Author: krinvan

Too many of us traffic in half-truths to our own detriment. We find a sensationalized headline or social media misquote, then use it to wield our worldview. We cling to worn out creeds without challenging their relevance on a regular basis.

Half-truths stymie our maturation. Kudos to those who are willing to dig deeper and find the truest version of the truth?”

Consider this motto that is central to the recovery movement: Let go of expectations, because today’s expectations are tomorrow’s resentments.

In many ways, this is only half true. We all have legitimate expectations. In my life:

• I expect justice, and when I see racist brutality in our country, I will vehemently protest and work for change. The death of my expectation for justice would equal the death of hope.
• I expect my wife to meet me halfway in the partnership of managing our home and raising our specials needs son. This is our contract of love.
• I expect my closest friends to be interested in my life, just as I am in theirs. If they remain self-centered, I will choose to spend less time with them.
• I expect performance from collaborators on a project. If they slack off, I will likely not work with them again.

Having said all this, I know that expectations can also become attachments leading to grief, anger, and resentment. It happens in my life when:

• I expect certain behaviors from others even though history teaches me otherwise. This is especially hard when I long for understanding or acceptance from certain members of my extended family.
• I expect an external factor—some accomplishment or acquisition—to give me lasting happiness, leaving me ripe for disappointment.
• I expect a response from my Higher Power (God, Spirit, Tao) on my timetable, ignoring that waiting is a potent part of spiritual growth.

Ultimately, learning what to expect and what to relinquish is an art, summed up perfectly in the Serenity Prayer. God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Letting go; this is key! In my collaboration with Heiwa no Bushi called The Six Medicines of BodhiChristo (downloadable here) I share the following.

Siddhartha (the first Buddha) didn’t believe in a personal soul or deity. He held to a pattern of thinking and behavior now called The Middle Way. It strikes a balance in eight different areas: our viewpoints, intentions, speech, action, livelihood, effort, mindfulness, and concentration. The Buddha offered these teachings and disciplines to help others avoid the extremes of thought or behavior that cause us to suffer. This path helped his followers let go of habits that kept them shrouded in darkness.

Here is a description of The Middle Way from Ajahn Chah, a revered Thai Buddhist who died in 1992. It may seem odd to Western minds, but let the analogy unfold.

If we cut a log of wood, throw it into the river, and it doesn’t sink, rot, or run aground on either bank, it will definitely reach the sea. (The Middle Way) is comparable to this. If you practice according to the path laid down by the Buddha, following it straightly, you will transcend two things. What two things? Indulgence in pleasure and indulgence in pain. These are the two banks of the river. One of the banks of that river is hate, the other is love. Or you can say that one bank is happiness, the other unhappiness. The log is our mind. As it flows down the river it will experience both happiness and unhappiness. If the mind doesn’t cling to either, it will reach the ocean. You should see that all emotions and thoughts arise then disappear. If you don’t run aground on these things, then you are on the path.

Because we have not learned to let go of extreme thinking and behavior, our minds are often unsteady. We carom from one fear or preoccupation to another, crashing into the banks of our old, seemingly deterministic modes of living. Every collision is detrimental to our well-being.

Letting go starts as a simple process in our daily lives, but it progresses to ever-deepening levels. Eventually, we encounter deeply rooted resistance that, nonetheless, still invites us to let go. Here are a few examples.

• Fear: For some of us, the “devil we know is better than the devil we don’t know.” Even if we see the allure of a new life—an azure lake on the horizon of our desert—we have become accustomed to our unhealthy habits. In a sick way, they provide a level of comfort, even if this comfort means sacrificing our freedom.
• Trust: If we have been hurt in life, or raised in families that were chaotic or dysfunctional, truly trusting anyone or anything is hard. If we let go into a new lifestyle, will the arms of safety be there to catch us? Is our chosen pathway trustworthy? One woman remarked that in her estimate, “God” had never been there for her during difficult times in her life. Why would “God” suddenly show up now?
• Laziness: Yes, laziness. We realize that applying this medicine will take effort and vigilance. Though others have told us it will get easier over time, we wonder how long it will take. If we submit, what are we getting ourselves into? It takes less energy (lie!) to remain stuck.
• Deep woundedness: Some of us have experienced trauma that is hard to overcome. We need more thorough counseling from an expert to help us extricate ourselves. This can be especially true for those of us who grew up in families that shamed us. Shame is a deep and toxic response. Like any other conditioning, it can be released, but it helps to seek the guidance of a counselor, mentor, or spiritual guide. Learning the origin of our shame helps us transition to a life of trust and affirmation.

As we release our worries on a daily basis, consider this quote by Richard Rohr from his book The Art of Letting Go: Living the Wisdom of Saint Francis.

Authentic spirituality is always on some level or in some way about letting go…letting go of our false self, letting go of our cultural biases, and letting go of our fear of loss and death. Freedom is letting go of wanting more and better things, and it is letting go of our need to control and manipulate God and others. It is even letting go of our need to know and our need to be right–which we only discover with maturity. We become free as we let go of our three primary energy centers: our need for power and control, our need for safety and security, and our need for affection and esteem.

How about you? What are your expectations? Are they legitimate expressions of your hopes, dreams, and personal dignity? Or, are they attachments causing you to suffer?

Namaste!

It happened on a trail at Big Bend National Park.

I sat down to drink some water and soak in the panoramic view of rock spires reaching to the clouds. As my breathing slowed and my heart settled in my chest, a great stillness and serenity descended over me. Just a whisper of wind in the junipers punctuated by the distant shriek of a hawk.

There are those moments, far too infrequent, when we pass fully through the veil of the present and let it teach us its mysteries. As I sat there absorbing a landscape carved over billions of years, the mental and spiritual pollution of human society began to fade away.

Slowly dissolving…

The trappings of modernity. Plastic bags, plastic smiles, laugh tracks on sitcoms, tickers of every world stock exchange. Social and unsocial media. TV ads, phone apps, Wi-Fi signals. Parasitic technology that consumes our time and spirit.

Slowly dissolving…

Our human divisions of race, religion, class and gender. Creeds and doctrine that separate us. Crosses, grenades, and crusades. Barbed wire, border walls, and the barriers within our hearts. The dueling dualities of partisan politics and their currencies of greed and corruption.

Slowly dissolving…

The most stubborn vestige, my emphasis on Self, the definitions and attachments of identity. Hamster wheel worries and obsessions. My trafficking in words. The Ego gasping for air as it sank away.

Slowly dissolving…

An even deeper stillness enveloped me, a primordial wellspring of time and place, until I felt merged in kinship to our ancient ancestors. Those who raised their faces to the heavens from Olduvai Gorge, or the original people of Big Bend, hunter-gatherers of the Folsom culture.

For a few moments they were gazing with me into the mysteries of eons.

Silence…

Stillness…

Wonder…

A form of communion so rare in daily life…

Sharp peals of laughter from the trail below snapped me from my reverie.

A Buddhist gardener risks his life to remove creeping foliage from the pinnacles of Angkor Wat. He believes he is protecting spirits that live within the temple.

A Catholic man, one of 242, lifts the 11,000-pound throne of Virgen de la Esperanza, parading it through the streets of Malaga, Spain on Holy Thursday. He endures the pain because, “Life has no meaning without going out under the Virgen.”

An initiate at China’s Shaolin Temple practices Monkey Stick routines and memorizes scripture, hoping to be ordained as a Kung Fu warrior monk. His goal is to reach enlightenment.

A young Palestinian man volunteers as a paramedic at Al-Aqsa—the Dome of the Rock—during The Night of Power, Ramadan’s crescendo. By caring for those who have collapsed in the crushing crowds, he seeks to prove himself to Allah.

These religious practices come alive in the PBS documentary series, Earth’s Sacred Wonders: Closer to the Divine. As my wife and I watched the episodes, we marveled at the color and passion of our human family. We have so many rituals, prayers, and disciplines born of our desire to understand the mystery surrounding us. The forms are as diverse as the plumage on our planet’s species of birds!

I try to respect faith expressions no matter how foreign they seem to me. This has become increasingly difficult in America, where a brand of Evangelical Christianity undermines women’s reproductive rights, contributes to prejudice against the LGBTQ+ community, clings tenaciously to the National Rifle Association, and promotes a dangerous brand of nationalism. All in the supposed name of Jesus, the Prince of Peace. Que lastima!

All that aside, there are still many beautiful expressions of what we call spirituality in our world. I continue to try and cultivate my own awareness. And in this journey, I often think of these words by T.S. Eliot from Little Gidding, the final of his Four Quartets.

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

For me, this knowing, this waking up, is more than just living in the moment. It is an awareness that Presence, Tao, Spirit, God—whatever term you use—surrounds us with love, encouragement, and serenity. It is like inhaling sustenance and light, letting our Source heal us in the deepest recesses of our spirit.

As soon as we start dissecting this experience, giving it names and developing disciplines to grasp it more fully, it can easily slip away. Seeking the “spiritual” often buffers us from Spirit. In the Tao Te Ching, we find these words:

The Tao that can be told is not the eternal Tao;
The name that can be named is not the eternal name.
The nameless is the beginning of heaven and earth.
Ever desireless, one can see the mystery.

How hard this is for human brains that want to categorize and control!

Could the end of our explorations really be here, right now? Is it ultimately so simple, so obvious? I believe it is. And this awareness can infuse every task with new meaning. The late Thich Nhat Hanh said this about his fellow community members at Plum Village, the monastic community he founded in southwest France.

“When we wash dishes…it is to live every minute of the washing. Wash each bowl…in such a way that joy, peace, and happiness are possible. Imagine you are giving a bath to the baby Buddha. It is a sacred act. I have arrived. I am home. Through these two phrases, you can experience a lot of joy and happiness.”

Eliot’s words are probably true. We will not cease from exploration. We will continue to invent elaborate rituals designed to find the One. We will grind out volumes of theology, debating the nuances of our beliefs, while the present moment slips past us.

But what if, sooner than later, we discovered we are already home?

Studies show that our favorite music—the tunes that stir us the most—come from the soundtracks of our younger years. Musicologist Nolan Gasser, architect of The Music Genome Project, says that even though our tastes evolve, “The music people listened to at an early age becomes their native home comfort music. It will always be a part of who they are, tied in with deeper memories. It becomes a stake in the ground that says ‘this is who I am.’”

This rings true for me. My playlists are eclectic—new age, ambient, 70s/80/90s, jazz, metal, reggae, flamenco, bluegrass, folk—but there are certain classic rock tunes that transport me to another time and place. As Boston said, “It’s more than feeling.” I see this in my parents. On a recent visit, they asked me to sit with them and watch a rerun of an old Lawrence Welk episode. I squirmed in my chair, but they were enraptured.

This kind of organic resonance also applies to our favorite places. In a book I recently co-authored, one of the chapters begins like this:

“Think of a place that has a powerful hold on you. It may be a family homestead, a setting in nature, or a venue in your city where you spend quality time. These locations evoke more than memories; they stir our spirits and connect us with memories of times past.”

Where is this habitat of your heart, past or present? Specifically, where is that place in the woods, the fields, the mountains, or along the seashore that stakes your heart powerfully in time? Tell me its sights, smells, sounds and textures.

For me, the chaparral hills of Southern California, mingled with orange and avocado orchards, will always lay claim to my spirit. This was the playground of my childhood. It’s Mediterranean climate, Santa Ana winds, sage, manzanita, scrub oak, and “warm smell of colitas rising up through air.” Its kingsnakes, alligator lizards, roadrunners. The intoxicating aroma of orange blossoms on a summer evening.

As a geographical transplant, I now have a new heart habitat. 15 years in Texas has led me to a lasting kinship with its Hill Country, especially its cypress-lined rivers. When I feel restless, experiencing what Richard Louv calls “nature deficit,” I drive a half hour north to Bandera. I park at a secluded place on the northern edge of town, then walk to the banks of the Medina River and wander slowly along its course. I am learning the names of trees, shrubs, flowers and grasses in this biome. Its birds, butterflies, reptiles and mammals are becoming family members.

I have taken this walk countless times, savoring every season, but it is always fresh. Here is an image from a recent trips.

I ask again: where is the habitat of your heart? If it’s a childhood place and you still live there, immerse yourself! If you live in a new locale but have not discovered a habitat to cherish, get out there!

As Stephen Stills sang, “If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with.”

Early morning, a colonia on the outskirts of Reynosa, Mexico. Chilly winter air tinged with smoke from trash fires. The neighborhood is mostly shacks cobbled from old wood, tin, and cardboard. There is no running water; the city has promised electricity, but so far those pledges are hollow.

Most of the residents are migrants from Chiapas, lured to jobs in maquiladoras along la frontera. These are not squatters. They have purchased their tiny lots with a mortgage through Habitat para la Humanidad, and now they hope to build their dream homes: 500 square foot, cement block structures with 2 bedrooms, a living space, a kitchen, often housing large families. Latrines remain outside.

Our crew of volunteers is inspecting construction sites. We will work alongside members of the community, a day of labor and fellowship, but first I have other tasks. Word has rippled through the dirt streets that a pastor is present, and I have received invitations to bless homes recently completed. One family asks me to pray for their newborn child.

I am glad to oblige, even though my bendiciones are clumsy mixtures of English and broken Spanish. It doesn’t matter. I have friends who translate, and my smile and eyes communicate more love than my words could ever convey.

One house after another, joining hands, lifting our hearts to God with petitions for abundance and safety. I receive many more blessings than I give, especially when I arrive to pray for the infant. Her home is a one-room shack where she lives with her parents and two siblings, walls of scrap plywood, a roof of rusted tin. Outside is a cooking fire, and they share a pit latrine with an adjacent family.

An old bench seat from a bus is near the front door, listing slightly, its surface torn to reveal the springs beneath. The parents ask me to sit as they bring their tiny daughter to me, only two weeks old.

“Que preciosa,” I say. “Come se llama ella?”

“Perla,” is the answer.

I cradle the girl in my arms, bundled in blankets. She is quiet, her dark eyes staring up at me, and though she will never remember this moment, it is sacramental for me.

I make the sign of the cross on her forehead. I pray for God’s guiding hand to be upon her and her family all their days, giving them strength, safety, and abundance for this new life they seek to establish.

Then I hold her against my chest for a moment, encircled by her family and smiling neighbors.

Our work that week was a triumph for all of us. Yes, we helped two structures rise from that neighborhood, but more importantly we joined our hearts across cultures, time, and space.

Months later, through my Habitat connections, I received a photograph and a brief note. Perla’s family was standing proudly in front of their new home, and the words said: “To Perla’s padrino. Muchas bendiciones.” To Perla’s godfather. Many blessings!

In over three decades of ministry, I have occasionally been asked what drives my passionate efforts for justice and peace. I could give answers complicated by theological jargon, socio-economic statistics, or political convictions, but my reasons are far simpler.

I act in defense of Perla and countless others I have met. I stand in unity with those struggling on the edge, joining hands in our one human family.

You see, Perla is also my daughter. She is your daughter as well.

 Selah!

There are people with stellar IQs who are short on common sense. People who exhibit genius within the narrow bandwidth of their expertise but lack any breadth of cultural literacy.

Conversely, there are human beings who will never be labeled brilliant by societal standards but who startle us with insights about life. I know this firsthand as father to a special-needs son. Kristoffer often voices simple nuggets of wisdom that awaken me to what is truly important.

I believe there is one definition of intelligence that is sorely needed in all of us. It is the ability to get outside ourselves and our given culture. The ability to see our reality in time and place, then respond (not react) to it with a fresh, objective perspective.

Sociologists say that when it comes to our cultures, we are like fish in water. We swim in the conditioning of our upbringing, our genetic makeup, our juncture in history. Often, we never rise above these determining factors. We never decide what to claim and what to reject, what to shed and what to make part of our flesh. Examples are rife in our world.

• People who adopt the spoon-fed religion of their tribe or nation, then wield it as an exclusive truth that trumps the faith and beliefs of others. James Fowler, in his Stages of Faith, called this Stage Three—Synthetic-Conventional Faith—a closed mindset that prevents us from celebrating the mystery of spirituality in all its diversity.
• People reared with a righteous sense of patriotism, an idolatry of their country’s identity and flag. American Exceptionalism is a tragic example, but history is replete with similar examples of dangerous nationalism.
• People indoctrinated with racism, sexism, or homophobia who never rise about the fear that promotes their exclusion and hatred.
• People whose skin color or class has afforded them a privilege that traffics, consciously or not, in systemic injustice.
• People raised to put their trust and security in material things.
• People trained to gauge their worth by the hollow standards of power and prestige.

In the Christian Gospel of John, Jesus has a clandestine meeting with the Jewish leader Nicodemus. He says to him, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.” (John 3:7) It’s a pity that these words have been coopted by Christian fundamentalists as being “born again,” a pat phrase that means conversion to their brand of Stage Three Christianity.

I see them as a deeper call to wake up, to be born outside the determinates of our lives, to recognize the timeless existence of Source’s liberating presence that permeates everything around us.

When this happens, the scales fall off our eyes in a kind of conversion experience. I believe we ALL need this transformation. It helps us evolve into citizens of the world, not just the territories of our genetic and cultural conditioning.

This is hard work. It begins with a sobering analysis of our own habitual thinking, our prejudices and privilege. It often requires repentance, amends, even restitution. But the resulting freedom is well worth the effort!

How did Jesus describe this freedom in that conversation with Nicodemus? “The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.” In a mysterious and beautiful way, this is a powerful image of liberation.

Kristoffer recently said, “Dad, there will never be peace unless people change.”

Amen! I could phrase it another way. There will never be peace until more people are born again into the ENTIRE human family, not just their tribe or nation.

Are you next?

Here is a link to download a free copy of this resource for your mission trip. A hard copy can also be obtained by emailing Kay McCloskey at kathleen.mccloskey@gmail.com

May God bless you on your mission sojourn!

From the introduction to Box of Darkness. Here is a link to the entire book.

The title of this book comes from The Uses of Sorrow by Mary Oliver, beloved American poet who died on January 17, 2019. She wrote it following the death of Molly Malone Cook, her partner for 40 years. With her usual straightforward imagery, Oliver reminds us that the darker aspects of life can offer surprising inspiration.

We invited the following artists to share some of their work, prompted by simple questions: ‘How do you receive inspiration from the darker fringes? How are you drawn artistically to the shadows?’

The result? A box of darkness, presented through paintings. photographs, collages, and poems. Our images and words are eclectic—a multiplicity of perspectives—but together we invite you to become more familiar with your shadow side, finetuning your eyes to its presence.

Krin Van Tatenhove and Angelica Gudino, Editors/Curators

The longer I live, the more I believe that faith is a miracle. Faith that unflinchingly views our world in all its warring madness, yet still trusts in love. Faith that weathers those nights of existential angst, the abyss yawning, and somehow reorients to hope.

I also believe that each person’s faith journey is unique. Religions proselytize, sharing their versions of absolute truth, but every signpost pointing to Mystery should include a disclaimer: “This is the best approximation we are living with now. We invite you to join the dialogue!”

As a recovering alcoholic, I treasure a cornerstone of Twelve Step fellowships. We share the wisdom that a “power greater than ourselves can restore us,” but we never proselytize. One’s higher power must arise from personal understanding. Otherwise, the relationship lacks authenticity and strength. Spirituality, not religion, is the wellspring of recovery.

Over the years, I have heard some stirring accounts of people’s searches for truth. Here is one of many from my book, The Pattern (freely downloadable here). I hope it increases our sensitivity to the sacred journeys of those around us.

One woman, raised in oppressive church environments, rejected all notions of God or religion. She believed that ever since we crawled out of caves, we have grappled with the question of being born to die, the issues of ultimate meaning, the enormity of mystery surrounding us. She saw the beauty in certain faith systems and philosophies, but if those who practiced them became even slightly insistent that their truth trumped others, she quickly exited the scene. She had forever had her fill of judgment, misguided zeal, and the pressure to conform.

In early recovery, she was forced to confront the truth that her life had led her to anger, cynicism, isolation from others—a state of mind she medicated with prescription drugs.

One morning she was seated on her porch, meditating on a passage of daily reading. The air was cool, the early light soft upon her face, a chorus of birds lilting from the trees. A sense of peace settled over her. It was deeper and more profound than anything she had ever experienced, calming her body, mind, and soul. Though she had always balked at prayer, familiar words echoed in her mind: “Grant me the serenity…”

She says she will never personify this experience, attributing it to a deity, but its power is undeniable, and she believes it is not an outcome of her own thinking. It is something greater than herself. Her Higher Power is this peace, this serenity, and learning to live in the middle of it one day at a time is her program.  

I am eternally grateful to my faith community known as the Presbyterian Church (USA). Raised in a Christian household, I became a wandering soul, searching through many philosophies and faith systems until my friend, Rev. Rex Stewart, invited me to visit his home church, St. Andrew Presbyterian, Albuquerque. I describe what followed in my book Invitation to the Overview (freely downloadable here).

From the moment I entered that church, I experienced a homecoming. This was a community of faith that embraced searchers and encouraged free thinking. They respected the sanctity of individual conscience. My personal beliefs were my territory, not theirs; they simply celebrated the chance to commune with me. Giving people the space to connect to Spirit without the pressure of conformity is a priceless gift. This is one of the meanings of sanctuary.

I feel privileged to be on this journey with all of you!

I chuckled at the media furor over Donald Trump’s choice not to recite the Apostle’s Creed during the funeral of George H. W. Bush in 2018. I laughed for two reasons. First, Americans politicize every action; it’s the bait and fodder of the endless news barrages that polarize us. Second, I laughed because I, too, might have remained silent beside the Donald.

The difference is that unlike Trump, I know every syllable of this ancient Christian creed. It was branded – even seared! – into my memory during two years of Lutheran confirmation classes. In retrospect, that process maddens me. Take a young mind just beginning to think for itself, then tell it to confirm a list of absolute truths passed on from institutional powers. No encouragement to explore other faiths or philosophies. No freedom to broaden one’s search. Just force feed and regurgitate the age-old tropes.

Yes, I know the Apostle’s Creed as readily as I know the American pledge of allegiance. It’s just that I (like many I know and love) no longer resonate with its doctrines: a patriarchal blueprint for god (almighty father, only son), a virgin birth, the descent into hell, a literal resurrection.

I simply don’t believe these things. What I do believe is that we should carefully scrutinize any formulas presented to us. We should ask ourselves if these truths make sense in the laboratories of our own daily lives.

In the introduction to my 2019 book, Neighborhood Church: Transforming Your Congregation into a Powerhouse for Mission (co-authored with Rob Mueller), I quoted my oldest son, Pieter. He speaks here of the spiritual values he shares with his circle of millennial friends.

“We are seekers first, Christians second (if at all). We are reluctant to make statements of faith because they calcify that part of our brain that seeks new understanding.”

For 32 years, I was affiliated with the Presbyterian Church (USA), a branch of Christianity that claims a “confessional heritage.” It’s Book of Confessions – faith pronouncements from key, often turbulent eras of history – provide clinical insights into Western colonial thinking. However, on the level of doctrine, I cannot accept or affirm any of them in totality.

It’s not that I don’t have faith. You could even say I have my own creed, but it’s always evolving. Further, I don’t expect others to describe their journeys in any way that doesn’t make sense to them. Here’s a taste of where I’m at. I would love to hear your own thoughts in response to this post.

I believe in a Presence that humans have variously called God, Spirit, Tao, Higher Self – a mystery at the heart of all spiritual awareness, yet personal in a way that guides my life. I believe in the power of love and how it spurs me to work for justice in nonviolent ways. I believe that the teachings of many spiritual leaders – among them Jesus and the Buddha – call us to counter the cold love, materialism and self-centeredness that plague us as a species. I believe that forgiveness, even of enemies, is a triumph of human evolution. I recorded something similar in my book, Invitation to The Overview.

In my final years as an ordained worship leader, I struggled mightily with that part of the liturgy traditionally called the Affirmation of Faith. How can we affirm the miracle of belief without anthropomorphic boundaries? How can we seek Truth without stumbling over truths as articles of faith?

There is one creed that I do like, almost in its entirety. It hails from the Iona community of Scotland.

“We believe that God is present in the darkness before dawn; in the waiting and uncertainty where fear and courage join hands, conflict and caring link arms, and the sun rises over barbed wire. We believe in a with-us God who sits down in our midst to share our humanity. We affirm a faith that takes us beyond a safe place: into action, into vulnerability and onto the streets. We commit ourselves to work for change and put ourselves on the line; to bear responsibility, take risks, live powerfully and face humiliation; to stand with those on the edge; to choose life and be used by the Spirit for God’s new community of hope. Amen.”

Words like these allow me, in good conscience, to raise my voice with others in corporate worship. They don’t calcify the search but spur me onwards.

Many may call me confession-less; I believe I am confession-free. And for all those classic-rock buffs reading this: freedom tastes of reality.