Clean

The rag
dabbed in
solution wiped
cleanly away
the crusted oil
and cast iron's rust.

I thought about
being clean:
the ragged state of 
my heart's cupboard,
the grime that's
clung for far too long.

Could I be clean?
"Yes," the Word said.
"I will wipe you
clean."

Journal with me.

In what ways do you feel dirty, cluttered, or worn? Physically? Mentally? Emotionally? Spiritually? What have you done in the past to feel clean again? How has that experience connected you with God’s cleansing love?

I spent a chunk of yesterday deep cleaning the kitchen.

I had to face the areas I had been ignoring.

I suppose there are some areas I thought I'd get to eventually.

It was a daunting task. In fact, I thought most of it was impossible: “What good is this effort when I know those marks aren’t truly cleanable?”

Well, to my surprise, they were—when I applied some good old-fashioned elbow grease.

I’ve let this fester for too long—why have I let this go so long?

I don’t know about you, but the sense of having a flourishing life can feel intimidating. It’s daunting because we see the work it will take to get to the other side: exercising, eating healthier, praying more, waking earlier.

What I’ve learned over the years—though I don’t want you, dear journaler, to get the idea that I am anywhere near disciplined—is that sometimes it’s easier and more joy-filled than I first assumed.

God, what I assumed would be a chore (asking for your help, admitting my weakness, doing the hard work) has tasted like sweet wine. Help me remember. Help me remember.

There are many ways you might feel less than optimal today, and that can feel even worse in a culture where everyone seems to have the right way to become more optimized.

There is no silver bullet. There is no hack to a life well lived. It just has to be lived.

The truth is, most of us are closer to a sense of abundant life than we’d like to think. What are you putting off? What are you avoiding? What needs your attention that you’ve been ignoring?

Paul reminds us of a time when the Word told him, “My grace is sufficient for you, my power is made perfect in your weakness.” What did Paul learn? That when he is weak and faces it, he is strong.

I hope you are having a great season of life—I hope the sun is shining and all is well. But if it’s not, sometimes admitting it before God and before others is how we discover that, by some mystery, Jesus holds us, mends us, cleans us, and offers us joy for the way. The more we allow God to make a home in us, the more the light casts out the dark, and the more radiant our lives become.

God, shine in me. Live in me. Patch me up.

Get specific about what you could admit: What? When? Where? How?

A Swoop of Swifts by Brit McReynolds
After Philippians 2:1-13

The Spirit moves the way sound shivers
in the gyre of the swifts whose air
takes on a countercurrent light
against the dusk that draws them there.

It has been granted to you—
to suffer such—as on the unrelenting wing
the swoop both rises, and descends.
You see, all the light’s the thing

we’re trying to hold, and catch
a glimpse of Heaven’s latent flare—
a shining back as seen within the swifts 
all reeling in defiance of despair. 

—

The region of South Texas where I live is a birder’s paradise. People will travel from all over the country to get a glimpse of some of the rare bird populations we have in the area, and it isn’t uncommon to run into groups of birders with their telescopic lenses in the city parks or wandering the local University campus. While I don’t count myself among them, I have grown a like appreciation for our avian friends. Being on the border of Mexico, we live along prominent migration routes for many species. Fall, in particular, means the arrival of such passing neighbors, one in particular being the chimney swifts.

If you have never had the good fortune of watching them funnel themselves into a tree or chimney against the backlight of the evening, you’re missing out. They are loud, but in a way that makes the space reverberate with a particular lightness. There is a harmonizing fellowship, similar to the murmurations of starlings, in the way they move that I couldn’t shake from my mind when reading through Philippians 2.

“So if there is any encouragement in Christ, any comfort from love, any participation in the Spirit, any affection and sympathy, complete my joy by being of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind.” (vs. 1-2)

What is it Paul is getting at? In order to understand what he is saying we must go back.

Philippians 1:29-30 says, “For it has been granted to you that for the sake of Christ you should not only believe in him but also suffer for his sake, engaged in the same conflict that you saw I had and now hear that I still have.”

Paul is speaking of the fellowship of suffering within the body of Christ for the sake of Christ. As for my own life, it is in my suffering that I have felt nearest Him, and this ought to be a hope to all those upon the ash heap. That the God of the universe draws near to the brokenhearted is the greatest comfort in all the world.

For the Christian, this means an active rebellion against despair in a world that often indulges in it. Grief without hope lapses into despair. Despair is a fatalistic mindset that brings about the ruin of the soul. But we hope, not in our ability to lift ourselves by our bootstraps out of the mire, but that Christ has done for us what we cannot do for ourselves. To suffer for his sake then is a privilege. “It has been granted to you,” he says, and I cannot shake the words. They haunt my steps with a holy life making everything dead and dying green again.

I think of the swifts, and how to watch them is to catch a glimpse of the glory of God. Those soot covered birds flinging up from the coal-black flue make light and beauty out of their return to the dark hollow where they roost. How much we might learn of God by being attentive to creation.

In his book, The Great Divorce, C.S. Lewis writes,

“Don’t you understand? The Glory flows into everyone, and back from everyone: like light and mirrors. But the light’s the thing.”

This participation in the Spirit is a shining back of the light of God for others to see—to move in one accord with the person of the Spirit and with one another and rally against despair. The world already knows it, though seldom knows where to find it—“all the light’s the thing we’re trying to hold.” In everything there is a trace of the divine. If only the church at large might remember there is only one story we’re trying to tell, we might offer something of that “countercurrent light” to an aching world.

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The Mist

The mist misted
inches above
the spring-fed stream.

It could be
103° but that spot
beneath the tall pines
and the wild kudzu 
possesses a constant cool.

I dip my hands.
I splash my face.

O to radiate goodness.
O to carry passion
in your eyes.

O to see your people
and know
that you open the door
to the significance
of right now.

Journal with me.

Who do you know who seems to carry a constant, uncanny aliveness? What do you think makes them this way? Could you permit yourself to have that level of vitality? What stands in your way?

It was Mort. I never quite understood what Mort talked to me about. He was always waxing eloquent and devotional. Things far out of reach for me at that time—and still, probably.

But I remember once standing with him after he wanted to pray with me. It was the kind of prayer that felt like being driven to the hospital after an injury; it wasn’t just words, it was action.

I remember nothing of what he prayed for specifically; it was honestly weird and uncomfortable. Then, after “Amen,” I looked at him, and he had this fire in his eyes.

I thought to myself: “Bartender, I’ll have what he’s having!”

Like the mist hovering above the stream I drive past every day, Mort had an unmistakable radiance. He wasn’t someone who talked about prayer; he was someone who prayed. He knew Jesus.

I knew in that moment how precious a gift it is to embody a deep alertness, and I’ve been on the hunt since.

People have said that Howard Thurman would give this advice to people who sought his counsel: “Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask, what makes you come alive. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.”

What makes me come alive? Why don’t I create more space for that in my days? Why does pursuing that seem so risky?

I think there is a true version of you and me that has this unmistakable aliveness—it’s just buried somewhere, waiting to be dug up again. Maybe it’s been hidden for a long, long time.

Would it be possible to resurface again?

I keep coming across stories of Jesus being close to, or followed by, people who, let’s say, weren’t anyone’s role models. But the example of “good” religion was undesirable, so they chose a different life entirely. But then, Jesus comes and sits at their tables, and there they encounter a rabbi who is life and goodness distilled. We can begin postulating why this is, or we could just follow the lead. Jesus is the encapsulation of the world’s deepest longings. Let’s get swept away by the contagiousness of Christ’s single-heartedness.

Perhaps the only way to become this is through osmosis. That person you are writing about—why not reach out? Now and then, what we need more than anything is to dip our hands in the coolness of pure water and splash our faces to remind ourselves that right now we are living. And whatever it is that might make you more alive today, go and pursue it on purpose because whether you like it or not, you change the world. You can either do it with gusto or add to the meh.

How might you come alive today? What would restore your sense of vibrancy?

Get specific. How? When? Where? With whom?

You See Me
After Matthew 20:1-16

You see me.

You dive deep within
and pull apart the metal
walls of my fabricated
being and say,

"Come out. Why are you
hiding?"

You see me as the unmasked
and unhurried
child who plays
in the safety of
your gaze and
keeps playing.

You see my need
my potential
my the pain
and my future
and you give

what I need

is to be seen.

I might be first. I might be last.
But best of all
I am seen.

The first will be last, and the last will be first.

That’s perplexing.

I’m beginning to think that Jesus is less concerned with what we deserve, or think we deserve, and instead focuses on what we need. Grace, like love, is not an abstract or general principle—they raise us to new life!

I’m becoming more convinced that Jesus, and so much of the ministry of Jesus, sees people. In the parable found in Matthew 20, the people who had worked the longest were frustrated that the ones who worked much less were paid the same. But it’s the landowner’s choice, and this is what is decided.

But it’s this need to compare ourselves and our merits and what is due to us and others that gets us into trouble. The ones who came later to work that day, sure, they didn’t do as much, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t just as important.

Our importance is based on the fact of our existence—not what we do or what we have accomplished. God sees us and works in our lives in the ways we most need. This isn’t always completely obvious to us, but the more I look back on my life, I notice a consistent pattern of God seeking to break me out of my too-serious religiosity and rigidity so that I can breathe and begin to see others in the way that I am seen. God has been restoring my sense of play—and that is not what everyone needs, but that’s one of mine.

There’s a modern parable that I first heard from Howard Thurman, that goes something like this:

A mom, her firstborn daughter, and her son go out to eat. The waitress comes to take their orders and asks each person what they would like to have. The mom says what she wants, the daughter puts in her order, but the son is shy. So, the mom speaks up, “He would like the kids’ burger with fries.” The waitress ignores the mom, looks at the boy, and asks, “What would you like to eat?” The boy doesn’t answer, and so his sister chimes in with an annoyed tone, “If my mother can’t order for him, then I will. He would like a kids’ burger with fries.” The waitress ignores the girl and looks again at the boy and asks, “What would you like to have for lunch?” The boy finally speaks up: “I’ll have the kids’ burger with fries.” “What would you like on your burger?” Asks the waitress, “Ketchup, mustard, pickles?” The boy repeats back, “Ketchup, mustard, and pickles.” The waitress, as if everything is completely normal, says, “Great—your food will be out momentarily.” By this point, the mom and daughter are already making mental notes about how they will never come back to this restaurant again when the boy says to his mom, “Mom, the waitress thinks I exist!”

God is like that waitress: sees our deepest needs—that need we have to feel like we exist, and the good news is, in God’s eyes, you do!

You are important. The people who are first are important, and the people who are last are important. The somewhat right people are important, and the ones who are somewhat wrong are important.

What lessons is God teaching you?

Travel Out Back

I know the reasons
why I love
to wander.

I remember traveling
out back
behind the house
for hours.

I climbed trees
infested by pine beetles.
I fed horses tall grass.

We so dream of distant
treks—to venture far.

But the most important trips
might be the ones
we most often take.

—

Journal with me.

What is immediately available to you that brings you joy, or even restores your soul, within reach?

Some thoughts.

A professor of mine used to talk about gold buried in the backyard—goodness in places we least expect, or overlook.

I remember driving through Namibia on sand roads all the way to the coastal town of Swakopmund. So breathtaking. So beautiful. I face a different beauty, but just as healing, walking the nature trail ten minutes from my house now.

The spiritual life is ultimately about this conundrum, or dilemma: we want heaven, and yet, in our search, we miss heaven coming to us; we strive to reach the stars, but God walks the very dusty roads of our lives. We seek escape; Jesus seeks encounter.

Journaling has been the constant reminder of this for me. There are many things I love—new gadgets, books, art—and I love the expectation of receiving a new item in the mail. There’s always that excitement of opening the box. Yet how quickly that experience falls away, and the thing purchased becomes a thing among others?

But then my journal. It’s always there. It’s always available. Ten minutes of writing out my defenseless and bare thoughts before God, and wow—I feel rich—like I might know the One who owns the cattle on a thousand hills.

I wrote this poem above a little over a year ago. It’s fact. When I was little, in the Rocky Mountains, I spent so much time just wandering around the woods. I can still smell the thin, crisp mountain air—even as I sit here in North Georgia. I took those walks often, and those walks changed me.

Do you want an adventure? Do you want to go somewhere with God? Go to the porch. Go to the library. Go to that coffee shop down the road. It might be a bit inconvenient—I know you have other plans for your day.

But there’s gold there.

Pico Iyer, in his book The Art of Stillness: Adventures in Going Nowhere, writes about a research experiment at the University of Wisconsin where scientists attached 256 electrodes to the skulls of volunteers for three and a half hours and compared the brain activity of a group of people who were quite similar, except some of them had regular practices of stillness: “The researchers . . . felt obligated to conclude that those who had sat still for years had achieved a level of happiness that was, quite literally, off the charts.”1

Wha…? They must have done something wrong—surely the people with the most miles, who were swept into the frenzy of going places, would be happier than those who regularly sat still…

I experience joy when I am least hurried—why do I hurry myself most often?

These thoughts aren’t to suggest that stillness is the only way to happiness. I’m suggesting that often the things that can actually give us a significant and healthy sense of aliveness are right there before us—we’ve just overlooked them.

Perhaps the most important trips are the ones we most often take. Perhaps the dailiness of my days is hiding treasures I have yet to uncover.

What is something you can do today, something very much in reach, that will expand and grow your heart in the direction of love and union with God, neighbor, and creation?

Get specific: What, when, where?

The Sledgehammer
After Matthew 18:21-35

Forgiveness is
the sledgehammer
on load-bearing walls
during renovation—
use it and duck!

See after, how the
lightness and openness
of a previously crowded
room exhales.

Forgiveness is
pouring out
the poison stored
in your pantry—
how'd it get
there in the
first place?

See now how much
more freely
you reach for
the spices?

O messy world,
O noisy mind,
O friend, spouse,
lover,
you are forgiven.
I am forgiven.

—

Writing this poem took longer than I expected—probably because forgiveness is one of those words we hear so much that we no longer hear it.

Just forgive and forget, they say.

That’s easy advice when a wrongdoing was relatively minor.

But what about those major betrayals? What about the anger and resentment we sometimes feel we need to keep us watchful and safe?

Forgiveness might be the most costly act of all—when offered from the fluid center of our consent.

Could you be like Christ, handed over, rejected, impaled, and say, “Forgive them, God; they are out of their minds?”

I couldn’t.

But we live in such an imperfect and lovely world, don’t we? We hurt each other, and we are often hurt. The longer you keep your feet on this earth, the more you become part of its landscape, and that landscape can be quite vicious. Ever notice people screaming at each other in traffic?

Peter asks Jesus, “How much should I forgive? Seven times, perhaps?” That was a generous amount—the same amount God forgave Israel in Amos 2. Surely there must be quantifiable limits?

Jesus responds, “Seventy-seven” or “seventy times seven.”

Which I think means, “Stop keeping score.”

I’ve heard it said that God understands all the sciences but refuses to do math.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized forgiveness isn’t truly a gentle work. It is merciful, but it is by no means gentle. To forgive is an act of reordering your life. It is like giving up the junk food so that your heart can actually consume what it needs.

So, I thought a sledgehammer might be a more appropriate metaphor.

I’d like to give inspiration credit to Annie Dillard. In The Writing Life, Dillard talks about how a line of words is like a hammer you use to tap to discover what walls are load-bearing in a story or essay. She writes, “Unfortunately, it is often a bearing wall that has to go. It cannot be helped. There is only one solution, which appalls you, but there it is. Knock it out. Duck.” You can see a similar idea and language in the last sentence in the first stanza. Thank you to and for pointing me Dillard’s writing.

Also, the “fluid center of consent” in the reflection is a nod to Howard Thurman, who said in his third lecture on The Dilemma of the Religious Professional, “Let me call your attention now particularly to the ministry of silence and of quiet. There is in every man an inward sea. And in that sea, there is an island. And on that island, there is an altar. And standing before that altar is the angel with the flaming sword. Nothing can get by that angel to be placed upon that altar unless it has the mark of inner authenticity and authority. Nothing passes the angel with the flaming sword to be placed upon your altar unless it be a part of the fluid area of your consent, the fluid, the dynamic, the pulsing area of your inner consent.”1 I am forever indebted to for introducing me to Thurman’s luminous spiritual mind.

Want to go deeper?

Join me for a Prayer of Consecration Writing Circle — a guided, online session to craft a prayer that helps you intentionally engage and offer an item or place for Divine encounter and purposes. Bring something (or have in mind) what you’d like to set apart as sacred, big or small.

I have 5 spots left.

September 21, 2026 · 10 a.m. EST · 60 minutes

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The Cave

Through the cave
of the winding
way of my story
you came after
me.

By the middle
point, I had
lost my name—
the child within
only a memory.

I wasn't sure
if I would be safe.
I was only sure of your pursuit
so I ran.

The further in
the darker it became.

Ouch! 

Now pain.

And You said my name.

Everything. Stopped.

At the expanse
of Your Word
the cave
crumbled

I'd never be
the same.

Journal with me.

How would you describe yourself apart from your roles and functions? What about your essence is a gift to the world?

Some thoughts. How about a story?

The two sat down for lunch for the first time. H looked across the table and asked, “So, who are you? Tell me about yourself.” The graduate student began explaining their current year in grad school, professional hopes, and connections. H’s confused reaction signaled that another question was necessary: “Who are you really?”

It is so easy to instrumentalize people, and even ourselves: That person is the person who teaches children; there is the delivery man; there is the doctor; I am the pastor.

But who are we really? Who really are the people surrounding us?

A famous Jewish theologian, Martin Buber, noticed an important distinction between “I-Thou” relationships and “I-it” relationships.1

Our relationship with a spouse or a close friend: I-Thou.

Our relationship with the cashier at the grocery store: I-It.

I-It relationships are utilitarian—people become more or less like instruments.

Sometimes without noticing, we get so enmeshed in our social settings and the expectations put on us that we forget we too are a thou.

I marvel at the snail shell—but why aren’t I marveling at myself? Whose eyes are seeing this shell? Is this all perhaps a miracle? Am I a miracle?

In the poem above, I describe God’s pursuit. I think sometimes God’s movement toward us is frightening, not in an ominous way, but because of the unknowns of it all. What could it mean that the Creator would dwell with me? Surely this must be transactional! Surely I will be used!

And then God speaks our name and reminds us of who we truly are.

And we finally find rest.

What if God’s agenda is your restoration? How would you walk through today if you knew that somewhere in the deepest part of you, God speaks your name and invites you to be the gift that you already are?

Get specific. How? When? Where?

—

My weekly poem and journal prompts are now free. I’d been experimenting with a paid-subscriber model for these—but somewhere in that experiment, I discovered I wanted to offer this work freely. So that’s what I’m doing. Thanks for reading and going deeper with me today. Stay tuned for more information about my upcoming prayer and liturgy writing circle, where we’ll craft a prayer of consecration for the big important things and the small important things.

“Owe no one anything, except to love one another, for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law. The commandments, ‘You shall not commit adultery; you shall not murder; you shall not steal; you shall not covet,’ and any other commandment, are summed up in this word, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’

Romans 13:8-9, NRSVUE

There's Always Love
After Romans 13:8-14

These sore
shoulders worn
out and also,
strangely, and
importantly, alive
but stiff.

How many times
have you sought
relief? To do better?
How many times
have you put on those
heavy coat-like words:

Ought. Should. Must.

I can see now
the fatigue—
I feel it more.

And then
there's always love.
It's always a possibility.

Love might
mean messaging 
that tough knot 
from yesterday—
yes, that one.

Do you want to be excellent?
Do you want to become
a saint?

Love is
the willingness
       to change.

—

The Bible seems to be constantly asking the questions: How do we become part of the flow of God? What is it that God is infusing into our world and experience? What will vanquish the decay and misery of our lives?

The answer? It’s not by being better at adhering to religious practices—though that might happen. It’s love. Rabbi Shai Held, after releasing his book, Judaism is About Love, received pushback from some saying the title sounded too Christian! But Rabbi Held argues that the center of the Hebrew Scriptures is a God of love.

But so often, our faith communities don’t talk about this. They don’t remind us about love being the pathos of God because, well, haven’t we already heard that before? Did it work? Will it really work if we try it again—or should we just try to be a pretty good person so we go to heaven?

I think God is compassionately concerned about our attention and worries about what happens after we die. God is probably thinking, “They’ve missed the point.” Duty, obligation, a kind act here and there—that makes the world go around, but what about going forward? Love moves us forward.1

I think saints are the ones who move us forward.

“The only real sadness, the only real failure, the only great tragedy in life, is not to become a saint.”

-Léon Bloy

Often, the best solutions are the ones that have been available all along. We’ve just stopped paying attention.

We look at Jesus, and we think, “Jesus, it’s great that you love, but I’m going to work at this from a different angle, because I probably know better.” We don’t actually say that, but that’s what it looks like from the outside.

My favorite definition of love? M. Scott Peck’s from The Road Less Traveled, whose definition I encountered in bell hooks's All About Love: New Visions.

“Love is the will to extend one’s self for the purpose of nurturing one’s own or another’s spiritual growth.”

Spiritual growth is used in a holistic sense in this definition as a progressive process of becoming more aware, responsible, mature, truthful, and loving.

We are afraid to love because we are worried about what will happen when we do and how tangled and costly life will become. Spoiler alert: it will. And in the midst of feeling so confounded, we will also feel full. Love is like standing in a spring from which living water flows. We will be transformed.

This Light
After hiking in the Chickamauga Battlefield

Between the Elm
and the Eastern Red Cedar
light poured through leaves
and branches.

I went on down
the dirt trail

Read more

Catch Fire
After Exodus 3:1-15

I AM
keeps constant.

Presence
like fire
remains ablaze.

The dead,
not bound in memory,
live.

God feels
the depression
and sees.

YHWH
inhabits all
tenses.

The smoke
from embers
of freedom
still are rising.

And I

catch fire.

The story of Moses and the burning bush remains one of my favorite accounts in Scripture.

First, consider the biome where Moses is.

It’s arid grassland. There, things catch fire—followed quickly by the smell of smoke, and then it’s all over.

But this fire keeps burning. What a strange sight. Moses is intrigued. This fire goes against all logic and experience.

Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob? Are they still alive?

We too often think about God, and even our experiences with God, quite safely in the past. We think back to those retreats and service projects or other gatherings where God moved unmistakably, and you discovered a glimmer of freedom—"Wow, is this what life could be like for me?”

And then life goes on. We think fondly of the past and approach the present and future with a bit of angst.

We sometimes talk about Jesus the same way—like God in Christ was only an actor in history once upon a time and not now.

But today, I AM is present, enduring reality,

and the flame of God’s extravagant and freeing love

is still ablaze.

The Storm & the Abyss
After flash floods in Ringgold

The wind
beat down and
rain sounded like
rocks upon windows.
Trees snapped
like toothpicks.

This was it—
the start of a long day
when my life
felt nearing the abyss.
Debris in yard.
Water’s power
revealed rocks in ditches
buried long ago.

After, it was calm.
A few went for walks
as if nothing
happened at all.

What scares you?
What fear seems to lie always
beneath your conscious mind?

Strangely, 
if those fears 
came on the scene
God's nearness to you
remains.

In fear 
I think there is 
such a thing as separation—
as unbeing—as alienation—

but in the shuttered
silence, a voice summoned me
in the aftermath,
“Here I am.”
“Here I am.”

I don’t know
if I will ever know
what it's like to be without
some fear.
But lately, I sense
Christ reaching
and lifting me
to stand
a little taller.

Journal with me.

What are the unconscious fears you take along with you throughout the day? What would your day be like if you silenced one of those fears?

Some thoughts:

I don’t like being afraid—I’m guessing you don’t either.

The most fearful moments are the ones that suddenly grip us unexpectedly.

A few nights ago, just after midnight, the power in our house went out. I was already awake because of the constant booms of thunder and the rain pounding on the windows. But once the power went out, I started to feel particularly vulnerable. I felt like I was living in a dollhouse going through a car wash.

Read more

The Altar of this World
After Romans 12:1-8

Stay
upon the altar—
of this world.

Rise
like warm, spiced incense
amid the stench of empire
and propaganda.

Sing
the doxology
with your life.

Restore
your mind.
Enter into the silence
and open your hands
like Christ's
upon the cross.

Ponder
nothing but mercy.

You weren't meant
to stay silent,
or keep the song
in the sanctuary of brick
and plaster.

Let
your tangled nature,
your whole story,
second by second,

be given.

Thanks for reading this week’s poem. It means so much that you would linger over these words—I hope they sparked something in you for the day and the days ahead.

I have so much to say about Romans 12 (and 11), but I’ve decided to let the poem do the talking—it says it all much better than I could labor here with lengthy explanations. You get the point—worship becomes cheap and of little consequence when we limit it to a religious duty in a religious setting. Real worship happens on Monday morning. Real worship happens as you walk, cook, and talk to the delivery person. Real worship happens when we help the turtle across the busy road, or when we chat to the person begging on the street corner. We should never be too busy for these things because we’ve placed our lives upon the altar. We might step down from it now and again, but we know we must get back on. People might think we are crazy. We should take that as a compliment.

The three lines about Christ’s hands being open to the world are inspired by the teaching of Fr. Richard Rohr in a recent CAC podcast. He says, “The crucified Christ has his hands nailed open to say an ultimate, and final ‘yes’ to everything—to the whole world.”

The only thing to do in recognition of such mercy—God’s radical availability—is worship. True worship can’t stay put.

—

If you are interested in using words to go deeper, I’ve started a paid subscription option. Posts on a Sunday lectionary text (like this one) are always free. But if you’d like more, I’m publishing an additional poem on Wednesday mornings at 6 a.m. EST with a journal and/or prayer prompt. You can see an example here. In addition, paid subscribers will also be included in my guided writing circle to write prayers and liturgy. September’s writing circle is centered on writing a prayer of dedication. You can come to write a prayer for a new journal, a pen, or a new sanctuary. You can write one for your own personal use or one for your faith community. The more I prepare for that writing circle, the more I’m becoming convinced that we should have a prayer of dedication for everything.

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For Phil, who encourages me to post what I write and not hide it in fear. Thank you.

This Moment of Prayer

Dusting myself
off while walking
through the door.

Shoulder by shoulder
removing the bag
of books and computer—
heavy on my back.

Eventually accepting
the clamorous silence 
and subtle movement 
in this spacious room.

There is a particular coolness here, 
like the waters from Ellis Spring.
I wash my hands.
I see the sink full of dishes.

Then, I receive a blackberry
from a small, forgotten bowl
on the counter.

Bursting flavor consumes
this moment of prayer.

Journal with me.

Why do you pray? Where do you find it easiest to inhabit a prayerful posture?

Some thoughts:

There is too much writing about prayer. This makes sense: it is the central practice of the Christian faith. Yet, we all do it a bit differently, and, strangely, most of us have been taught to do it the same: hands folded, eyes closed.

I enter into prayer easily as I walk through the woods; eyes lifted to towering trees and sky. I contemplate God’s rapturous grace above and below.

If we should pray without ceasing, says Paul, how could we do that with hands folded and eyes closed?

In the poem, I describe the experience of walking through the door of my home and how it is like my entrance into prayer.

I’m worn.

I wince at the silence.

My mind is cluttered.

I remember the dishes piled high in the sink. ugh.

Then the blackberry.

The blackberry was a reminder of how tantalizing, refreshing, crisp, and deliciously complex prayer is on difficult, tiring days. I often think I don’t need prayer, but once I turn aside, a certain aliveness captures me—like my taste buds dancing to the notes of a berry.

We say, “I can’t pray. There’s no time. I’m too busy.”

What lies.

As you journal in this moment, consider when you are most weary. Could that be the time to pray? Prayer is not a performance that requires more energy, but more like tasting the delicious gift of the divine life offered to you each moment by Jesus Christ. It’s a paradox, but prayer doesn’t require more of me; it requires all of me. It is this necessity of my all that helps me sense the creative giving of a God who is complete and whole. Somehow God’s completeness is the antidote for my incompleteness.

He knocks on the door of your life.

Take an honest assessment: do you need to pray more, not because you feel religious guilt, but because you want to be alive?

Get specific: when, how, where?

This is a preview post of what paid subscribers will receive each Wednesday morning. Enjoy, and consider becoming a paid subscriber of Sunday Poems for more poem + journal prompt posts and access to my guided monthly writing circle, where we will write prayers and liturgy for the gathered church or individual use. September’s writing circle will be on writing a prayer of dedication. During that session, you will learn about and craft a dedication prayer for something as large as a new sacred building or room, or as small—and important—as a journal or pen. You can always subscribe for free to receive my regular weekly post.

The Crumbs
After Matthew 15:21-28

I used to turn my nose
at the crumbs beneath
the worn, bowing table.

Now by some uncontroll-
able mystery they fill me
like I am a guest in glory.

I need God. I know this
so deeply and deep
calls out to deep.

I used to think I was 
a Canaanite in an
anti-Canaanite world.

Now I stand tall
wearing the crown
that Jesus gave me.

Thank you for taking the time to read this poem.

We are so often trying not to be “too much,” aren’t we? The disciples’ initial treatment of the woman in this story reminds me of how we today treat someone experiencing homelessness or begging on the street—with annoyance. It is such an interruption to our day to see such a clear display of need and desperation. What do we do? Do we drop everything? Do we act as if we don’t see the person in need?

I think this is also related to our own lives in how we often try to be radically self-sufficient. Being in need isn’t often seen as a good thing.

Yet, the story of the Canaanite woman is exactly that—she’s desperate. She is willing to receive anything if it means her daughter is delivered. Jesus doesn’t think we are too needy or too much. We can fall apart before Christ because Christ sees us not as mere projects or problematic people with imperfections, but as children in need of support, help, and love.

I am often drawn to idealistic visions for life. If you are familiar with the Enneagram, I resonate most with type 1. Yet, this story challenges my desire for ideals because neither Christ nor the woman chooses to operate within that paradigm: Jesus says he doesn’t want to throw the food meant for the Jewish people to someone who is clearly not in “the family,” like a Canaanite. Jesus is sort of saying, “Canaanites rarely approach a Rabbi, and Rabbis normally don’t teach or consider Canaanites.” The whole thing is far from normal.

But the woman doesn’t care. She wants help for her daughter. She’s being practical. She’s reaching for life. If the crumb is enough, she’ll take the crumb—she doesn’t need/want to sit at the table.

Jesus celebrates her faith. In all of Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus says only two people have great faith: The Roman Centurion and the Canaanite woman. Neither is Jewish. Neither is a close disciple. It’s all just so unusual and unexpected.

But this is life. Sometimes I wait for the best time to reach for God. Sometimes I wait for the right time to fall apart (see the irony in that?). Here we are. Life tends to be pretty messy. But Jesus enters the disorder of our lives and offers so much more than crumbs. Jesus holds nothing back from us.

I have a special announcement if you would like to dive deeper into this work of faith and words here on Sunday Poems. I am officially opening paid subscriptions!

If you become a paid subscriber ($8/month), you’ll receive an additional devotional poem each week, accompanied by a prayer and journal prompt, as well as access to a 60-minute monthly facilitated writing circle focused on writing prayers and liturgy for personal and congregational use.

September’s writing circle will explore writing a prayer of dedication. You might write a prayer for something as significant as a new building or instrument in your faith community—or something as small and personal as a new journal that you would like to dedicate to God’s glory. I’ll provide examples and a worksheet, offer time and space to write, and make space for you to share your prayer and share it with others in the circle that day.

I hope that these monthly writing circles will deepen your personal prayer life or give space to craft language that helps your congregation be more attentive to God’s presence.

As a founding member, you’ll receive all of the above and an annual printed collection of selected Sunday Poems in a beautiful book form.

I’d love to explore and practice with you how words help us and others connect more deeply with Christ.

If you don’t wish to become a paid subscriber, that is totally fine. This page will continue to post weekly content for free.

Thanks so much for reading!

-Drew

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For Judy Love Perry, August 9, 2026. You are loved and never lost.

The Jesus I Know
After Matthew 14:22-33

The Jesus I know
is here, walking on
the dark, chaotic
waters of my life at 4 a.m.

The Jesus I know
plunges arms beneath 
waves and raises me.

O soul, never forget:
no storm overtakes
no doubt ruins
the Jesus you know.
You will sink
and Jesus will save.

I don't know how
to make sense of today.
I don't know why I am
so afraid. I don't know why
the gutting anguish seems 
stronger than the Jesus I know.

Yet Jesus keeps reaching down
and I keep coming up.

Lord, lift me.
Lord, lift us.

Thanks so much for taking the time to read this poem.

One of the things that I keep coming back to as I read Matthew 14:22-33 is that Peter, the rock upon which Christ built the Church, experienced significant fear and doubt, even while seeing Christ overcoming the very things he was afraid of. Jesus gave Peter no reason, in that moment, to doubt that he would be okay. Yet, Peter does.

Peter reminds me of myself—and perhaps that’s the point. Jesus didn’t invite people to follow who were nearing perfection. He invited people who needed life with and in God—the sick, the broken, the poor—anyone who felt even the slightest tinge of desperation.

This is the Jesus I am getting to know. Sometimes it can feel like struggling isn’t allowed—God forbid in Christian community! But here stands Jesus—I AM—who reaches down to lift Peter. Jesus could’ve said, “Peter, your doubt is too much. You need to learn your lesson. I’m not going to pull you up, you must sink or swim!”

This story to me is the whole gospel: Jesus comes down, and we go up. Jesus’ life becomes ours so that our life can be united with his in death, resurrection, and union/glory.

How does Matthew 14:22-33 impact you, or my poem inspired by it?

The Real World
after Isaiah 55:1-5

The pantry is empty.
The water bill towers.
How tired I am
of this real world.

Yet, this is not
the real world.
The real world
is the one God
introduces and 
invites us to live in.

"Come, everyone
whose stomachs 
are hollow and
whose lips are cracked.
I am loyal. I delight in you.
Delight yourself in my friendship.
Delight yourself in my food and drink."

"I'm hosting
a party. I'm
blessing, breaking,
and providing for all. 
Here, all
you need is a broken
heart. Here, all
you need is aching emptiness
from broken promises.
I am known to nourish
and sustain."

"All I ask is
you build bigger
tables for more hungry and
thirsty people.
All I ask is
you see people
as I do."

"I will give food
unending.
There will be uncountable
leftovers."

God,
help me live
in the real world.

—

Thanks for reading this week’s poem. It means a great deal that you would take the time to stop here. I hope the poem spoke to you.

A major point of inspiration for this poem came from Eugene Peterson’s The Contemplative Pastor: Returning to the Art of Spiritual Direction (1993), where he describes a fictitious interaction with a parishioner following a worship service:

“‘This was wonderful, Pastor, but now we have to get back to the real world, don’t we?’ I had thought we were in the most-real world, the world revealed as God’s, a world believed to be invaded by God’s grace and turning on the pivot of Christ’s crucifixion and resurrection…I believe this new kingdom is already among us. That is why I’m a pastor, to introduce people to the real world and train them to live in it.”1

That part of the book caused me to think seriously about how I view the world. If I think the visions of hope and promises in the Bible are some far-off reality that sounds nice but is ultimately wishful thinking, then I will only add to the present madness. But if I believe that Isaiah 55 is about a God who encompasses everything here and now and not only in a spiritual sense, I must take a second look at the world. Think also about Jesus feeding more than 5,000 people; was that a blip or a doorway through which to see reality? We need to think carefully about what the world is. What is at creation’s core, its foundation? What “bottoms” existence (as Thurman would say, following Meister Eckhart)? If the answer is God, Love, or Life, then all the practices and assumptions about death and moral compromise are truly a sham—and we are living counterfeit lives.

I have said before that the Kingdom of God is here and not yet. I’m going to rearrange the sentence so that it doesn’t end with negation: The kingdom is not yet and here.

Isaiah 55 reminds me of a certain Irish rockstar, whom I think of highly, who made popular the saying, “Poverty is man-made.”

Ouch.

I don’t know about you, but I’d like to live in the real world. I’d like to contribute, as broken as I might be (though I am on the mend, as are you), to the real world.

How about you?

Above the Roof's Ridge
Above the roof’s ridge
of the house across
the street,

dazzling clouds—
a new and never again
formation seen by
my coincidental gaze
and the few dozen others
who looked.

I know they are
in motion, but they
seem to linger
in the setting sun.

I know they are
heavy, but their
lightness lifts me.

I don’t know why
I looked up,
why I sat at
the red table,
which shakes with
every pen stroke.

I don’t know why
my eyes become
heavy from the
incompleteness
of life—
and my desire for
completeness,
which is God
and God is
playing with clouds—
I hate to interrupt.

But I know
I’m here.

Is there anything
more important?

If you are new to Sunday Poems, I mostly write poems in conversation with biblical passages, but on occasion, I’ll write a devotional poem that I feel is worth sharing.

I know a lot is going on in the world. There is so much to do. I found myself today in a fog of acceleration—the worst pace for writing!

Luckily, God per the clouds, reminded me that sometimes the only thing that really matters is existing. If we do exist (which I’m pretty sure we do, as did Descartes), it’s worth taking note of every once in a while. Existing, reflecting, pausing, meditating is a moment when “we make room for God so that he may speak the first and last word about us, and then receiving that word, whatever it may be, for all eternity.”1

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Hello
After Romans 8:12-25

I hate saying goodbye—
it's a word I wish
didn't exist or ever needed to be said.

O how I would rather
enjoy everything
and have the best
of all worlds!

But the life before me
 consists of many necessary goodbyes:

goodbye striving;
goodbye me-first;
goodbye people pleasing;
goodbye regretful habits
and self-sabotage;
goodbye transactional relationships;
goodbye meaningless dreams;
goodbye comfort;
goodbye false safety.

I say goodbye
because the Spirit pulls me
forward and whispers in faithful love:
"Everything is found on the cross, 
everything consists of dying on it, 
there is no other road to life."

The Spirit teaches me an even better word
after goodbye:

"Hello."

Hello death;
Hello resurrection;
Hello union;
Hello new family;
Hello true riches;

Hello new me;
Hello new you.

—

Hello again, it’s been a few weeks since my last poem. My family and I have successfully relocated to the Georgia-Tennessee border near Chattanooga, and we are enjoying the new scenery and working through all the ups and downs of beginning a new chapter.

—

Why did I emphasize the idea of saying goodbye in this poem? Paul didn’t know the Roman church, or churches, when he wrote this letter, but he chose to remind those Christians to stay the course of their new life in Christ, and not to give in to their previous destructive tendencies.

But let’s be honest, we all compromise—we see the heights and depths of love to which we have been called, and then we have to, you know, live in a world that isn’t always hungry, on the surface, for that way of living, and so the Gospel becomes our background music, instead of the main song within.

We often compromise because we don’t want to suffer. But what I’ve learned recently is that no matter what, suffering finds us. And the more we try to avoid it and get it away, the more we find it. Compromise looks like living many lives, being different people in different situations. It’s fragmented and contorted. We can either suffer for holy and worthy endeavors, or we can suffer by pursuing everything else. Either way, we can’t escape it.

If we are going to turn toward a more faithful and enriching life, we need to say goodbye to certain things. When I look at my own life, I see a lot of hesitation, and I worry about failing and letting people down. But if I don’t say goodbye to those ideas and worries, my fears will become my reality. So this is the dynamic: we don’t want to suffer, so we do all in our power not to suffer, and then we create our own realities that lead nowhere good.

Leave a comment below if you think being human is fun!

The Christian life is the constant practice of saying goodbye to the fake and false visions of life before us and turning to say yes to Christ. It’s all so, so hard. I wish saying goodbye wasn’t part of Christ-formed life, but it is. I wish failure weren’t part of growth. Every genuine spiritual pursuit requires goodbyes. And it’s humbling.

But I think what Paul is trying to do in Romans is not just talk about the things we need to rid ourselves of and say goodbye to; he’s trying to help us see what new things we get to welcome and what is worth suffering for.

Like the painting above of the man on pilgrimage, he had to say goodbye to his old home, his old habits, his old life patterns, but on the journey, he is forced to lighten the heavy load he carries. Eventually, he gets to say hello to a new life. Even if he returns to his former home, he’s changed and grounded in God.

This new life in Christ is nearer than we might think and is rooted in practices that aren’t attractive or showworthy, but it is filled with overflowing goodness.

What does Jesus want for all of us? New and abundant life. It's going to require some difficult goodbyes, but it is worth it. I’m saying all of this to remind myself just as much, if not more, as I am reminding you.

Lastly, the line in this week’s poem, "Everything is found on the cross, everything consists of dying on it, there is no other road to life." Is an adapted quote from Thomas à Kempis’s The Imitation of Christ, book 2, chapter 12: “Of the Royal Road of the Holy Cross.” Translated by William C. Creasy.

See any typos in this post? It’s proof that these are my real thoughts and words and not generated by AI/LLMs.

“Those who find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.”

Matthew 10:39

Lose Your Life
After Matthew 10:24-39

Lose your life—
I mean it.
Let Light expose
all illusions.

Lose your life—
find it.
Find it in kneeling service,
in cross bearing, in glad surrender,
and the strange and certain walk
of being a pilgrim
far from home.

Lose your life—
I mean it.
You want Heaven?
It's the flowers of redemption
blooming in ruined and forgotten towns
where Christ walks.

Lose your life. Lose your life. Lose it.
Abandon all and enter
into Christ.

—

The final line of this week’s poem drew inspiration from Thomas à Kempis’s The Imitation of Christ, where he writes in the voice of Jesus in chapter 56, “My dear friend, the more you can leave yourself behind, the more you will be able to enter into me.”

This week’s poem took many forms throughout the week. I was constantly starting over. Luckily, I was moved by a sermon from Bishop Héctor A. Burgos-Núñez during a service of licensing, commissioning, and ordination at the North Georgia Annual Conference of The United Methodist Church. (I can’t find the link just yet!)

This poem was perhaps hard to finalize because I had to consider my own willingness to take up the cross of Christ and imitate Christ. I didn’t want to just write about it.

These days, it is so tempting to put our ego first and try to find shelter in the public’s gaze, and be well thought of. But what good does that do? Self-emptying gets us closer to God and closer to people. That’s where I’d like to be. Do we want to be on a platform and have many followers and get lots of attention (that often quickly fades or is stressful to maintain), or would we rather find shelter in the riches of knowing and following Jesus and take part in healing and renewing our battered and beautiful world?

*May the grammatical errors and typos in this poem and reflection proclaim that these are my words and thoughts and not generated by AI/LLMs.

Just Laugh
After Genesis 18:1-15; 21:1-7

Just laugh—
your life is so unbelievable,
how your story twists and turns.

Just laugh—
it's all so unbelievable,
what the God of ceaseless promise
does in your most finite seasons.

Your wounds
and joys—
the times you doubted
and gave up—
now translate to wisdom
and become doorways
to joy.

Just laugh—
feel the thrill of
being God's universe.

—

A few things came to mind as I wrote this poem. First, the vast rabbinical discussion on the character of Sarah’s laugh. The Hebrew in Genesis 18 seems to suggest it was a laugh within her, instead of an audible laugh or disbelieving scoff. Some rabbis interpret Sarah’s laugh as a sign that she did not take the visitors’ blessing seriously. But the story unfolds as an invitation to consider her blessedness, and then our own. I often have a hard time accepting the truth about my life and how God has blessed me. I often think, “When will God’s loyalty run out on me? It must have a limit.” Yet we are always held by a God who cannot, nor ever would, break a promise. In my experience, it is just when I feel like God is finished with me, a new season unfolds, and previous scars and wounds are redeemed and turned to wisdom.

The second thing that came to mind is laughter itself. Howard Thurman, Desmond Tutu, Mother Theresa, Teresa of Avila (who is believed to have prayed, “God protect us from sourfaced saints.”), and many other people of the faith were known for frequent laughter. Even Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., just moments before his assassination, had a pillow fight and laughed with his close friends at the Lorraine Motel. These are all people who took their devotion and call seriously and who, at the same time, knew just how important it was to literally crack up.

About a year and a half ago, I made an appointment with an important sage, someone whom I admire greatly. I had a list of questions and concerns that I wanted perspective on. I got about two questions out; the rest of the hour was spent laughing. I didn’t need my worries to subside; I needed to laugh. People of true wisdom know this.

It’s important to laugh. Life is so unbelievable, and God’s sense of humor is everywhere. I’m sure the Kingdom will be filled with laughter. May our moments of questions and disbelief become the places of joy as we recognize just how cherished we are in the story of God.

*Any typos are proof that these are my words and thoughts and not the use of an AI/LLMs.

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