT to believe the future is peace.

And yet…they have each worked on peace-making for years by building relationships and bringing people on tours in Israel and Palestine. They are committed to building a future that has space for Jews and Palestinians and more to live in dignity.

They believe the future IS peace.

I needed to hear them on PBS. I needed to read their book. You see, I often doubt myself. I question the non-violent commitment I have learned from Jesus, Gandhi, King and organizers who work with us in Minnesota. I worry that I am too naive, that non-violent peace-making is not adequate to the challenges before us.

But Aziz Abu Sarah and Maoz Inon are buoying me up for the journey again. They are guides not only in their homeland, but also on a potent way of peace for us all.

Their work is deeply planted in the belief that peace work must begin by confronting our grief. When Israeli Jews and Palestinians meet at the intersection of grief, they do not always agree, but they respect each others’ humanity. Elie Wiesel counseled as much over 30 years ago - all suffering is suffering. We can start there.

Do I have the courage to listen to the grief of others? Do I have the courage to share my own, real grief? Will I make space for living toward a future shaped by peace?

Aziz Abu Sarah and Maoz Inon write in the beginning of their book:

If you take nothing else from our story and this journey, let it be these words: The future is peace. We know this because between us we have visited and worked in former war zones — from Vietnam and Northern Ireland to Rwanda and South Africa — where we have witnessed people’s capacity to rise out of the wreckage of their trauma and the destruction of war, and we have seen former enemies come together to forge a path of healing and reconciliation. We know that the future of humanity is peace; the only uncertainty is how many more innocent people will suffer before we get there. (p. 6)

The only uncertainty is how many people will suffer before we get there! They give an invitation to get on board. I see the leaders of unions and faith communities and Black barber shops and mutual aid groups in Minnesota who are betting their lives on this future. I see lawyers like Marc Elias and journalists like those amazing young women at Cornell who believe now is as good a time as any to stand for peace-making.

Not passive-ism, of course, but the creative tension that makes peace possible.

Aziz Abu Sarah and Maoz Inon lead people on tours of holy spaces in Israel and Palestine to show the human grief and possibility there. How can we show the grief and the potential in our own spaces? There is no place that does not need peace-makers. There is no place beyond the possibility of a peace that extends and welcomes.

Their narrative through the book is painful, deep with history and particularity, and also inviting and welcoming into a vision of what could be. What needs to be. Are we ready to take these steps?

As Maoz Inon and Aziz Abu Sarah write so clearly:

To those who only see division lines, we say: if you must divide us, let it be as those who believe in peace and equality and those who don’t…yet. (p. 8)

It is that “yet” that stops me in my tracks. How often do I divide people into firm camps of red/blue, conservative/liberal, enlightened/troglodyte? How often do I forget that little “yet” when I look at others?

The invitation to making peace lies in that “yet.” There are those who believe in peace and equality - and those who do not… yet.

The future is peace. I hold open my heart and hands to that “yet.”

I recently read a book by , called The Nerd Reich: Silicon Valley Fascism and the War on Democracy. While I have been following the course of AI for some time now, the book connected a number of pieces for me that helped me see more clearly what is happening societally. It also spurred me to ponder how to counter this Nerd Reich from the vantage point of my faith.

I have been nonplussed to see how much religious imagery lurks behind the push for AI these days. People like Peter Thiel and Alex Karp use Palintir to create more surveillance and AI-embedded weapons systems because they oppose democracy and human rights out of a kooky, cultic view of world history. They talk about the anti-Christ openly, and accuse either Greta Thunberg or the US government of being the anti-Christ.

They do not seem to recognize the Jesus of Nazareth that I have spent a lifetime trying to follow. They have concocted a wildly self-centered theology to justify their inhumane actions. Gil Duran’s book shows that more clearly than I had understood before.

This group of tech oligarchs tends to use a lot of end times apocalyptic language to scare people - that they either need to adopt AI or lose out. Their religious speech includes a belief in transhumanism - that machines will help humans in our next evolutionary jump. They seek a way of continuing their existence forever, either through uploading their consciousness into a computer or through using cryogenics until human lifespan expands. They espouse a type of cosmism where they believe they can settle on Mars.

Admittedly, I am just a pastor who can barely get my laptop to do what I would like with word processing, let alone coding or building web capabilities. So what credibility do I have to speak to any of this?

Well, after 35 years of serving as a pastor, I can say I have learned a few things from church members about grace. I have learned from people in the churches where I have served to be suspicious when a small cohort of a wealthy, powerful few exclude the well-being of regular people. I have watched people in the pews who humbly live out a call to do justice and love kindness in their daily lives. And I have read the gospels enough times with senior citizens and teenagers and people in recovery to know Jesus insists that any true community of faith needs to care for the last, the little, least and the lost.

So I believe there are many ways to counter the tech broligarchy (as terms it) or the nerd reich (as terms it). One is to read. Another is to touch the earth and listen to the birds and care for the water. Make bad art. Talk with a neighbor more often, and listen beyond stereotypes. Vote. Organize with those who believe in real community. Spend our money on humane goods.

Some of the most frequent commandments in the Hebrew Bible are to care for migrants, widows and orphans. There is good reason for that. Our destinies are intertwined with one another, and the air we breathe is shared in common. Ask God to create in us a clean heart. The goods of the earth belong to all God’s creatures. We all need sabbath to reconnect to these truths because otherwise we get so frazzled with busyness.

The gospels offer an imagination that I need, too. Consider the lilies of the field, who neither toil nor spin but are clothed with beauty. Look at the birds of the air. Invite Zacchaeus (that scoundrelly tax collector) into your home sometime and see what happens. Stop and talk with Lazarus in his need. Don’t turn away from the woman who is dealing with hemorrhages. Learn lessons from seeds - even mustard seeds, those little weedy things that spread wildly. Pay attention to the widow at the temple because she might just surprise you. Open your ears and your heart to the foreign woman on the margin who is pleading for her daughter. She showed Jesus a wider sense of grace and may do the same for us.

Do not be fooled by fear-mongering that seeks to separate us from others. Pray with compassion. Sing. Singing on-key is a bonus, but just sing. It does the nervous system good, and our hearts expand as we do so together. Give a dollar to the guy at the corner of Lexington and I-94. Build Legos with children, or draw with crayons, or be silly with a senior citizen who needs a laugh. I promise you, those are what make life worth living. Those are what bring good news to a world off-kilter.

I believe God became human. God did not send a spreadsheet, or a program, or a self-help book. God did not become enfleshed as a corporation, or as a superhero. God became a poor, mortal being like us. I believe our task is not to become gods, but to become fully human. I seek courage to follow this kind of faith journey. Join me if it fits for you.

And if not, simply be the unique incarnation of wonder that - more than you even realize - you already are in grace.

Last week we marked the 25th anniversary of the September 11th attacks. There were scores of meaningful remembrances and expressions of deep sadness. Several articles wondered about the different paths we could have taken. How we could have learned our interconnectedness and human values. How we could have responded at the level of our shared needs. Instead, we armed up and responded with increased fear and violence. Voila! Homeland Security.

Rebecca Solnit wrote a delightful article in her Meditations in an Emergency about how people responded with such courage and resourcefulness after the 9/11 attackes, from initial responders to the flotilla that evacuated thousands in NYC to the Hasidic Jew helping a Pakistani man in the midst of the debris. Meanwhile, our institutions failed us. You can read Solnit’s brilliant article here: Citizens Succeeded, Institutions Failed.

Last week, Jacob Coxon was a catalyst for more conversation as he left Anthropic because of ongoing concerns about human disaster because of AI. Several other tech researchers added their concerns. Then Dario Amodei wrote about the need for pacing rather than racing. Elon Musk and Sam Altman nodded in agreement.

Meanwhile, Leah Stokes urged us to pay attention to the cataclysm that is already happening because of climate change. 35,000 Europeans and 5,000 in Nepal were added to the millions of casualties from excessive heat and extreme weather. She urged us to pick our apocalypse - Climate vs AI Doom.

Notes from the Electric Era

Pick Your Apocalypse: Climate vs. AI Doom

If you have been lucky enough to find yourself living under a rock — a large one, buried deep underground — and have therefore missed the news that the people building AI believe it has a “10% chance” of wiping out humanity, then I both applaud your life choices and regret to inform you that this is all an…

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2 months ago · 35 likes · 2 comments · Leah Stokes

Which got me to thinking about the wisdom of my mother-in-law. Over forty years ago, my mother-in-law showed me her dog-eared copy of Virginia Satir’s book, Peoplemaking. It had clearly been read, re-read, and well-loved. She talked so much about the impact of that book on her thinking and choices for action, that I finally went to a bookstore to pick up a copy. Yes, a bookstore.

After all, I could see how my mother’s-in-law perspective had helped shape the mindset of the woman I wanted to spend my life with - my wife. I thought I could learn a little more by reading. There was a new and updated copy by Virginia Satir by that point in time. So I got my own copy of The New Peoplemaking. It is not as dog-eared as my mother’s-in-law, but it still sits on the shelf.

Virginia Satir was a family therapist. She believed that the well-being of our society depended upon basic units of self-worth, communication, and family systems. Through these came the process of what she termed peoplemaking - becoming human together.

It seems to me that the task most important in the face of everything now is precisely how we engage in peoplemaking. Do we raise children and influence one another to be consumers or members of selective tribes? How do we choose to do peoplemaking in an age of AI and climate change? How can we focus on peoplemaking that leads to better possibilities of love and equity?

For Satir, it meant understanding, valuing and developing our bodies so we would find them beautiful as well as useful. Peoplemaking meant being honest and loving to ourselves and others. It meant being willing to take risks, be creative, and accommodate what is new and different while keeping parts of the old that are still useful. She expanded her earlier version by adding sections about diverse family structures and spirituality as well as self-concept and communication and resolving conflict.

One of the images that has stuck with me is what Satir called the self-worth pot. Growing up on a farm in Wisconsin, Satir’s family had a large black iron pot. At times the pot was used to make soap, at other times to make stew, and occasionally it stored manure for flower beds. They called it the “3-S pot.” The question always was: what is the pot full of now, and how full is it?

We can focus on what our pot holds now, and how we can care for one another’s pot so we all know enough love, self-confidence, and safety to take risks and grow. How we can use each of the three “S” ingredients in ways that are helpful. How we can act with care not to put the wrong “S” in a pot of stew, for instance.

How would our societal decisions change now if we kept peoplemaking at the center of the discussion? How would we approach AI development, energy usage, or political movements today if our goal included what Virginia Satir envisioned as filling people’s pots? As peoplemaking?

This is what keeps me going. I get to see people shaping themselves and one another with imagination, care, joy and the desire to live well. I wish everyone could see this kind of peoplemaking so we could change the discussions and make humane choices.

I’m thinking these days about Emily Dickinson’s poem. She wrote it in the 19th century, but helps me immensely in the 21st. It goes like this:

Tell the truth but tell it slant -
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb Surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually 
Or every man be blind.

I love how Dickinson knows that we cannot bear the truth straight on, in full light. We need it to come in a round-about way so we are not blinded by looking straight into the sun. The light of truth dazzles gradually so we can learn by it, without going blind.

Tell the truth but tell it slant. Poets often reveal truth in ways that do not get through to us via head-on reporting. In these horrific days of late 2026, we see the shadows of the Iran war, ICE’s taser gloves, climate-fueled flooding in Nepal, and elections threatened by billionaire money and executive orders. How do we see the light of truth so we can be dazzled gradually?

And then Dolly Parton dies. The inspiring tributes to her have been delightful, recounting the millions of books she sent to help underserved children. Blind children received braille copies. Each child received a note from her.

We heard Parton’s refusal to be cast in partisan ways while she still showed the political power of telling it slant. How else would we understand “9 to 5” other than as a truth-telling poem calling for equal rights? Parton regularly showed us truth so we could see by that light.

Parton’s song “Travelin’ Thru” for the movie Transamerica was one such instance. In a movie about a trans woman who discovers the son she did not know she had from her previous life, Parton’s song is filled with imagery that showed acceptance of transgender people, including these lyrics:

Questions I have many, answers but a few
We're here to learn the spirit burns, to know the greater truth
We've all been crucified and they nailed Jesus to the tree
And when I'm born again, you're gonna see a change in me

Parton tells it slant by drawing on Christian imagery - we’ve all been crucified with Jesus and you’re gonna see a change in me - to call us to accept transgender neighbors. Since we are all going to see a change, why not accept those who are already showing a greater truth of change among us? Dolly Parton knew that the light of truth must dazzle gradually, and she showed that for decades with her wide variety of music.

And then Wendell Berry dies the next week. While Dolly Parton had Tennessee roots, Berry’s roots were deeply planted in Kentucky soil. He had the chance to live a literary life in New York, but with his wife, Tanya, they decided to live, work, and write in Kentucky. His novels like Jayber Crow showed me complex relationships with tender understanding. But his poetry is what I return to again and again.

My Easter sermon this year included parts of Berry’s poem Manifesto: Mad Farmer Liberation Front. The poem has evocative images about practicing resurrection: “Be like the fox, who makes more tracks than necessary, some in the wrong direction. Practice resurrection.”

Resurrection is a tough concept to grasp, but Berry’s image sticks with me. The poem gives delightful glimpses of ways to practice resurrection: So, friends, every day do something/that won’t compute. Love the Lord./Love the world.…/ Love someone who does not deserve it./Ask the questions that have no answers./Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias…/Be joyful/though you have considered all the facts.

This is Berry’s way of telling it slant. I can hear freedom in this view of practicing resurrection now. Be joyful though you have considered all the facts. Love someone who does not deserve it. Plant sequoias. There is plenty for me to practice there!

In this late summer season of 2026, I often find my spirits sagging. I often look for ways to go on with courage. I often need truth-tellers who do not blind me with light but dazzle gradually by telling it slant. Dolly Parton and Wendell Berry have done that for me the past few weeks.

So with Berry, I will keep practicing resurrection by being joyful even though I have considered all the facts. And with Parton, I will continue to be open to a reality that when I am born again, you’re gonna see a change in me.

Dolly Parton’s Official Video for Travelin’ Thru:

Joan Osborne sang the question decades ago, “What if God was one of us, just a stranger on the bus trying to make his way home?” It’s not a bad starting point for ethics today.

My dad once told me that if I was going to study theology, I should focus on ethics because that was the part of theology that had real-life value.

Truth be told, his faith was deeply important to him, but he was bothered by how many people acted without ethical concern. Meanwhile, he thought too much effort went into esoteric philosophical topics or abstract disputes rather than helping us live better together. My dad wanted me to be grounded in ethics that mattered for real life.

I think of this conversation with my dad because as I look around at our leaders, I wonder: is ethics even a thing anymore? It seems like our world needs my dad’s wisdom more than ever. I keep returning more and more to one theological tenet that guides my ethical focus - the tenet that God became human in a first century Palestinian Jew named Jesus.

I know, I know. For a lot of people that seems esoteric and disconnected from reality. I have not lost the connection to ethics, however. I approach ethics with this lens now as I look at urgent issues of housing, education, women’s rights, and immigration.

You see, I am deeply worried about the ideology behind a number of billionaires and tech bros who are madly pushing AI and authoritarianism in equal fervor. They espouse a kind of transhumanism that believes technological advances will help humanity evolve to the next level of human development.

But they do not seem concerned about the incarnate human beings I know. Tech leaders and billionaires do not believe that this combination of flesh and bones and hopes is what matters. What would they care about weeding a garden? Or picking chard, zucchini, and peppers to stir fry with eggs and tofu?

Why would they get down on the ground and build Legos with a 5-year-old or blow bubbles with a 3-year-old or stroke the arm of a lonely 90-year-old?

Why would they swing dance or paint badly or give $5 to the guy at the I-94 offramp with a cardboard sign saying, “Homeless. Anything helps”?

Elon Musk views people like me as NPCs, which I had to look up when he said it. It means “Non Playing Character.” In certain video games there are characters who move the plot along but have no agency, no importance. They are not playing. They are pawns, so to speak, who get moved but do not really matter.

In contrast to that, I believe God became human. The kind that grieves and sleeps and poops and is startled by fireflies and waterfalls and Louise Erdrich stories and Bach’s Cello Suites and quantum indeterminacy. Ethically, that means we can see the divine in other human beings. Ethically, that means we should strive to act accordingly.

Fossil-fueled climate change rages with increasing floods and fires because corporate executives and politicians and billionaires keep fueling the destruction even though they have known what would happen. They did not treat human lives as sacred. They see us as expendable NPCs.

Tech bros and AI evangelists keep pushing the use of data centers that use extra fossil fueled energy sources and water resources for the purpose of surveillance. They do not care about human beings per se.They are willing to lock tens of thousands up in for-profit concentration camps to make money.

These “leaders” do not think about making life better for us now or for people in future generations. They are intent on moving more money and power upward to already-wealthy people. They build bunkers to protect themselves.

To all this, I say that God became human, so we can join in solidarity. Ethically and aesthetically, that is where life happens for me right now. Joan Osborne sang “What if God was one of us?” and I don’t think that’s a bad place to start.

Here’s where I have seen that this week. The nurses and social workers who care for my mother on hospice care. The union leaders and faith leaders who came together to call Target and other corporations to stand for democracy and speak against intrusive surveillance in Operation Puppet Master in Minneapolis. The volunteers who came together for a BBQ for people struggling on the streets. A group of sweaty church folks who schlepped carpets out of a former motel which is being transformed for families in need of emergency housing. Neighborhood families gathering to support mutual aid efforts that are ongoing. A multi-generational group coming together to celebrate the 25th wedding anniversary of long-time friends. Friends showing up for a friend who is going through a rough patch.

There are more people who “get this” deep in their being than we often realize. We all need encouragement to continue to look for this.

Today we are hosting a memorial service for a long-time member of our church. He had been church council president two times, and was a leader in many community organizations that served immigrants and senior citizens and those who needed food or housing. He had a tender impact on me as a kind witness to love in action. Remembering him today is both sad and encouraging because he lived a good life.

This got me thinking about my 35 years of presiding at funerals. They are often a gift to me because I get to be with people in moments when they are clear about what matters. Family and friends are open to the importance of sharing love while we are able. These tender occasions are also opportunities for unexpected surprise.

I remember one memorial service that taught me the importance of listening for people’s stories beyond stained glass churchy categories.

Over 30 years ago, two weeks into a call as a pastor in a new church, I brought communion to Ted Oftedahl at his home. I went downstairs to Ted’s basement apartment, where I could barely make my way because the curtains were drawn and now light was on.

From his wheelchair, Ted greeted me with a soft, high-pitched voice. He sported a long grey beard, had one leg missing, and his eyes did not follow me as I moved. He was blind. I had not known that, nor much else about his life. I would learn in a hurry.

I came into his sparse room and immediately reflected on how many material possessions I had, because Ted clearly did not. He did have a pet parakeet named Gandalf (from The Lord of the Rings, he told me, as if I didn’t know). As I positioned myself between the springs of a ragtag chair, Ted let me know about his life. Ted was in his early forties. He had lost one leg and his vision as a result of an overdose on heroin twenty years earlier.

That was not my usual fare for a Lutheran communion visit. I would typically visit elderly folks in nursing homes. They rarely had heroin stories. Or a bird named Gandalf. This was going to stretch me.

Ted was not the kind of guy I would regularly see in a church pew. He felt awkward at church. And yet, Ted felt a deep connection with his faith. As Ted’s high voice squeaked softly from the cage of his body, he told me about some of his challenges with his disabilities. That initial visit was on Thursday afternoon.

On Sunday evening, after my first sermon at the new church, I received a call from Ted’s sister. She told me that Ted was dying, but he was not ready to die. Could I come? Ted was unable to keep food down by this point. He was weak, yet still determined to do what he could. He struggled to get from his waterbed into the wheelchair so we could talk again. We talked about dying. We talked about grace and new life. We talked about a funeral.

On this occasion, his communion was not bread and wine, but a Dairy Queen ice cream cone melting in his sister’s hand. That image stuck with me, partly because it felt like my words were melting like a Dairy Queen soft serve.

When Ted died a few days later, his sisters and brother came to church to plan his funeral. Ted and I had talked about the funeral, so I expected no surprises.

There were surprises. Ted’s siblings requested two songs for his funeral: “Desperado” by the Eagles and “Rocky Raccoon” by the Beatles. I felt myself swallowing hard. This was, after all, my first funeral in a new congregation. What would the people there think? I did not know them well yet, and I still had moving boxes unpacked in the basement of our house.

As Ted’s siblings and I talked, “Desperado” was cool. I suggested that perhaps “Rocky Raccoon” would be better as an instrumental. That seemed fine. I expected no surprises.

There were surprises. The day of the funeral, Ted’s friends had set up a sound system in the balcony to play a Pink Floyd prelude. The Eagles’ “Desperado” would play after the readings, and “Here Comes the Sun” after my sermon. Well. This gave me a chance to see how this new congregation would respond.

As I stood in that stately sanctuary, surrounded by paintings of saints with gold leaf paint, I saw pews populated by people who were not regularly at worship there. I knew the rock songs would be more meaningful to them than “Rock of Ages.” It pushed me out of my comfort zone to see people who were not “regulars” in my church life as simply people whom God wanted to comfort in their own way.

So we had scripture readings and an original poem Ted had written. We had Amazing Grace and Here Comes the Sun. Church members felt comfortable in the space and a little uncomfortable with the changes. Ted’s friends felt a little uncomfortable in the pew but were comforted with what they recognized as true Ted. And we all had a funeral luncheon afterward that church members served.

That funeral was over thirty years ago. It taught me about the importance of learning about each person’s story, about their lives, and how comfort can show up uniquely, beyond our boxes.

I still wonder about that day. It still stretches me to be ready for surprise. What can I learn from every person I meet beyond my categories? How can I meet them as they are? How can I celebrate them in the specificity of their life at their funeral?

For one thing, I will never hear the song, “Here Comes the Sun” in the same way again. For another, I will often think of Ted, and the gift he was lets me see the gift of others. There is potential to think of each person as someone through whom “the ice is slowly melting.” I wonder what surprise will occur at today’s funeral?

I consider myself a Christian humanist. Some people find that combination confusing. Can one be a humanist while trying to follow Jesus’ way? Can one be Christian while espousing humanist ideas? These days Christian nationalism has muddied the waters, but I am still finding my way.

One of the main parts to my faith personally says that God became human in Jesus, a first century Palestinian Jew. To be clear, the point is not that my Jesus can beat up your Buddha or Moses or Mohammed or Darwin. The point is to turn my eyes to see the human beings who are here, now. Who need food, love, joy. Christian humanism is a way of affirming how I can find God among human beings.

In mystic terms, this conviction allows me to be non-literal and to be attentive to reality beyond static words and categories. God-become-human is a weird phrase that opens me to human life. Here. Now. For me, the particularities of human life are open to discover. It may not do that for you. That’s okay. I’m just saying what is core for me.

For me, Jesus was one who was capable of love and sorrow and sickness and death and laughter and all that is human experience. Maybe he liked poetry. Maybe he would have ridden a Harley. Maybe he ate mushrooms. Maybe he didn’t like chipotle peppers, or U2, or dark chocolate.

In ethical discourse, faith that God became human matters because it calls me to ethical decisions about human flourishing. Physical health, communal well-being, and spiritual life are intertwined for me. Respect for the dignity of others, and seeking justice and love are central to ethical considerations because of this.

And for me, human is not separate from “nature” or other creatures. We are human creatures, totally interconnected with the carbon life forms all around us. Yes, evolution is how we came to be human beings through the millennia of life’s torturous path.

One author I return to again and again is Piet Hein. He was a Danish polymath who wrote poetry, did artistic and architectural designs, and was a humanist in a path I admire. He wrote thousands of Grooks in Danish, and hundreds in English, too. They are often in short, pithy verse that offer both humor and often surprising insight. One of his Grooks is about becoming human, and a rough English translation would go like this:

Come, let us become human
Said an ape to its neighbor.
It was a sunny summer day
Millions of years ago. 

It happened as they agreed, and now and then
On our long, wandering journey,
We ask ourselves and answer yes,
We notice some change happening!

And the absurd wonder happens
In our hearts as they evolve,
That the more human we become,
The more we know we are not done yet. 

It’s better in Danish, but what I love about Piet Hein is the awareness that becoming human is a process. It is not a preset identity. I love how Hein recognizes that the more we become human, the more we see our limits. The more we see there is still growth ahead. We are still becoming human.

Part of what I dislike about many of the promises that tech bros offer these days is their disdain for real human beings. They seem to promise that tech can help us not be human, not be limited, not need others. Also it seems that tech will take away our characteristics that are unique, quirky, even a bit unruly.

Transhumanism is another topic for a different post, but it certainly seems a misshapen part of the tech focus that wants us to rise beyond our humanity. The apes did not say to one another, “Come, let us become cyborgs.” I hope we do not say that to one another, either.

During the Vietnam war, Piet Hein also wrote another Grook (with LBJ in mind):

The noble art of losing face
May one day save the human race
And turn into eternal merit
What lesser minds would call disgrace.

It would be possible to imagine the relevance of this Grook today in reference to certain leaders, don’t you think? It seems a very important step on the path of becoming human together - to be able to recognize our limits and our need for one another.

I find promise in the imagination that we can turn to one another again and say, “Come, let us become human.” If we are honest, we will also find that there is plenty of change we notice, but we are not there yet.

25 years ago I was at a gathering of clergy when a church leader who had formerly been a pastor started her presentation with a twinkle in her eye. She said, “I learned that the best thing about pastoring a church was the people.” Ministers nodded in agreement. “Do you know what the worst thing was?”

She paused for effect and then answered her own question. “Also the people!” All the ministers there laughed. I thought I got it. I thought it was a dig at how some parishioners can be hard on clergy. But fast forward 25 years and I understand what I got wrong about that. Teresa of Avila said there is a world of difference between understanding a thing, and knowing it from experience. I thought I understood, but experience has taught me it was not what I had assumed.

First about the best thing. The best thing about pastoring a church is indeed the people. The people in the church I serve blow me away with the joy, service, love, and commitment to community they exhibit. I love them and what they show me.

Last Sunday on the hottest, most humid day of the year, church members worked for hours to set up and welcome the wider community at a block party. As the hot sun blazed, they set up tents and tables and a stage with fans. A water slide and bounce house for kids. Garbage cans and compost bins and water stations and games were placed strategically.

They also set up tables inside the church with air conditioning for face painting and crafts and selling bracelets and art. There were booths for voting information and housing advocacy and community mutual aid. There were musicians and ice cream sandwiches and veggie wraps at a food truck. Singing resistance folks led us in song outside while children made bird feeders. A fire truck came to the evergreen amazement of the kids.

Inside and outside, church members were working to make a non-religious community event fun and worthwhile. The people at church were not “getting anything” for their sweat and care - but they freely gave away welcome and joy. 90 year olds and 2 year olds alike had a blast as they had ice cream.

The best thing about church is the people.

And I have learned how the worst thing about pastoring a church is also the people, but not in the way I had assumed 25 years ago. You see, the worst thing is that the people do not just want me to admire them. They want me to lead. They keep me to my word. They believe my actions should reflect what I profess with my faith. They do not want a high blood pressure of creeds with an anemia of deeds. Integrity is what they seek.

If I preach welcome, they expect me to live it. If I talk housing for all, they expect me to show up. If I profess to believe in grace, they expect me to keep learning how to reflect it. Not perfection, mind you. They believe grace is for me as well as for them, so they expect me to be human with all my messiness. To try and often fail. To stretch and make mistakes. To keep coming back for forgiveness and community, like we profess in worship. Resurrection is not just about something that happens at the end; resurrection is also simply getting up after falling.

The worst thing about pastoring a church is the people, because they believe in justice not just as a nice concept but as an ongoing effort. They believe in God’s presence not just when everything is sweet smelling but also when we are sticky and tired. Like at the block party last Sunday. They expect me to believe it, too.

In the past few weeks, one man in his 80s sold his rust-free 1996 Saturn that he had driven to Minnesota from Arizona. He got $2500 for the car; he turned around and gave $1000 to the church. He wanted us to use it to help others feel the kind of welcome that he has experienced.

A few days later, a woman in her 90s came in to meet because she had a $10,000 gift she wanted to share. She said she felt so bad for people who were homeless or hungry. We talked about what a difference that gift could make; we would share it with those who serve unhoused people and with people who come to the church seeking help.

That church leader 25 years ago might have been humorously right that both the best and the worst things about church are the people. But I see the truth from a different vantage point now. If all I ever saw were people in the news like Musk and Miller and Thiel and Karp and Bezos and Vance and Hegseth, I might think I was doing okay. I might get complacent. I might think at least I am not as self-absorbed as they are.

But the people at church show what can be. They keep showing what my faith could be like, and keep calling me on to what is possible.

I do not wear a clerical collar. Well, mostly I do not wear one. But sometimes I do. Let me explain.

I do not wear a clergy collar because I do not want to convey a message that I am “different” from anybody else. At least not in the sense of being more spiritual or holy or virtuous.

My faith is centered around a promise that God became human. Just like us. Not a space-traveling Superman with a bold S on his buff chest and a red cape, nor an Amazon Wonder Woman with superhero abilities. God became human. In a real human situation, as a Galilean Jew in a Palestine under Roman occupation. That kind of human, who bled and grieved and feasted and laughed and died. Like you and me.

I believe Jesus was down-to-earth, so I want to reflect that promise by my own down-to-earthiness. Not wearing a clergy collar fits that message for me.

I went through seminary in the 1980s when the church still carried cultural credibility in the US. However, the church had often thrown its institutional weight behind capitalist systems that extracted labor and resources in a patriarchal culture. I did not want to wear a clerical collar that suggested support of all that institutional baggage. I wanted to try to show a different path.

Not wearing a collar was a small part of that. Plus I was a white male in patriarchy. I did not need to claim more authority than culture already afforded me.

I did not want to suggest that I was “different” from others, as if I got to wear a collar because I was somehow more holy or set apart or special in God’s eyes. It reminds me of the t-shirt that says, “Jesus loves you, but I’m his favorite.” It’s funny as a t-shirt. Not if people really believe it.

Fast forward to 2026. I recently bought two new clergy shirts to add to the other two I already owned. There are more and more gatherings where faith-based organizers ask us to wear clerical garb to show a “moral” stance, alongside imams and rabbis and priests and pastors and deacons and more. So I do not wear a clerical collar, except when I do.

Organizers ask me to use my privileged status on behalf of immigrants, non-violence, voting rights, health care, and democracy. I have learned that is a good time to set aside my concerns about appearing “different” to be part of a community that admits uniting amidst difference. I have learned that being incarnate human means entering the context as is reality now. If my wearing a collar helps people see the dignity of others, I can do it.

For over 30 years, I would wear a clerical collar a couple of times a year just to let people know that I understand the value of the symbol. I understand why clergywomen wear collars in a culture that still often sees men as the spiritual leaders by default. Or queer clergy amid heteronormativity. Or Black and Brown clergy in our still-racist systems. I understand there are many Christian traditions where it is simply the uniform, like scrubs in medical settings. I get that a clergy collar fits for a number of reasons.

It still feels a little uncomfortable for me. I still need to remind myself when I wear a collar that I am doing so for other people, rather than for me. I still feel a bit like a fraud with a “but I am God’s favorite” t-shirt.

And then, I hear from others what it means when I show up in one. How in a time of Christian nationalism and anti-democratic sentiment, it is a strong message to see clergy arrayed with “sacred” symbols together saying “No!” to the evils that separate us and “Yes!” to the possibilities of love in community.

If I can use my pastoral privilege to stand with Muslim, Jewish, Buddhist and Indigenous leaders for dignity and voting rights, I guess I can do so.

If I can support due process for immigrants as well as American-born residents by showing up in a clergy collar, I guess I can do so.

If my wearing a collar at a rally for climate justice can show solidarity with people who are dealing with the worst effects of fossil-fueled climate change (like the First Nations people who are fleeing wildfire in this harrowing photo), I guess I can do so.

I guess my personal strategy for clothing can be overridden by the needs of a changing context. So perhaps I will learn to be more comfortable in not wearing a clergy collar most of the time, except when I do. Because I believe that God became enfleshed (incarnate) as a human being and dealt with the moral dilemmas that we face.

I guess I’m not Jesus’ favorite anyway. Today I hold this in mind - every human being is created in God’s image, and God became human so every day I can approach each person as a reflection of God’s image. That gives me pause every single day because I need the reminder again and again.

I almost cried at a performance this week. I know, many of you are actually in touch with your emotions and feel okay about tearing up at a performance, so you may be puzzled that I only “almost” cried. But, honestly, that is saying something for this Scandinavian American guy.

We saw an amazing production of Come From Away at the Guthrie Theater in Minneapolis this week. The musical is set in the small town of Gander in Newfoundland on September 11, 2001 and the days following. Gander - a town of about 9000 residents - welcomed and housed about 7000 travelers from all around the world after the horrible events of 9/11 shut down air traffic for days. And they did it with humorous Canadian understatement.

The writers, Irene Sankoff and David Hein, went to the 10th anniversary gathering in Gander in September 2011. They spent hours listening to residents of Gander and passengers who had landed there and stayed for days. Sankoff and Hein took the stories, sculpted them into a funny and poignant musical, and showed us a way of living hope in the midst of difference and challenge. On the 25th anniversary of 9/11, the musical is being performed all over the country because to younger people it is “history,” and to those of us who were alive, it is a crucial moment where the world changed.

Come From Away opened on Broadway in 2017. The musical shows the multiple ways people deal with tragedy and trauma. There is misunderstanding and suspicion mingled with generosity and graciousness. Laughter resounded through the audience as we absorbed the high energy dancing, powerful vocals, and heartfelt opportunities to wonder what could be. If only we learned from the response to violence with neighborliness, what could be?

One of the great lines of the musical was “Tonight we honor what was lost. But we also commemorate what we found.” 9/11 was a time of great loss, but the people in Gander for those days also found something truer. They found interconnectedness. Oneness despite differences. Our human needs for gathering - whether at a bar, or at BBQs to feed the stranded travelers, or in the library, church, and quiet spaces for prayer.

One point where I almost cried was the song “Prayer.” A lone gay tenor begins singing a song he remembered from long ago when he grew up in a church, based on Francis of Assisi’s gorgeous prayer. “Make me a channel of your peace. Where there is hatred, let me bring your love. Where there is injury, your pardon, Lord…” He is soon joined by a New York mother, then by Orthodox Jews singing shalom. Hindus and Muslims are added to the mix, singing of peace and unity.

As the voices from different cultures and different traditions weave together, we glimpse a way forward. It touched a chord in me.

In the past week, ICE murdered Lorenzo Salgado Araujo in Houston and Joan Sebastian Duran Guerrero in Biddeston, Maine. The musical reminded me it does not need to be this way. We saw Come From Away in Minneapolis, which had witnessed the murders of Renee Good and Alex Pretti in January. Here we are in July, still witnessing ICE violence and powerful protests to meet the situation. We need to share what the people of Gander, Newfoundland learned.

As we absorbed the powerful musical, we could not help but think of other instances where even more people were killed by hateful violence. Gaza came to mind quickly. How long will Americans accept the genocidal violence of the IDF?

Ukraine has faced devastating violence in the years since 2022. Dresden experienced firebombing in WWII. Tokyo, Hiroshima, Nagasaki in 1945. The Trail of Tears in the USA. You would think we could learn. But that is what art does - it draws us in and casts a vision of what can be. Even our jaded and cynical minds can be moved. Come From Away stokes our imagination.

The truth is, so many of us “come from away.” We are part of a humanity that is constantly on the move. My ancestors came from Denmark to the USA. Some came in the late 1800s, others in the early 1900s, and my mom in 1950. Indigenous people have been here in the US for thousands of years, but people keep moving around. We may all find ourselves in a group like those who landed at Gander in 2001. What would we discover?

I think we would discover more ways to connect than to divide. Fewer phones, less social media, more surprises. We can cultivate this attitude even now.

I almost cried. It sticks with me now, for sure.

Thank you for striving to be good humans. We need more of you. We need to honor what has been lost in 2026, and also to commemorate what we have found. If they could do it in Gander, they believed we could, too. We can build upon what we have found. We can learn the deeper truths that were clear as day 25 years ago.

My heart aches. Almost all the time.

Even when I see bluebirds on a wire while I’m walking our dogs on a gorgeous, cool summer morning in the safe neighborhood where I live before going home to a breakfast of oatmeal with blueberries along with strong coffee and a good article to read, my heart still aches.

My heart aches because even in those calm times for me, there is a simmering awareness that Mexican immigrants just like the ones who installed carpet at our church last week are being apprehended by ICE. My heart aches because hard-working asylum seekers (like the ones I met last year) languish in Geo Group detention camps without due process.

The image we saw this week of a Black woman on a DC train surrounded by white nationalists on July 4th scares me. It doesn’t take much to notice how freakishly hot the weather is in so many places, causing drought and abnormal rainfall in equal measure. 100-year events seem to be occurring about twice a year now.

My heart aches because I know the historical wrongs of the USA but hoped we were learning, or at least that we would learn, as we marked a 250th anniversary. We actually know better. Unfortunately, the “we” who know better do not have the power of government or oligarchy behind us right now, so my heart aches.

And then it happens. Something shifts. Possibility arises.

On Tuesday there was a press conference on the Minnesota State Capitol steps with dozens of clergy from different traditions. As Minister JaNae Bates Imari prepped the group there on that already hot and humid day, her eyes twinkled as she said, “Praise God! The sun is coming out just now!” I love snarky irony clothed in clerical garb.

As she spoke, she shared about the reason for our gathering as part of Team Democracy. Clergy across various traditions all came to express the need for free elections, and what a sacred task voting is. We were committed to standing together in protecting the sacred covenant.

A Jewish rabbi spoke about what it was like after the September 11th attacks, and while there were those who sought to foment division, there were also ads showing people of every shape and faith and background saying, “I am an American.” His voice caught for a moment. E pluribus unum - out of many - one. In our manyness of faiths, we express a oneness of purpose!

A Black Muslim imam spoke powerfully about the dignity of every person, and the sacred task of ensuring that every eligible person be helped to vote. He gave voice to the unity we clergy want to show around our Somali neighbors in Minnesota as the present administration attacks that community without justice. And how no entire group should be judged by the actions of a few, but rather seen with the whole and the uniqueness inherent to our being created in God’s love.

A Lutheran bishop spoke from her tradition about the Lutheran question of “does this serve the neighbor?” She led us in a call and response of “does it serve the neighbor for ICE to instill fear? No!” And “does it serve the neighbor to help everyone gain access to democracy and representation? Yes!” Back and forth she called us to make the point that our various faiths are concerned not just for ourselves but for the well-being of our neighbors, especially the vulnerable.

A Black African Methodist Episcopal pastor called to mind the cost that his ancestors and others suffered in Mississippi as they danger simply in trying to vote. He recalled how at the end of the Selma march in 1965, Martin Luther King gave his speech with the “How Long? Not Long!” rhythm, and how King quoted from an old woman who was marching that long way. She famously said, “My feets is tired but my soul is rested.” He resounded that so many of us are tired of the onslaught on democracy and our society - but also how our souls find rest together.

My heart aches, but the world opens up again. A group at church is setting up tomorrow for a funeral and luncheon here to surround the grieving family with care. A neighborhood community group met yesterday to find a way to support immigrants with rental and legal fees in this challenging landscape. Gardeners harvest vegetables in the church backyard to share with Loaves & Fishes. Singing Resistance gathers to - what else? - sing. And the world opens up again.

In a culture that prizes convenience and individualism, I keep learning the slowness of good change. My heart learns that measure bit by bit. My heart discovers how positive change happens at the speed of relationships. My heart expands watching people build community because that will “save” us (in whatever that means). My heart learns to hold ache and comfort at the same time.

My heart aches - and still the world opens up. Maybe that is how humanity rises in these days.

Have you heard about the Flamingo Revolution? In Albania, which is not universally acknowledged as a birthplace of international democratic leadership, hundreds of thousands of people are protesting the corruption of their government’s business dealings with, among others, Jared Kushner and Ivanka Trump.

It is being called the Flamingo Revolution because protestors are concerned about threatened bird habitats, but it has expanded to direct anger at the corruption of the Albanian government. People are calling for the resignation of both the prime minister and the opposition leader. There has been plenty of corruption there apparently, where the “democrats” are not very democratic, and the “socialists” are not very socialist.

All this is happening in Albania while in the USA — supposedly a historical shining beacon on a hill for democracy and freedom — the Supreme Court is handing down ruling after ruling in favor of a unitary executive.

Unitary executive is fancy-speak for authoritarianism.

Not to mention that the Congress has willingly given up their independence (yes, I know the irony as we head into Independence Day celebrations here) out of fealty to the supposed unitary executive. Those who do stand up to the regime get primaried (Thomas Massie, John Cornyn, Bill Cassidy).

Congress has signed over billions of dollars to create a paramilitary police state with ICE agents and Border Patrol in delicate border areas like Ohio, along with for-profit prisons to enrich Geo Group and Core Civic executives. Temporary protection status for Haitian and Syrian refugees are ending, while the USA reneges on its promises to immigrants to be a “land of the free and home of the brave,” and abdicates its promises to schoolchildren of “liberty and justice for all.”

Meanwhile in Albania, people are showing up because they have decided that now is a time to try - to try organizing for something approximating democratic ideals. The Guardian said that “plans to build a mega-resort on Sazan – one of two luxurious complexes on Albania’s southern coast backed by Ivanka Trump and her husband, Jared Kushner” triggered a revolt “in a spasm of disgust over the perceived excesses of ‘a rotten oligarchic class.’”

It is hard to overcome that, but it is inspiring when people decide to try.

Closer to home, Michele Hornish writes from Missouri that we celebrate our country’s beginnings with the Declaration of Independence in 1776 instead of the declaration of victory after the Revolutionary War in 1783. In other words, we celebrate our independence “when we decided to try,” rather than when we “won.”

Small Deeds Done

Celebration Postponed

Two hundred and fifty years ago, some of my ancestors lived in the chaos of the American colonies. A few fought in the Revolutionary War – including a fife player who was discharged after being wounded at Brandywine, and a seventeen-year-old drummer boy…

Read more

4 months ago · 45 likes · 8 comments · Michele Hornish

I like that perspective. “Deciding to try” seems like a good slogan for 2026. Now is a fresh opportunity for us to decide to try. Maybe even Albania can help us to imagine trying again.

I would be remiss if I did not also say that I gain hope again and again in real life from the people in Minnesota who are organizing to care for neighbors and democracy, standing up for immigrant justice and voting rights. They did not just respond to an immediate threat; they keep being proactive to create relationships and processes to foster democracy and beloved community. These folks nearby convince me that today is a great day to decide to try!

Media sources:

The Guardian — ‘We want a new Albania’: protests against Jared Kushner-backed resort turn anger on government

MSN — Albania opposition to Kushner project escalates to anti-government protests

Sometimes people tell me, “You’ve just got to let it go.” Easier said than done! Letting go is indeed one of the vital tasks of life so we do not get weighed down and incapable of living. Letting go can come as forgiveness, or as simple self-care, or as a practice of recognizing limits and choosing possibilities within those limits.

For me, letting go can be difficult in a time when so much seems momentous and worrisome. Just to pick one topic - I am constantly thinking about the changing climate. I notice the ongoing differences in weather where I am. I hear about expanding drought in parts of the US. The news is filled with the extreme heat in Europe. The changing climate is a big issue that matters to me.

Katherine Hayhoe is a climate scientist who shares that one of the most important ways we can have an impact is to talk about changes we notice in the climate. Studies show that a large majority of people are concerned about the environmental effects, but it seems overwhelming and isolating. Simply talking together about the climate effects is one way of building power together, and moving beyond isolation.

Hayhoe shared what she thought was an example of peak irony. In the UK this week, a Climate Resilience event had to be cancelled…due to extreme heat!

There is such great urgency to act personally and locally, as well as to organize for moving our governmental agencies and corporations to action now. In this time of urgency, why would I think about the importance of letting go? Isn’t that the opposite of what we need?

For years when I heard about “letting go,” I visualized it like dropping a ball from my hand face-down so that it would fall and bounce away. That is the image at the top of this post. Letting go seemed like a matter of forgetting about it, denying it, or ignoring it. That is not what we need.

When someone suggested reframing this, it was an “aha” moment for me. They suggested a practice of turning my wrist so that my hand was upright instead.

When I “let go” with my palm facing upward, the ball does not roll away. It is not forgotten or ignored. The ball is still there in the palm of my hand.

I am just not clutching so tightly. There is a different freedom in that.

In other words, my concern has not vanished. I simply have a different perspective so I can look at it more fully. I can breathe, and even look at the concern together with others who may notice textures and characteristics I had missed in my anxious clutching. Opening my hand upwards means more freedom and possibility.

Opening my hand, palm upwards, seems to have another effect. It raises my eyes and opens my heart a little, too. In a time when anxiety runs deep, it offers a way to look outward beyond my clutching. Stress compresses my perspective; letting go helps open my ability to see more openly.

With regard to climate change, I can talk about what I have noticed personally - warmer nights, fewer birds, more irregular rainfall patterns. I can recall what kind of insects or birds were around ten years ago as compared to now. That invites others to share what they have noticed too. It is not clutching to certainty or to just one, stressful perspective. It is holding palm up a little more openly.

So I can talk about the pervasive air pollution of the 1970s in American cities (remember those photos?), and how people organized to make societal changes. Rivers that used to catch fire from all the chemicals dumped in them. Rachel Carson’s book, Silent Spring, helped people to talk about what was changing in ways they could notice. We need that now, too.

And that allowed people to imagine what was possible. To imagine taking diffrent actions. Letting go in this way can help us to be present, creatively making connections that our narrowed focus had missed before.

So these days I still practice letting go. Not forgetting about the changing climate or the huge needs facing us, but holding the ball in such a way that I can act with others. I find hope there - acting with others as we talk about real opportunities.

Letting go means I can enjoy this morning’s walk with our dogs, listening to nuthatches and chickadees and seeing green growth with thankfulness. It means I can recognize the precarious nature of it all. And with resolve I can act so others may enjoy these gifts.

My upward-facing palms help me to receive as well as to offer myself. Our world needs us to keep practicing together. I keep learning how letting go in this way frees me for today. Thanks for reading.

As I was walking our dogs one unusually cool summer morning, a young man walked behind us. Our dogs were stopping to sniff every scent along the way. I think of this sniffing exercise as their dog social media, and they like to leave their own posts along the way. I am not sure if they can “restack,” but they sure try.

As he caught up to us, the young man said, “Cute dogs.” I smiled and paused. The young man looked like he had a lot going on in his mind. I couldn’t tell what he was processing, but I said, “Thanks. Are you enjoying this cool morning for a change?”

He said, “I actually like it warmer.” He was wearing a Tommy Hilfiger puff jacket over a hoody sweatshirt. I was in short sleeves.

I said, “I’m old enough that I like each of the seasons.” The dogs stopped, and he stopped with us. With a furrowed brow he replied. “I’m not old enough yet for that. I’m just 23. I don’t like the cold.” I could tell his brain was working overtime as he struggled to get out his next thought.

After a pause his voice lowered, “I spent last winter in the hospital.” I got the feeling that he was trying to work through it. His face brightened a bit, though it looked like it took some effort. “I’m feeling better every week now.”

I said, “It sounds like you’ve needed a lot of courage for that healing.” He nodded. I continued, “I hope someone has your back, helping you in that healing.”

He stopped, looked me in the eye for a second, and then looked away. He spoke softly now. “Yeah…my mom. My mom has always been there for me. My mom is always there.”

We got to the next intersection. He went to the left. I went with the dogs to the right. But I haven’t forgotten that short interaction. What that young man was struggling with has stuck with me, and the courage it took. And who had his back. “My mom is always there.”

These days are hard. It seems like every time we have hit rock bottom, powerful people drain more water from the pool. UFC fights on the White House lawn. Firing Black and women military officers and taking down their achievements. The Supreme Court guts voting rights, while states redistrict with wild racist abandon. I think about the people in Iran, Lebanon, Cuba.

Is anybody noticing how hot our world is getting? Almost seems as if the climate were changing like scientists have been saying for over 40 years. A constant push for AI data centers, as if that is what we need most of all. Geo Group builds detention camps willy nilly despite the awful conditions.

At times I feel like that young man, processing as much as I can in facing the day. I wonder if someone has our back. Or how we can have one another’s back despite it all. And then something happens to give me renewed perspective.

On a random Tuesday this week, I got to see something remarkable at a BBQ at a center in St. Paul where homeless people have space to gather, eat, get a shower, and find resources. People from church and the community helped to serve the BBQ along with staff there. There was time for chatting and sharing resources along with burgers and watermelon and corn on the cob.

One man who had been homeless but now has stable housing stood up to share a message. He spoke through a little bullhorn. “No matter how down it gets, no matter how low it feels, there’s someone who has your back.” I perked up my ears.

He talked about how when he came to St. Paul and did not have anywhere to turn, one of the housing advocates there got him connected to resources. He pointed to her, to say thanks. She was there, trying to connect more people to possibility. It was remarkable. All those struggles gathered in that place for people trying to get stable housing, and the message they wanted to share despite it all was “There is someone who has your back.”

The insanity of the day’s news dropped away for a moment and let me see what matters. I thought of the young man whose mother was always there for him. I noticed the guy who brought a container full of cooked corn and buttered seasonings to serve those who were looking for housing. It was powerful to see people who had experienced the streets and came to offer support to those facing it now.

When the man said “it may not feel like it, but there’s someone who has your back,” that message resounded.

Why cannot our elected leaders and our tech gurus and our power-hungry wealth mongers see these people? Their worth? The gifts they have? Why not make more of an effort to “have their back” today?

No matter how low it seems right now, I hope there is someone who has your back. I hope you know - no matter how hard your life is right now - that there is someone like that young man’s mother who wants healing for you. That there is someone like that grateful man who is rooting for you.

And I also hope you get to experience the joy our dogs feel when they sniff every single blade of grass on their walk. Who knows what you will find.

When Jesus talked about God’s kingdom, he used images of a mustard seed. Because I grew up in a suburb, for many years I thought the parable’s message was simply that big things can come from small packages. But then I learned more about how farmers really did not want mustard’s weediness to spread in their fields.

Mustard seeds were about as desirable a commodity as dandelions. I have started to understand the weedy character of the changes Jesus sought both for me personally and for society as a whole. It is not always admirable like a mighty oak tree, but pesky like creeping charlie. Jesus’ parable counters the impulse for “big and powerful” displays, like those of Christian nationalism.

I pondered this recently when I had a few days retreat at Richmond Hill, an ecumenical urban monastery in Richmond, Virginia. The site had been home to Richmond leaders in the 1800s and those they had enslaved. After the Civil War, it became home to a monastery. When the nuns moved to another site in 1987, an ecumenical group of church leaders purchased the property with the purpose of praying and working for racial healing in metropolitan Richmond.

In my short time at Richmond Hill, I met people who were Episcopal, Methodist, Baptist, UCC, Presbyterian, as well as Jewish and none of the above. White, Asian, and Black participants were all seeking honesty by working at the speed of relationship on the slow process of healing. Nothing glamorous or glitzy as they sought to counter white Christian nationalism. I guess Jesus told us to look for mustard seeds for a reason.

Art was part of the process, spreading insight beyond control. One piece of art that was striking to me was Black Madonna in the garden. When the nuns left, they brought their Madonna statue with them to the new home. The ecumenical leaders of Richmond Hill wanted to get an appropriate Madonna statue for the Richmond Hill garden, but the first suggestions all seemed too European. Someone found the Black Madonna by Timothy Schmalz, and it fit the space wonderfully.

For me, I pondered the Black Madonna from several angles, on several occasions. It helped me slow down to imagine the enslaved families that had resided there for years. The pain they suffered, without freedom and in the face of constant indignity. The mothers who sought to comfort their children, aware of the injustice.

Like mustard seeds, the Black Madonna kept spreading new perspectives that challenged the status quo. It kept nudging me beyond my assumptions of “knowing.”

The people at Richmond Hill also shared the stories of enslaved workers who organized to form their own church to sustain themselves and their community. They told about courageous mothers who taught their young to read and gain skills. They shared about the Judy project, named after an enslaved woman whose courage continued long afterwards. The project seeks to unearth narratives that can reframe history.

The people I met in my short time there are intimately aware of the deep pain and insidious tentacles of racism. It is a place where they are seeking to transform - not ignore - themselves and their community into new possibility. To meet racial trauma with deep, ongoing relationships seeking love. It seemed pretty mustard-seedy to me - not exactly what our white Christian nationalism espouses these days.

I am more and more distraught by the blatant racism on display in our country. I am disgusted by the thinly veiled racist actions of our government, rounding up immigrants and incarcerating them in detention camps with inhumane conditions, without due process. Delaney Hall is the latest example in the news, but ICE and DHS spread racial violence and injustice in so many places.

I have often wondered about the various ways to deal with America’s racism, especially these days as the leaders in the Department of Defense try to negate the contributions of Black soldiers and leaders. There are levers of protest, lawsuits, legislation and reparations that are needed to address racism. All are important, even though they can seem small or ineffective right now.

I keep looking for mustard seeds because Jesus told about their worth. I keep remembering the Black Madonna because it tells a truer story than the rhetoric of 2026. I keep finding my imagination opened up by a community at Richmond Hill, striving to live together with space for difference. Across boundaries of race and background, praying for the city of Richmond, they show a better way.

If you would like to know more about Richmond Hill, you can read more here from Tripp Hudgins about the urban monastery: About Richmond Hill

I walked the labyrinth at Richmond Hill four times over three days. Each time brought me wider in prayer, deeper in stillness.

Richmond Hill is an urban retreat center, housed in a former monastery, with residents from different traditions making an ecumenical space available for spiritual practices, with a chief focus on racial healing. Since Richmond has deep history with enslavement, the Confederacy, and the after-effects of that wound, there is plenty of room for healing and transformation.

The labyrinth at Richmond Hill sits above the city. A labyrinth is not a maze. You cannot get lost. There is one way in, and one way back. A labyrinth was created in Chartes centuries ago for those who could not make the pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Now I walked one in Richmond.

Walking the labyrinth meant I was accompanied on all the twists and turns by great-crested flycatchers, cardinals and Carolina wrens. These mingled with the noises of I-95 and garbage trucks, children at the playground a block away, and the sounds of Richmond and its history below.

The twists and turns of the labyrinth were about the twists and turns of our human society, specifically Richmond but connected to our country’s ongoing actions. These included buying and selling human beings, splitting up families, and denying rights long afterward. Alongside those horrors, we remembered the resolve of enslaved persons teaching children to read, showing courage to subvert the Confederacy, sharing faith and love in a vital community despite their oppressors.

It is complicated in history and in our being. We are part of a messy complexity.

The twists and turns also fit my own personal journey. My relationships, my responsibilities, my wondering about who I am, what I have done, and what I need to do now. My failings and limitations along with possibilities and gifts. The twists and turns invite me to a path of renewal.

Each turn of the labyrinth has significance, as I slowly noticed. Each winding turn has three layers of stone - 12 stones at the outer edge, 7 in the middle, four in the inner curve. 12 is significant for the 12 tribes of Israel, 12 apostles. 7 is significant for the days of creation, for the days of the week. 4 is significant for the gospels, for the wind’s directions.

Or maybe those were just the number of stones that fit. There were a number of partial rocks along the long paths to make the spacing work with different sized paving stones. My life is filled with broken rocks that make the path, too. And sometimes I notice patterns I had missed earlier.

The labyrinth reflects how a path of healing - both societal and personal - is complicated, with twists and turns. In walking the labyrinth, there is a fourfold invitation. At the start, remember. Remember those who are on my mind and heart, and remember what I carry.

Walking the labyrinth then is a chance to release. To release clutching tightly and let the Spirit flow. To release control or certainty or fear or hurts or whatever in order to be present.

Entering the center is an invitation to receive. A chance to receive wisdom, whatever it is for that moment and space. A chance to receive myself again. A chance to receive God, love, presence, possibility. Receive.

The path out from the center is an invitation to return. To return to my life, my world, but maybe with a different perspective or spirit accompanying me. Return is an invitation to live.

With Richmond below the labyrinth, the setting mattered for my walking prayer on those days. I imagined all the history of enslavers and enslaved, those affected by the aftermath for centuries, those working on transformation both personal and societal.

There is much more to share about what impact the people I met at Richmond Hill had on me, because that is another story. For now, I can say that I met a diverse group of folks worrying about finances and leaky ceilings after rainstorms and global climate change’s effects on their grandchildren and immigration hurdles for visas and people who were in the hospital.

There was a time of prayer every day at 7:00 am, 12:00 noon, and 5:30 pm, with prayers for Metropolitan Richmond. We prayed for a national health care system that sought well-being for all people. We prayed for those affected by violent crime, for those incarcerated, and for the broken prison system.

We prayed for the president, Congress, and the judiciary (and some residents described their tension around that these days). We prayed for those killed by ICE. For those facing difficulties in marriages, families, work, relationships. For those unemployed and underemployed. For rest. For ourselves. For grace.

The twists and turns I felt on the labyrinth were reflected in the twists and turns of the prayer life at Richmond Hill. I found encouragement for my twisty life in those practices. May eyes and hearts continue to open and to join with many bodies so we pray with our feet, too.

Driving last week from Minnesota through Wisconsin, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Kentucky, West Virginia and Virginia gave us a lot of time to read the signs, listen to music, and ponder the world we live in.

We have made this trip several times; the first occasion was over 20 years ago. A lot has changed in our world since then. We wondered what we would find this time.

When we first drove the journey in 2004, we had an old Dodge Caravan with a cassette tape deck. We purchased the complete Star Wars radio series on cassettes to keep our kids’ attention throughout the two-day trip. Our kids were 7 and 11 years old, and we all loved hearing 14 hours of Star Wars together. We needed imagination.

We had paper maps then. Our cell phones had little coverage outside major metropolitan areas. Our country was at war in the Middle East.

The Caravan’s air conditioning went out in Kentucky. That was fun. The old van made the 20 hour trip to our friends’ driveway in Virginia, where the serpentine belt promptly broke apart upon arrival. We were so fortunate not to be stranded for days somewhere in Kentucky. The guy who towed our van to Staunton and fixed it over the next few days was amazing in showing kindness to a random traveler.

It reminded me there are good people everywhere who try to help make our world a little better.

Since then, it seems like the world we had expected for our kids has fallen apart. We were not expecting to be fighting fascism and extreme oligarchy when our kids reached adulthood. We did not anticipate such a violent backlash to civil rights and voting rights, as well as to women’s health and LGBTQ openness.

In 2004, we did not know our country would get the wrong lesson from Star Wars. In 2004, we did not foresee concentration camps for immigrants, nor armed squads on our streets. We need imagination now.

A lot has changed, but we took the trip again this year — with our dogs, not our grown children this time. This time we used online map apps for most of the trip, which provided one humorous bit. Every time we would get to our interim destination (motel, rest stop, etc.), the app would cheerfully announce “You have arrived.”

I loved that! Nobody has ever told me, “Hans, you have arrived!” It certainly did not seem apparent otherwise. World events certainly seemed the complete opposite to that message. It made me smile to imagine “what if” it were real - You have arrived.

We noticed plenty of signs along the 1200 mile trek. There were fewer Trump signs than a few years ago, which was a relief to us. For some reason, southern Indiana features a steady stream of signs asking, “Injured in an accident?” accompanied by a cheesy image of a personal injury lawyer. So we laughed along I-74 when a random sign interrupted the personal injury ones with an image of chicken wings and the words “Pan Fried in Hog Fat - Wagners.” I am sure that would appeal to certain people, but it just showed me we were in a different part of the country.

After we arrived in Virginia, I went to Kroger’s to pick up a few items - blueberries, tortillas, cheese, black beans, and a big bottle of Gingerade on sale. As usual, the map app cheerfully announced, “You have arrived!”

The cashier rang up the items (totaling $20.57) and asked if I had a Kroger’s card. I said I was just visiting from Minnesota and did not have one. The cashier said, “It’s free, and it would save you money.” I said no thanks. The elderly woman behind me said, “Here, hon. You can use mine.” She took out her key chain, which had 7 keys and about 5 different cards on it. None were a Kroger’s card, however, but she looked three times and asked the cashier to look while I stood by.

Meanwhile her husband reached into his wallet and took out his Kroger’s card. Smiling, he handed it over the counter and the cashier scanned it. “See?” she said, “You saved nearly two dollars.” I thanked them all for their kindness. They were showing kindness to a random traveler.

It reminded me there are good people everywhere who try to help make our world a little better.

As I went back to the car, I remembered what the map app had said when we got to Kroger’s. “You have arrived.” Maybe it was right. I spend so much time worrying about the state of the world, and trying to find ways to act with principle. But sometimes I look past the people right before me, and miss the goodness at hand. Maybe the app was just trying to get my attention, to get me to be present where I was, to notice what is possible here. Now.

Maybe the sign I needed was that simple. “You have arrived.” So this moment is a chance to live again with imagination.

There are so many reasons why you shouldn’t pray. If you pray for someone, you might feel like you should also reach out to her with a card. And she may be so moved by the card that she might call you to say “thanks,” which could lead to a conversation about how she is really doing. She might tell you about the book she is reading by Nadia Bolz-Weber that is keeping her going, and you might decide to go to an independent bookstore to pick up your own copy. While there, you might start talking with the owner who tells you about a book by a Black author that she enjoys so you buy two books instead of one. It’s the second book, the one by Ross Gay about a Book of Delights that sparks your imagination to start making space each day to notice the delights in your world, like the oriole calling in a poplar tree on your morning walk.

If you pray for peace, you might feel like you should act somehow to put your body where your prayer is, and you might call a friend that you haven’t talked to for ages because of the insensitive things he said to you even though you have had a long friendship. And as you get a coffee with him, he might tell you about his daughter who is going through a rough patch and he doesn’t know what to say to her because she gets defensive. And you don’t need to have an answer; he just needs someone to share that with. And you leave the coffee shop with a hug and a little peace has happened.

So you pray for more peace, this time in the Middle East, and you begin to feel like you really do not understand Israel and Palestine so you listen to a podcast by a Palestinian American who tells stories you have never heard before. You end up learning more about the plight of the Palestinians so you call your legislator to tell them you want the country to send fewer weapons, and then you find out about a local group that is committed to bringing together Jews, Christians and Muslims in dialogue for peace. So you go, and meet people you had never before gotten to know and it expands your understanding of the world. It makes you wonder about different foods, too, so you stop into a Lebanese deli that you have passed dozens of times, and at Zakia’s Deli you get the most delicious gyro you have ever tasted, and you are grateful.

If you pray with gratitude, you might start to see more signs of grace all around you. Your kids who sometimes do not make fun of you, your parents who tell stories that you amazingly do not remember ever hearing, your neighbor who shoveled your driveway when you were sick, the kind person at the checkout at Trader Joe’s, an oak tree to sit under in the shade. It’s the oak tree that really makes you pause. You might wonder how that tree got there. You might notice squirrels and woodpeckers. You might decide you want to do something so that your friends’ grandchildren have oak trees to enjoy so you get involved in Third Act (for people 60 and over) or Climate Action or a local birding group and suddenly you are connected to people who show care for the environment and you are even more grateful.

If you pray, you might sense a depth of quiet in your own soul that surprises you. You might spend more time just listening to that quiet. It might bring you calm despite all that concerns you. It might help you process memories you had forgotten were rumbling around in some random corner of your soul. It might help you hear faint notes of grace in a music that seems like God’s presence. Your eyes may moisten and you don’t even know exactly why. But if you pray you might never again be able to say “World here — God there” because in the quiet you sense that God is with you all the time. Taking out trash. Cutting garlic. Turning off the lights. Bending down to that dandelion that caught your attention.

There are so many reasons not to pray, because prayer may connect you to every atom and molecule of your daily life and the world around you and your soul may expand to notice God in it all.

But then again, maybe praying is precisely what you long for today because it opens up your very being to living now. Who knows?