A couple of weeks ago I read an article I haven’t been able to shake — Busy is the New Fine . The premise is painfully familiar: when someone asks how we’re doing, we say, “Busy.” Not good. Not rested. Not even stressed. Just… busy.

Busy has become our socially acceptable substitute for everything else.

It signals importance. Productivity. Relevance. It keeps us from having to say, “I’m overwhelmed,” or “I don’t know who I am underneath all this doing.”

And if I’m honest? I’ve worn busy like a badge of honor.

There are seasons when life truly is full. Ministry seasons. Justice seasons. Family seasons. There are moments when the work feels urgent and sacred and necessary. But somewhere along the way, busyness can drift from meaningful engagement into a kind of numb momentum. We keep moving because stopping might force us to ask harder questions. I head myself say yesterday – “I want to do it because it needs doing and if I don’t…..”

As I’ve been thinking about Lent – about what matters, about scars and healing, about what we carry and why – I keep returning to this line:

Busy with purpose and clarity. Unhurried.

Not empty. Not idle. Not checked out.

But purposeful. Clear. Unhurried.

That’s different.

So this Lent, I’m asking: What’s the purpose in the busyness?

Not just, “How do I do less?” (though that might be part of it).
But, “Why am I doing what I’m doing?”
Who is it serving?
Is it aligned with who God is shaping me to be?

Because not all busyness bears fruit.

Some busyness is avoidance.
Some busyness is ego.
Some busyness is fear dressed up as productivity.

And some busyness – the good kind – flows from love, mercy, justice, community. It feels grounded instead of frantic. It may still be full, but it isn’t chaotic.

That’s the clarity I’m craving.

Lent, at its best, is a reset. Not a vacation. Not an escape. But a reorientation. Forty days of asking what is essential and what is excess. Forty days of noticing what drains and what gives life. Forty days of remembering that we are dust – yes – but beloved dust.

This year, I’m also taking on a Lenten practice inspired by Nadia Bolz-Weber and her invitation to “40 Days of Good Shit.” And yes, that title and hashtag makes me smile every time.

Instead of giving something up, the practice is about intentionally noticing and naming what is good. Not in a toxic positivity way. Not ignoring the hard or the broken. But deliberately training our eyes to see grace, beauty, delight, tenderness – even in the middle of the mess.

Each day: one good thing.

A conversation.
A deep laugh.
A quiet moment before the house wakes up or in my case after it’s gone to bed.
The way the light streams through my front door or hits the stained-glass I made – I MADE!
The text from a friend.
The holy ordinariness of a Tuesday.
Or a bike ride with friends.

Because maybe part of our frantic busyness comes from forgetting that goodness is already here. We chase meaning when sometimes it’s sitting right in front of us.

So this Lent, I’m holding two questions:

What is the purpose in my busyness?
And where is the good in my days?

Maybe the reset isn’t about doing less.
Maybe it’s about doing what matters.
And noticing the grace already woven into it.

Busy with purpose and clarity.
Unhurried.

That’s the road I want to walk.

They wrote:

“Hi Gayle, Since you are a Pastor, I know you speak out against what’s going on in DC. My question is why aren’t more pastors speaking out? Are they afraid of offending members, do they sign some kind of contract to not to get involved, politics? I’d love to hear your opinion. Thanks.”

It’s not the first time I’ve been asked some version of this, but it felt especially urgent this time. People are paying attention. And they’re noticing not just who is speaking—but who isn’t.

My honest response was this: I believe many United Methodist pastors do recognize what’s happening in our country. Silence does not always mean agreement. For some, silence comes from fear—fear of offending members, fear of losing people, fear of conflict. Others sincerely believe pastors shouldn’t speak to anything labeled “political,” worrying it crosses a line they were taught never to step over.

But here’s where I land, clearly and without apology: the gospel is political—but it is not partisan.

The gospel speaks to power, justice, how the poor are treated, who is welcomed, and who is pushed aside. It speaks to love of neighbor and resistance to systems that harm and dehumanize. When one political movement strays far from those gospel values—when it becomes an instrument of oppression—it becomes difficult for faithfulness not to sound partisan, even when it isn’t.

This moment also reminds me of the words of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., who said,
“In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.”
That truth cuts deep—especially in the church.

We teach children who we are and what matters not just by what we say, but by what we avoid. They watch how adults respond—or don’t—to injustice. Silence forms conscience just as surely as speech. As Christians, we are called to emulate Jesus, not comfort or safety or institutional preservation.

Jesus spoke when silence would have been easier. He confronted power when it was risky. He chose love even when it came at a cost.

So to my fellow pastors: our congregations and our communities are listening.
They hear us in our words.
And they hear us just as clearly in our silence.

The question before us is not whether this moment is political.
The question is whether we will be faithful.

The conversation was about the 3.5% rule – the idea that when roughly 3.5% of a population engages in sustained, visible action, meaningful change becomes not just possible, but likely. It’s something I had read before maybe even talked about on my socials – The research is often framed around political movements. But the more I sit with it, the more convinced I am that this isn’t just about politics.

It’s about societal change.
And maybe—quietly, uncomfortably—it’s about the church.

What keeps catching my attention is this: the 3.5% rule isn’t about belief. It’s about action.

Not shared values.
Not internal agreement.
Not even moral certainty.

It’s about people showing up. Again and again. In public. In ways that interrupt what’s normal, comfortable, and safe.

Around the same time, I read a post from the Clergy Coaching Network responding to the criticism, “CCNet FORUM has become too political.”  That critique is familiar. Many of us in ministry hear some version of it whenever faith brushes up against public life.

For years, people of faith have been encouraged – often sincerely – to avoid politics in the name of unity or neutrality.  I understand that impulse. I’ve lived there for years! My personal political views are mine – not the church’s!  Many of us have chosen silence at different moments, hoping it would preserve peace or keep communities together.

But as the CCNet post named so clearly: the reality we face now no longer allows the luxury of disengagement.

When policies shape the lives of the vulnerable, when truth is distorted, when cruelty is normalized, when dignity is selectively protected—silence itself becomes a moral choice. Not a neutral one.

Scripture has never treated faith as a private affair. The prophets spoke directly to kings. Jesus confronted systems of power that exploited the poor and burdened the weak. The early church refused to separate worship from justice, compassion, and truth.

James doesn’t mince words: “Faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead” (James 2:17). Faith that never shows up, never takes shape in action, never risks embodiment—it isn’t faith as Scripture understands it.

Jesus says something similar in Matthew 7: people are known by their fruit, not their intentions. Not by what they claim to believe, but by what their lives actually produce.

Which brings me back—again—to the church.

The church is often very good at belief. At statements. At resolutions. At carefully worded positions. We know how to articulate values. But the witness of the church has never been rooted in how well we agree. It has always been rooted in whether we show up.

The early church didn’t change the world because it held the right ideas. It changed the world because it lived differently—visibly, collectively, persistently. People showed up for the sick when others fled. They shared resources when scarcity ruled. They refused to disappear when power told them to stay quiet.

Belief mattered. But action gave belief credibility.

The Clergy Coaching Network was clear about something else that feels important to name here: showing up is not about promoting a political party, baptizing an ideology, or telling people how to vote. Our loyalty is not to the left or the right. Our loyalty is to Jesus and the kingdom of God.

And that kingdom has public consequences.

Silence in a moment marked by deep division, rising extremism, attacks on democratic norms, and rhetoric that dehumanizes whole groups of people is not neutrality—it is surrendering the public square to voices that do not reflect the way of Jesus.

At the same time, showing up doesn’t mean claiming moral perfection. It requires humility. We will miss the mark. We will choose words poorly. We will say things that land harder than we intended. We will offend people we care about. When that happens, the work is not retreat—but listening, learning, repenting, and growing together.

The goal isn’t to inflame anger, but to form conscience.
Not to divide, but to disciple.
Not to chase power, but to bear faithful witness.

The 3.5% rule presses a question the church can no longer avoid:

not what do we believe? but where are we willing to show up?

Not once.
Not symbolically.
But consistently.
In bodies.
In public.
Over time.

Because real change—societal change, spiritual change, kingdom-of-God change—has never required everyone. It has always required a faithful few willing to show up and stay.

And maybe that’s the invitation before us now: not comfort, not certainty, but faithful presence in hard times.

https://www.bbc.com/future/article/20190513-it-only-takes-35-of-people-to-change-the-world

This morning a friend asked:

 I know that God understands what comes from our heart, even when it sounds a bit mangled…but I wonder…how do we pray about this? My words that are most heartfelt would be along the lines of “Dear God, please save us from this evil spineless, d***less POS and all of his minions who are ruining our country and ( list of his most egregious acts and proclamations).“ I also range between something like “Lord, this man is evil. Please smite him” and “Lord help us. Jesus, please save us.” 

Can you help me, and others who wrestle with finding the right words, and perhaps also the right feelings, in these troubled times?

How do we pray – –

• When the world feels like it’s on fire.
• When our country is flirting with authoritarianism.
• When power is being hoarded instead of shared.
• When innocent moms are being murdered in the street by people who carry a badge and claim to represent the government.

What do you say to God then?

Because “thoughts and prayers” feel hollow.
And “God is in control” sounds like an excuse.
And silence feels like complicity.

Here’s what I know:
The Bible does not ask us to pray politely in moments like this.
It gives us permission—actually, instruction—to pray truthfully.

Pray Without Editing

If you’ve been taught that prayer has to sound calm, respectful, or theologically tidy, I want you to know: that’s not biblical.

Read the Psalms.

They are full of rage, grief, accusation, despair, and desperate hope tangled together. The psalmists say things like:

• How long, O God?
• Why are you silent?
• Wake up.
• This is wrong.

That’s not a lack of faith.
That’s covenant language.

Lament assumes God is listening.
Lament assumes God cares.
Lament assumes God can handle the truth.

If your prayer sounds more like yelling than whispering, you’re in good company.

Let Lament Come Before Hope

We rush to hope way too fast.

We tell people to “look on the bright side” when their hearts are breaking. We quote resurrection before we’ve acknowledged the crucifixion.

But Scripture doesn’t do that.

Lament comes first.

Lament says:

• This is not how the world is supposed to be.
• Innocent blood is crying out from the ground.
• We are tired of burying people while leaders protect themselves.

Lament refuses to normalize injustice.

And here’s the thing:
Lament is not the opposite of faith.
Lament is faith that refuses to lie.

Say the Names. Tell the Truth.

When innocent people are killed by those wielding state-sanctioned power, abstraction becomes another form of violence.

So don’t pray in vague language.

Say their name.
Name the systems.
Name the sin.

Pray like this:

God, we name police violence.
God, we name white supremacy.
God, we name systems that protect power instead of people.
God, we name leaders who crave control more than justice.

This is not partisan.
This is prophetic.

The prophets didn’t speak in euphemisms.
Neither should we.

When Words Fail, Pray With Your Body

Sometimes the grief is too heavy for sentences.

Then prayer looks like:

• Lighting a candle and sitting in silence.
• Walking a labyrinth.
• Standing in protest.
• Holding a baptism shell and remembering who God says we are.
• Weeping.
• Refusing to look away.

Jesus prayed with sweat like blood.

Your embodied grief—your shaking, your tears, your showing up—that is prayer.

Pray Resistance, Not Resignation

There’s a dangerous kind of prayer that sounds faithful but isn’t.

It says things like:
“Well, God must have a plan.”
“Everything happens for a reason.”
“It’ll all work out.”

Those prayers often function as surrender—not to God, but to injustice.

Faithful prayer does not say, “Oh well.”
Faithful prayer says:

Your kingdom come.
Your will be done.
Not theirs.

To pray “Your kingdom come” is to declare that dictatorships, violent systems, and badge-protected murder are not ultimate.

That prayer is subversive.
That prayer is dangerous.
That prayer gets Jesus killed.

A Prayer for When You Have Nothing Left

Sometimes we need borrowed words. Here’s one you can use:

God of fire and flood, the world feels like it is burning,
and the powerful keep pouring gasoline.

I am (We are) angry.
I am (We are) grieving.
I am (We are) afraid.

Innocent lives are taken, and those responsible hide behind uniforms, laws, and lies.

Do not ask us to be calm when your children are being slaughtered.
Do not ask us to be patient when justice is strangled in the street.

Break our hearts open—but not our spirits.
Harden us against despair—but not against truth.

Give us courage that costs something.
Give us love that disrupts.
Give us a faith that refuses to cooperate with death.

Let your justice roll, even if it rattles thrones or those who aspire to thrones.

If You’re Too Tired to Pray

Let me say this clearly:

If you are exhausted, numb, or out of words – you are not failing God.

Scripture says the Spirit groans when we cannot.
Groans are prayers.

Let others pray for you.
Let community hold you up.
Let your anger, grief, and refusal to accept the world as it is become holy.

You are not weak for feeling this way.
You are paying attention.

And paying attention is the beginning of love.

AND LOVING GOD AND EACH OTHER ARE THE GREATEST COMMANDMENTS!

Not a resolution.
Not a checklist.
Just a single word.

It’s a practice that really took shape for me around 2012, when my Sunday school class read My One Word by Mike Ashcraft together. Ashcraft describes the purpose of choosing one word simply and beautifully: to help people walk with God. His book offers a kind of manual—choose a word, pair it with a scripture, meditate on it, and return to it again and again as the year unfolds.

That framework stuck with me.

Over the years, I’ve chosen words like heal, laugh, yes, and energy. Some of those words shaped entire seasons of my life. Others worked more quietly, doing their work beneath the surface. And then there are years—like last year—when I get to December and had to look back to see what my word was for 2025

Last year’s word, looking back, was intentionality.

I named it at the beginning of 2025 and then promptly forgot it, but I lived it. I had to. Decisions didn’t happen by accident. Relationships didn’t deepen by default. Ministry didn’t just “roll along.” Everything required intention—how I spent my time, where I said yes, where I said no, how I showed up when I was tired. 2025 was a hard year with health scares in my family, job transitions, financial changes, and well – life! All happening at once and all in turmoil (even if I made it or tried to make it seem easy).

And maybe that’s one of the gifts of this practice: even when we don’t hold the word tightly, the word can still hold us.

This past year, my life changed in ways I couldn’t have predicted. Two churches. Two cities. Two rhythms of ministry unfolding at the same time. A calendar that always feels one step ahead of me. A near-constant sense of running behind, rushing to the next thing, already thinking about what’s coming instead of where I am.

If I’m honest, there were moments when I felt fragmented—present everywhere and nowhere all at once.

So when it came time to choose a word for this year, the word didn’t arrive dramatically. It came quietly. Persistently. Almost insistently. I tried on many words, but this one wouldn’t let me go – this one called out like a needy child – PICK ME!

Presence.

Not productivity.
Not growth.
Not even rest.

Presence.

For me, presence means choosing to be fully where I am in the moment—whether that moment is holy or mundane, joyful or exhausting, planned or unexpected. It means resisting the temptation to live half a step ahead of myself. It means not letting the next meeting steal my attention from the person in front of me. It means trusting that God is already at work right here, not just “over there.”

Presence sounds simple. It’s not.

• Presence takes planning—because it doesn’t happen automatically in a crowded life.
• Presence takes patience—with myself and with the pace of things.
• Presence takes trust—trust that God provides a way to “get it all done,” even when I’m not hustling at full speed.

This year, I’m pairing the word presence with a verse that sustained me through much of 2025. It comes from Esther 4:14, paraphrased in my own words:

Maybe just maybe you are here and created for this!

That verse reminds me that this moment—this season, this calling, this complicated, beautiful, stretched-too-thin life—is not a mistake. I don’t need to rush through it to get to something more important. This is the important thing.

Presence, paired with that verse, becomes a kind of grounding prayer:
I am not late to my life.
I am not behind God’s timing.
I was created for this moment.

Choosing one word won’t magically simplify the year ahead. It won’t prevent exhaustion or eliminate hard days. But it does give me something to return to—a compass when I feel scattered, a touchstone when I forget what matters most.

And when I inevitably drift (because I will), the word waits patiently for me to come back.

So this year, I release the need to be everywhere.
I choose to be fully here.

Perhaps that’s enough.

This time of year it just used to sound different! To feel different! A few days ago Jenn and I were discussing how it “doesn’t feel like Christmas” and then how that as been the case for a few years now. And like I do, I have been thinking on why…

I think I have decided, December once carried a chorus of greetings – Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Happy Hanukkah – everywhere you go (yes, I sang that part) it was spoken easily and generously by strangers in checkout lines, servers in restaurants, people passing on the sidewalk. There was warmth in it, a shared acknowledgment that this season was set apart. Special (even as we stress over gifts, too many parties, or too little money).

Now?

We’ve reduced December to the same bland exchanges we use year-round: Have a nice day. Have a good one (which I hate BTW). Safe. Neutral. Empty. Oh so empty!

And that silence didn’t come from secular culture. It came from Christians.

The so-called “War on Christmas” was not a response to oppression; it was a manufactured outrage. As historians and journalists have documented, the phrase emerged in the late 1990s and gained traction in the early 2000s when media figures framed inclusive language – like “Happy Holidays” – as an intentional attack on Christianity. What had long been a normal, widely used greeting (acknowledging Christmas, New Year’s, Hanukkah, and more) was suddenly cast as hostile and threatening.

Fact-checking outlets like Snopes have repeatedly shown there was never an organized effort to ban “Merry Christmas.” No laws. No mandates. No secret meetings. Just cultural diversity and an expanding awareness that not everyone celebrates the same way. But instead of responding with generosity or confidence, many Christians chose fear and grievance. They demanded compliance. They shouted “war.”

And here’s the bitter irony: in insisting that everyone must say “Merry Christmas,” Christians helped create a climate where people now say nothing at all! By insisting that only you and your Christmas holiday matter, you stole the joy, you manufactured what you claimed existed, but didn’t! And you successfully stopped people from sharing the joy of Christmas freely, with abandon, without fear!

Cashiers hesitate, and I don’t blame them. Servers avoid eye contact. Retail workers default to neutral phrases because it’s safer than being accused of offense or ideology. Not because Christmas is forbidden—but because it’s become a minefield.

Congratulations! The outcome of this invented war isn’t fewer “Happy Holidays.” It’s fewer human connections. The season didn’t lose its greeting because it was erased; it lost its greeting because Christians turned it into a test. Christians turned it into a gamble, a potential for someone to be a jerk – loud, entitled, and difficult – as they proclaim their love of the birth of Jesus – sigh!

Y’all, Christmas was never fragile. Christmas was never in danger! Christmas didn’t need defending. What it needed – and still needs IMO – is humility, joy, and the courage to offer goodwill without demands. Just like the angel said in Luke 2 (msg) We are “here to announce a great and joyful event that is meant for everybody, worldwide: A Savior has been born”

Maybe if we stopped fighting imaginary wars, we might find ourselves experiencing more joy, more love for humankind, more feeling like it is Christmas!

Merry Christmas Y’all!

]]> http://gayletabor.com/the-war-on-christmas-was-won-and-we-all-lost/2025/12/20/feed/ 0 4262 http://gayletabor.com/how-do-we-help-christians-lose-the-hate/2025/07/30/ http://gayletabor.com/how-do-we-help-christians-lose-the-hate/2025/07/30/#respond Wed, 30 Jul 2025 15:57:34 +0000 http://gayletabor.com/?p=4239 The rest of the story]]> How Do We Help Christians Lose the Hate?

Without Beating Them Up About It

Let’s be honest—some days, it feels like “Christian” has become a brand associated more with judgment than with Jesus. Maybe you’re feeling a bit like the sentiment “I love Jesus, but I struggle with his followers” is often attributed to Mahatma Gandhi. Or as it’s more  commonly phrased, “I like your Jesus, I do not like your Christians”. Some have said that Gandhi expressed this sentiment and maybe you’ve felt that too—grieving the gap between the radical love of Christ and the way some of his people behave.

So how do we help bridge that gap? How do we help Christians lose the hate, rediscover compassion, and become more Christ-like—without shaming them into it?

Here are seven grace-filled strategies I’m learning, failing at, and trying again. Maybe they’ll help you too.

1. Model the Way

“Preach the Gospel at all times. When necessary, use words.” – (often attributed to St. Francis)

Before anything else—live it. Be the first to show compassion. Be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry (James 1:19, anyone?). When we embody love, grace, and mercy—especially in unexpected places—people notice.

You don’t need a soapbox or a bumper sticker when your everyday choices shout “Jesus” in quiet, consistent ways.

2. Tell Better Stories

Hate often grows in the soil of fear. And fear grows in the absence of real relationships.

One of the most effective ways to change hearts isn’t through theology—it’s through stories. Not statistics. Not doctrine. Real, human stories.

Tell the story of the trans teen who found hope in a church that actually welcomed them. The Muslim neighbor who brings casseroles when someone’s sick. The atheist who volunteers at a food pantry every Saturday. These stories challenge stereotypes without attacking anyone.

It’s hard to hate people when you know their names.

3. Use Scripture with Compassion, Not as Ammunition

There’s a big difference between quoting Jesus and following Jesus.

Yes, Scripture matters—but how we wield it matters more. If someone’s theology seems tangled in fear or hate, ask questions rooted in Jesus’ life:

• Who did Jesus consistently reach out to?

• Who did Jesus critique most often?

• What does it mean to love our enemies—actually?

Rather than, “You’re not being loving,” try, “What do you think Jesus meant when he said, ‘Love one another as I have loved you’?”

When Scripture is an invitation instead of a weapon, people lean in.

4. Create Space for Honest Reflection

Transformation doesn’t happen in debates. It happens in relationships.

That means making room for messy conversations. It means choosing curiosity over correction. It means allowing people to wrestle, doubt, and reflect without fear of being canceled or condemned.

Try questions like:

• “How have your beliefs evolved over time?”

• “What shaped your perspective on this?”

• “Where do you see love showing up?”

Curiosity creates openness. Openness creates change.

5. Name the Harm Without Naming the Person

When we’re hurt or angry, it’s easy to go into “call-out mode.” But what if we tried “call-up mode” instead?

Rather than saying, “You’re being hateful,” we might say, “Sometimes we get so focused on being right, we forget to be kind.”
Or, “I think we’ve all had moments where we missed the heart of Jesus.”

By using “we” language, we invite people to grow instead of putting them on the defensive.

Accountability is still important. But when we lead with humility and shared humanity, we open the door for repentance and relationship.

6. Pray (and Not Just the Polite Kind)

Not the performative kind of prayer—“Lord, fix them”—but the honest kind:

“God, change us. Soften our hearts. Break them for what breaks yours. Root out the hate in us too. Make us more like Jesus.”

Prayer isn’t passive. It prepares us to be brave and kind, bold and brokenhearted, all at the same time. Prayer transforms us first—so we can be part of transforming the world.

7. Celebrate Small Wins

People don’t usually make a 180 in one conversation. But they might take one step.

Celebrate it.

When someone softens their tone, asks a thoughtful question, or dares to listen to a story they once dismissed—notice it. Affirm it. Encourage it.

Transformation rarely happens in dramatic conversions. It happens in a hundred quiet shifts. Let’s be people who cheer those on.

Final Thought: Love Is Loud Enough

You don’t need to shout someone into loving better.

Love is loud enough on its own.

If we want to help Christians be more Christ-like, the answer isn’t shame. It’s invitation. It’s relationship. It’s modeling a better way.

Let’s be the kind of Christians who make people say,
“If that’s what Jesus is like, I want to know more.”

Want to talk more about this?
Leave a comment, send a message, or meet me for coffee. Let’s keep walking toward love—together.

And if this resonates with you, feel free to share it. We could all use a little more love in our feeds.

Grace & peace,

And I became fascinated with this idea of underground fire!

What I learned is that if you stand in certain parts of the Appalachian mountains or places like Centralia, Pennsylvania, you might not notice anything unusual at first glance. But beneath your feet, fires smolder. Underground coal seam fires—ignited decades ago—have burned relentlessly, unseen but potent. These fires consume slowly, undeterred by rain, snow, or the passing of time. Sometimes, they flicker quietly for years or even centuries. But when conditions shift, when the right spark or a collapse of earth occurs, they erupt into the open with devastating force.

And I realized the United States of America has its own underground fire: racism.

For much of our history, this fire has burned beneath the surface—sometimes visible in the smoke of protests or the tremors of civil unrest—but often ignored by those who did not feel the heat directly. Generations have passed, policies have shifted, leaders have promised change, but the underlying blaze has continued to consume. Quiet. Persistent. Dangerous.

The Slow Burn of Racism

Just as an underground fire starts with a spark—a lightning strike, an accident, or sometimes deliberate ignition—racism in America began with a spark of exploitation and dehumanization. The colonization of Indigenous lands, the transatlantic slave trade, the codification of Black bodies as property, and the systemic stripping of rights from people of color laid the groundwork. And like coal seams rich with fuel, these injustices created layers upon layers of combustible material.

Even when overt flames—like the era of slavery or Jim Crow laws—were seemingly extinguished by the Civil War, the Civil Rights Movement, and landmark legislation, the fire didn’t go out. It smoldered beneath the surface in redlining, mass incarceration, voter suppression, education inequities, and disparities in healthcare and housing.

For many Americans—especially those insulated by privilege—the absence of visible flames created an illusion of safety. “We’ve made progress,” they said. “Things are better now.” But for Black Americans, Indigenous communities, Latinos, Asian Americans, and others, the ground was always warm beneath their feet. The smoke of microaggressions, systemic barriers, and outright violence lingered in the air.

I believe part of the problem is we made it an “off limits’ topic, but racist were engaged in their own whisper campaign. The racist comments were just underground, whispered to those they believed held similar beliefs. The jokes in all white spaces, or the prevailing belief in ‘welfare babies’ or those working the system.

The Pressure Builds

In geology, when underground fires persist, they hollow out the ground above them. Eventually, the weight of what’s above becomes too much, and the surface collapses, sometimes dramatically. These sinkholes reveal the magnitude of what had been hidden.

Socially, the same principle applies. As the fire of racism continued beneath America’s surface, the weight of unacknowledged trauma, deferred justice, and superficial reconciliation built up pressure. For those in power or those choosing ignorance, it was easier to pave over the problem—offering surface-level solutions without addressing the burning core.

But deferred reckoning doesn’t mean the problem goes away. It means the eruption, when it comes, will be more forceful.

A Fault Line Gives Way

When Donald Trump was elected president in 2016, many Americans experienced what felt like an unexpected eruption. Racist rhetoric was no longer confined to the dark corners of the internet or whispered among fringe groups. It was spoken aloud at rallies, tweeted from the highest office in the land, and echoed by elected officials. Hate crimes spiked. Neo-Nazis marched openly in Charlottesville. Policies targeting immigrants, Muslims, transgender individuals, and people of color were crafted not behind closed doors but in the national spotlight.

But for those who had long felt the heat beneath their feet, this eruption wasn’t unexpected. The Trump era didn’t create racism. It revealed it. It was the sinkhole after decades—centuries—of smoldering.

Some described the Trump years as a “backlash.” But in truth, it was not a new wave of racism but the exhaling of pressure that had been building all along. The election and the years that followed served as a vent, a visible manifestation of what many had long warned was still alive and dangerous in American society.

The Dangerous Comfort of Surface Stability

Today, some are eager to move on—to rebuild the surface quickly, to return to the status quo before the eruption. After the 2020 election, the calls for unity were swift and loud. “Let’s heal.” “Let’s not dwell on the past.” “Let’s find common ground.”
But those familiar with underground fires know this is a dangerous approach.

If you seal up a vent without addressing the source of the fire, you risk an even more catastrophic eruption down the line. The only real solution is excavation—digging down, confronting the burn, removing the fuel, and extinguishing the blaze at its root. It’s difficult, costly, and uncomfortable work. It forces us to confront what we’d rather avoid.
Similarly, addressing racism in America requires more than symbolic gestures or shallow reconciliation. It demands a collective willingness to examine and dismantle the structures and beliefs that keep the fire alive. It means listening to those who have lived closest to the heat and trusting their guidance on what repair requires.

Signs of Hope—and the Work Ahead

There are signs that some are willing to do this hard work. The resurgence of the Black Lives Matter movement in 2020 brought millions into the streets, calling not just for individual accountability but for systemic change. Indigenous water protectors, immigration activists, Asian American advocates, and others have continued to challenge the status quo, demanding a society where the flames of hate and oppression can no longer find fuel.

But the resistance is fierce. As with firefighters confronting a deep-seated blaze, every step forward can feel like an endless battle. And there are those who, rather than extinguish the fire, seek to feed it—for power, for profit, or out of fear.
Here we are in a brand new world in 2025, which is more than 2016 the redux, it is fully involved eruption! And those feeding the fire now hold power, seemingly unbridled power, and seemingly full steam ahead to unleash the fire that has been simmering for generations.

Fire as Purifier or Destroyer

In many religious traditions, fire holds a dual meaning. It can be destructive, consuming everything in its path. But it can also purify, refining precious metals and clearing the way for new growth.

The question before the United States is this: What will we allow this underground fire to be?

Will it continue as a force of destruction, hollowing out the promises of liberty and justice for all? Or will we confront it honestly, allow it to burn away the rot of racism, and clear the ground for a more just and equitable society?
Theologian James Baldwin once wrote, “Not everything that is faced can be changed. But nothing can be changed until it is faced.” We are at a moment where facing the fire—acknowledging it, understanding it, and working to extinguish its destructive power—is not optional. It is crucial.

Don’t Mistake the Silence for Peace

If the past has taught us anything, it’s that quiet does not mean calm. Just because we stop the active flames on the surface doesn’t mean the trouble is gone. Just because the ground seems stable today doesn’t mean the fire is gone. As people of conscience, we must resist the temptation to look away or declare the work finished.
Because beneath the surface, the fire remembers.
And it waits.

But now, let’s move from the “why” to the “how” with a little more imagination. Because let’s be honest: we’ve all heard the usual advice I named in the previous post. Take a Sabbath. Go to therapy. Drink water. These are good and necessary. But what if our souls are craving something deeper, more creative, more embodied?

This post is for those of us who are tired of bullet points that feel like to-do lists. It’s for the ones whose hearts are still tender enough to believe that joy, mystery, and presence are part of the call. So here are fresh ways to pastor yourself—not for survival, but for soulful, sacred resistance.

Not sermon prep. Not newsletter writing. Just you, a journal, and God—writing as if you’re having a conversation with your calling.

Try prompts like:

• “God, here’s what I can’t say out loud…”
• “Today I felt more like a chaplain to decline than a midwife to resurrection.”
• “I saw beauty today in…”

Let the page hold what your pulpit can’t.

Host a half-day creative retreat—no lectionary, no leadership development. Just old magazines, glue sticks, scissors, and silence. Create from intuition. Ask:

• What is God revealing to me about my identity beyond my title?
• What dreams have I buried?

Let the Holy Spirit show up in paper and paste.

Set a simple table. Light a candle. Speak the liturgy slowly. Break the bread. Drink the cup. Just you and Jesus.

Receive what you so often give.

Get in your car and drive with no purpose other than presence. No podcasts. No planning. No praying for the church.

Let the road unclench your soul. Let the silence surprise you.

Use fragrant oil. Lavender. Frankincense. Olive.

Stand in front of a mirror and say aloud:

• “You are beloved.”
• “You are not your metrics.”
• “You are enough.”

Sometimes the anointing we long for needs to come from our own trembling hands.

Choose a regular time block—weekly, biweekly, monthly—where you are unreachable. But here’s the twist: do something unrelated to ministry, and don’t tell anyone what it is.

• Take a pottery class.
• Build Lego.
• Go birdwatching.

Protect part of your life from being consumed by your role.

Find a peer outside your chain of supervision. Meet monthly.

Use a rhythm:

• What brought life?
• What brought weight?
• What needs releasing?

Not a mentor. Not a boss. A fellow sojourner.

Forget productivity. Build your rhythm around joy:

• One delight for your body (a hike, a hot tub, a nap).
• One for your mind (an obscure documentary, a new recipe).
• One for your soul (playlist curation, spontaneous prayer walks).

Track your delight, not just your deadlines.

9. Create

Find a creative outlet! In the past couple of years I have tackled learning things I always wanted to learn – for only the joy of learning! I took pottery classes and learned to throw pottery on a wheel. I took a stained glass class and learned to create stained glass. For me, I am moving toward creating my stained glass studio and having a space of my own to create.

I am also taking time to enjoy my hot tub each evening – true down time – if only for 30 minutes.

Pastoring yourself won’t always look holy. It might look like messy art supplies, silent roads, or ugly crying in your car. It might look like saying “no” to one more thing. It might look like dancing alone in your kitchen or floating in the ocean.

But in a world (and a church) that demands our output, reclaiming our soul is a radical act.

So pastor, pastor thyself. Not just so you can keep going. But because you are worth pastoring too.

Let that sink in…. I’ll wait.

I can’t quite stop thinking about it. I also feel it. This is a hard job!

And while I would like to think this is just some sensationalist stat tossed around to scare seminary students. It’s a sobering truth. A truth many of us in ministry know not just from data, but from watching our friends and colleagues quietly slip away from pulpits and parish life. Some leave with a bang; many more leave with a whisper—worn down by expectations they couldn’t meet and wounds they never got to name.

And while we preach Sabbath, grace, and self-care to our congregations, too many of us are trying to pour from empty cups. We’re bleeding out behind the stole.

It’s time we had a serious conversation—not just about burnout, not just about stress—but about what I have come to call the spiritual discipline of pastoring ourselves. Because if we’re going to make it for the long haul, we can’t just shepherd the flock—we’ve got to tend to the shepherd too.

The Unholy Trinity: Stress, Conflict, and the Cost of the Call

Let’s name it: ministry is hard. Not just emotionally or logistically, but spiritually. It demands your whole self—heart, soul, mind, and strength. And often, it gives very little back.

The stress is relentless: preaching weekly (or more), navigating staff dynamics (if you’re lucky enough to have staff), balancing budgets, offering care to people in crisis, answering emails at midnight, mediating conflict, showing up at every community event—and let’s not even start on the weight of the funerals and hospital rooms. Or the empty pews. Or the angry emails. Or the fact that on Monday morning, the sermon clock starts again. Or the fact than we also have lives – aging parents, children, friends (hopefully, although that is hard when your life become wrapped up in your ministry), dogs, and well, life!

Add to that the difficulty of leading change in an institution that is both sacred and stubborn, and it’s no wonder so many pastors burn out, check out, or flame out.

Conflict in churches isn’t new—but what’s unique today is the sheer intensity and velocity of criticism. The pandemic only sharpened the knives. Political polarization, theological divisions, and shifting cultural norms mean that pastors are often stuck in the crossfire. We’ve become both lightning rods and scapegoats.

And when your calling begins to feel like combat, it’s only a matter of time before your spirit breaks.

The UMC and the Produce-Or-Perish Problem

For United Methodist clergy, there’s a particular flavor of pressure: the one-year appointment cycle. In theory, it’s designed to offer flexibility, connectional support, and shared discernment. But in practice, it often feels like an annual performance review where your continued employment depends on metrics that are wildly out of your control—attendance numbers, giving trends, congregational satisfaction, or whether the Bishop, DS, or cabinet has other plans for your zip code.

It’s hard to dig deep roots when you don’t know how long you’ll be planted. It’s hard to be prophetic when you’re constantly trying to prove your worth. It’s hard to be present when you’re planning your own exit strategy.

Many pastors begin to internalize a toxic message: “You are only as valuable as your stats.” That’s not the gospel. But it is the subtext. And, I have come to believe it causes Pastor’s to offer a watered down more palatable version of the gospel, one designed to keep butts in the pews, and offering in the plate. Which becomes it’s own form of stress trying to appease the crowd while keeping your own beliefs alive.

And we haven’t even touched on the systemic inequities—how clergywomen, LGBTQIA+ pastors, and clergy of color often face more scrutiny, less support, and more emotional labor in connectional systems that claim to be equitable.

When Colleagues Become Competitors

We, in the United Methodist Church, say we’re connectional, and we are. We say we’re in covenant, and we are. But often, it feels like we’re more in competition.

Clergy group chats can become thinly veiled battlegrounds of comparison. Who got moved to a bigger church? Who’s being nominated for that committee? Who’s on the Bishop’s radar (or not)?

There’s a quiet hierarchy of prestige: big steeple churches, conference leadership roles, social media platforms, and book deals. And if you’re not climbing the ladder—or even interested in the ladder—it’s easy to feel like you’re failing.

That sense of competition is antithetical to the Kin-dom. Ministry isn’t a race or a ranking system. But too often, we let comparison steal our joy and sabotage our solidarity. Instead of celebrating each other, we size each other up. Instead of linking arms, we guard our turf.

Pastoral ministry wasn’t meant to be a zero-sum game. But the culture around us tends to made it one.

So What Do We Do? Methods for Pastoring Ourselves

The good news is this: we can choose a different way. We can learn to pastor ourselves—not as an act of selfishness, but as an act of faithfulness. Because if we are to serve well, love deeply, and lead with integrity, we must also tend our own souls.

Here are some ways to start (after writing this I realized these are the same old rehashed ideas – so look for the follow-up):

1. Sabbath as Resistance

Sabbath is not a luxury—it’s a commandment. But for many pastors, it feels like a guilty pleasure. What if we reclaimed it as holy resistance?

Taking Sabbath is not just about rest; it’s a protest against a system that says you are only as valuable as what you produce. It’s a way of saying, “I am not God. The church does not rise and fall on me.”

Block your day off. Protect it fiercely. Use it to reconnect with joy—ride your bike, go to the beach, bake bread, nap, read something that’s not sermon prep. Rest is not a reward; it’s the rhythm of grace. Unfortunately, if you’re like me, sabbath becomes a waste of sitting on the couch unable / unwilling to be motivated o even enjoyable things. So here’s your – really MINE – use the energy to get outside, to take a walk, or something…you’ll g=feel better.

2. Spiritual Direction and Therapy

You need someone who isn’t in your pews. Someone who doesn’t need you to be “on.” A spiritual director or therapist can help you listen to your own soul, notice your patterns, name your wounds, and reclaim your sense of call.

Pastors often hold so much pain—from others and within ourselves. We need safe places to process. We need someone who will ask us, not “How’s the church?” but “How’s your spirit?”

3. Collegiality over Competition

Let’s stop playing church Hunger Games. Let’s build genuine relationships with our clergy colleagues—not as rivals, but as companions.

Find your people. Create covenant groups that are real—not just book clubs with collars. Meet regularly. Pray for each other. Cry together. Share the stuff that doesn’t make it into the newsletter.

When we stop competing, we can start healing.

4. Name the Lies and Reclaim the Truth

You are not your appointment. You are not your weekly attendance. You are not your Bishop’s favorite (or not). You are not your preaching reviews. You are not your burnout.

You are a beloved child of God.

Pastoring yourself means interrupting the internal monologue that says you’re not enough. It means preaching the gospel to yourself, even when you don’t feel it. Especially when you don’t feel it.

5. Engage in Practices of Embodiment

Our bodies are not ministry machines. They are temples. And they carry the stories our mouths don’t say out loud.

Move your body in ways that bring joy—not just health. Dance, bike, swim, walk, stretch. Eat food that nourishes. Drink water. Sleep. Drink more water.

Embodiment is a theological act. The Word became flesh, after all.

6. Say No as a Spiritual Practice

You don’t have to attend every meeting. You don’t have to solve every conflict. You don’t have to say yes to every committee request.

Saying no is not failure. It’s stewardship.

Jesus didn’t heal everyone. He walked away from crowds. He took naps during storms.

If the Savior of the world needed boundaries, so do you.

7. Cultivate Joy and Creativity

When’s the last time you did something for no reason other than delight? That, too, is ministry.

Write poems. Build Lego sets. Paint. Garden. Sing. Laugh until your belly hurts.

Joy is not frivolous. It’s fuel.

8. Return to the Call

Sometimes we need to go back—not to the church, but to the One who called us. Revisit the moment you first felt that tug toward ministry. Sit with the letters you wrote, the prayers you whispered, the dreams you held.

Your call wasn’t to a job. It was to a way of life. A life rooted in love, in service, in grace.

God hasn’t forgotten that call. Don’t let yourself forget it either.

Final Word: We Can’t Afford to Keep Losing Shepherds

The stat we started with should terrify us—but it should also mobilize us.

If 30% of pastors leave in the first five years, and many more won’t finish their vocational race in ministry, then something is broken. And it’s not because we didn’t try hard enough. It’s because the system asks too much and gives too little space for soul-care.

We need to change the culture of ministry. But until that happens, we must learn to pastor ourselves.

Not as a backup plan. Not as a survival technique. But as a sacred responsibility.

You are worthy of care. You are worthy of rest. You are worthy of joy.

Not because of what you do—but because of who you are.

So dear pastor, before you pour out again, take a moment. Breathe. Listen. Tend to your own soul.

Pastor, pastor thyself.