Katy Shevel

I’m sorry I forgot to text you back: Keeping friendships in a busy world

When a simple text goes unanswered

My friend texts me out of the blue on a weeknight. I am surprised and delighted to hear from her! She misses me and wants to make plans to hang soon. Absolutely! I think to myself. Before composing a reply, I dive into brainstorming mode: We could go out for brunch, and split sweet and savory entrees… Then we could go apple picking, and take fall-themed selfies…

Buzz! My plans are interrupted by the dryer. Chastising myself for leaving my clothes to wrinkle last time, I set aside my phone. While wrangling a pile of lavender-fresh shirts, my boss calls. There’s an email in my inbox I should peek at before tomorrow morning. After reading and processing the email for a bit, I grab a snack. I notice my fridge looks sparse…

A full hour later, I’ve immersed myself in the latest episode of “The Golden Bachelor” and the task of meal planning for next week.

The status of my friend’s message? A middle place: I like to call it text message purgatory. It’s when we open messages, read them, and then forget to reply. I wish I could say I rarely do this, but I do it all the time. I know I’m not the only one.

It’s not all our fault. We’re busier than ever these days, constantly multitasking, and transitioning back and forth from one task to another, in both the digital and physical space. Our brains adjust to adapt to our fast-paced environment, jettisoning details between transitions to make space for new information. (Case and point: when we lose track of a text message due to myriad small interruptions.)

Why friendship often comes last

However, when it comes to our friends, I think the main culprit is lack of prioritization. Our society tends to argue that friendship takes a backseat to other relationships. We’re told that friends “play a supporting role to work, family, and romance.” Work, kids, family, dating, responsibilities around the house… Once that’s all done, we finally get around to picking up the phone. The task of making plans – let alone keeping them – is like bad choreography. In “The Six Forces That Fuel Friendship,” Atlantic writer Julie Beck shares, “I personally find that the effort of coordinating hangs (or even phone calls) is the biggest barrier to seeing my friends.”

Let’s say your old friend reaches out to get quinoa bowls on Tuesday night. It isn’t that you don’t want to get together — or don’t like quinoa. It’s just that the babysitter is sick, and your spouse is working late again. How about next week?Oops. Never mind, that’s no good either. You say you’ll touch base in a couple weeks. You both forget to follow up. The dance is achingly predictable.

Between our busy schedules and the world telling us we need to prioritize literally everything else, how do we reclaim space for our friendships?

ChatGPT tells me to keep a sticky note on my nightstand as a constant reminder to check my texts before bed. That’s a start. Though a sticky note prompt doesn’t let my friend know that she matters to me. After all, I’ve left her in text message limbo. (More than once.) Of course, I’d like to safeguard against this happening as much as realistically possible. But I also know myself. This is going to happen again. Therefore, I want her to know that our relationship is very significant in my life. Even when, despite my best intentions, life ironically gets in the way.

What the Bible teaches about lasting friendship

In the Bible, friends make commitments to one another that shape the course of their lives — and their friendships. In the Book of Ruth, tragedy strikes, leaving both Naomi and her two daughters-in-law as widows. Though Noami believes they would be better off returning to their families, Ruth vows to stay: “Where you go, I will go; where you lodge, I will lodge; your people will be my people and your God; where you die, I will die, and there I will be buried…” (Ruth 1:16-17).

In the Bible, friends make commitments to one another that shape the course of their lives — and their friendships.

Ruth declares her intention for their relationship, and it is forever altered. Ruth and Naomi travel together, remain by one another’s sides, and interweave their lives. So much so, that Naomi eventually settles down with Ruth and Ruth’s new husband Boaz, helping to care for her new grandbaby.

Ruth and Naomi are bound to one another. Though even when circumstances keep friends apart, the Bible contains stories of those who remain faithful to their promises to each other. When King Saul becomes violent towards the heir to his throne, David, Jonathan – Saul’s son and David’s close friend – intervenes. He hides David, returning after three days to tell David to flee. As they make a tearful farewell, Jonathan declares, “The Lord shall be between me and you and between my descendants and your descendants forever” (1 Samuel 20:42).

Even Jesus himself makes a solemn promise to his friends during their last meal together. Knowing he will soon be put to death, after breaking bread and sharing wine together, he vows to his disciples, “I will never again drink of this fruit of the vine until that day when I drink it new with you in my Father’s kingdom (Matthew 26:29).”

All of these biblical examples share a commonality: a spoken covenant. Each is sealed by a heartfelt utterance, in one way or another, to be friends, well, forever. Maybe you’ve stood at the altar and made a vow similar to this to your future spouse. Now, perhaps thinking about friendship similarly, as “forever,” feels a little too long. Even so, does your friend know how you feel about them and your relationship? When was the last time you declared your true intentions to one another?

Practicing intentional friendship

In “The Six Forces that Fuel Friendship,” Beck asks us to think outside the box. We don’t have to view friendship as a lesser priority. She advises, “It takes imagination not to default to this norm, and to design your life so that friendship plays the role you really want it to.” She illustrates this by listing examples she’s seen of friends who buy homes together and go to therapy together. Two friends walk thirty minutes every day to give each other a high-five. This ritual lasts for years — and even survives through memory loss.

We don’t have to view friendship as a lesser priority.

Beck notes the importance of having a scheduled rhythm to help maintain our friendships: “It’s much easier when something is baked into my schedule, and all I have to do is show up.” A sticky note on my nightstand doesn’t help communicate to my friend that she matters to me. Joining a book club together might.

In her book Modern Friendship: How to Nurture Our Most Valued Connections, Anna Goldfarb lifts up friendship rituals like celebrating a “friendiversary,” or exchanging matching bracelets. She writes, “When you make space to celebrate your magical connection, you send the message that you – and your bond – matters.”

Perhaps we should dream a little then. Make space for imagining what could be. Voice our intentions out loud. In other words, let’s tell our friends they matter, create rituals together, and make promises that honor that one special thing about our relationship.

I am creating a schedule that prioritizes my friendships. On Wednesdays after work, I bring coffee to my local musician friend. While she is setting up for her evening rehearsal, we catch up about our weeks. On Thursdays after work, a friend from grade school and I have an outstanding appointment for a phone call. My friend who texted me out of the blue? We enjoy a semi-regular “tea time,” with tiny sandwiches and everything.

Do well-laid plans fall through? All the time. Will text messages still be opened and unread? Hopefully not forever. May our underlying promise remain: You, my friend, are important to me. Let me tell you why. Let me show you how…

A version of this article was published by Presbyterian Outlook on October 30, 2025.

What a wisdom text taught me about online dating

A modern search for love meets ancient insight as I seek wisdom for navigating friendship, faithfulness and dating apps.

The modern dating conveyor belt

Alert banners flash on my phone screen throughout the day: “So-and-so likes you.” Reflexively, I pause what I’m doing, open my dating app, and engage in a perfunctory profile check. Initially, there are several factors to consider:

Does he have a blurry gym mirror selfie? Nope.

A photo of himself holding a large fish? Nope.

Whew. Cringey clichés avoided.

Alright then, moving on to more serious business: Do our interests and worldview align?

If yes, then I continue to peruse thoughtfully. But, overall, if the profile depicts an intentional, appealing, and caring soul, I will most likely accept his invitation to start up a chat.

“Hey there!” I text. “Your profile caught my attention because of …’ How are you today?” Back and forth it goes. If our digital conversation via the app flows smoothly and enjoyably, we make plans to meet for coffee or drinks. Drinks may evolve into dinner. When an engaging level of chemistry is apparent, plans for a second date materialize, and the modern dating conveyor belt clicks forward.

But who really is this person sitting across the table from me, sharing a plate of crispy Brussel sprouts? Hopefully, the man whose face and words captured my attention in the digital space is sincere and didn’t show up to this date under false pretenses. But how many dates before I know that the person I “matched” with is right for me and the image he presents is honest, at least as honest as any of us are in public? And what about the other profiles to whom I didn’t respond? Had I given them the chance, perhaps one of them would have been a more genuine connection.

Online dating is messy, distracting, and at times, humiliating.

Online dating is messy, distracting, and at times, humiliating. For instance, one day after a pleasant second date, my match texted to share he just found out his former girlfriend (whom he swore he was over) was pregnant, and he was going back to her. After we split, he continued to send me landscape photos of his morning golf course views and occasional wine recommendations. Yet, when I ran into him at Whole Foods, he didn’t recognize me. And I know stories like this one aren’t unusual.

Plunging into online dating with purpose can feel like taking on a part-time job — with no mileage reimbursement. I know plenty of people who have found love on dating apps. So it seems there should be a manual for navigating online dating’s rewards and pitfalls, but if so, I missed that memo. Instead, I’m maneuvering the world of digital romance with all the grace of someone who periodically drops her phone in the toilet.

Biblical advice for relationships

The Bible obviously doesn’t give pointers about online dating. Though it also doesn’t give many pointers about dating generally, or even romantic love. However, the Bible has plenty to say about making friends, and that feels significant. After all, I’m not using dating apps to find a hook-up; I’m looking for a partner. Logically then, friendship is the first – arguably most important – step to finding that “special someone” with whom to share my life.

In the Book of Sirach, a wisdom text found in the Apocrypha, the subject of friendship is a significant one and is addressed repeatedly. False friends come with caveats: “For there are friends who are such when it suits them, but they will not stand by you in times of trouble” (Sirach 6:8). True friends are to be prized: “Faithful friends are a sturdy shelter; whoever finds one has found a treasure” (Sirach 6:14).

During the second century BCE in Jerusalem, the context in which Ben Sira lived and wrote, a true friend was regarded as someone who showed up in difficult times and could always be trusted to keep confidences (Harper Collins Study Bible, “Sirach.”) Drawing from the rich wells of both the Wisdom tradition and personal experience, Ben Sira knew true friends are few and far between. He went so far as to claim that faithful friends are “life-saving medicine” (Sirach 6:16). Truly, such a rare kind of companion is a grace to be cherished.

Professor Kendra Weddle reflects that it was a faithful friend who saved her life. In 2019, the scholar-in-residence at a United Methodist Church in Dallas wrote in the Christian Century that she had 633 friends on Facebook. Yet, she still felt debilitatingly alone because she realized how few of those “friends” were genuinely there for her. Reeling in an isolating season of grief, mercifully, she had one true friend who walked with her through her personal storm, safely helping her navigate to the other side. Citing the wisdom of Ben Sira, Weddle explains that this friend truly became her shelter.

In sweats on my couch, scrolling through dating profile after profile, it occurs to me that this is precisely what I am looking for. I desire a connection that extends beyond “likes.” I want to know someone beyond their favorite quote from “The Office,” screenshot of their “excellent” credit score, and dream to travel to Bora Bora. Incidentally, I, too, want to be known for more than the flat image I construct of myself and post for the world to see. I am seeking a trusted and devoted companion with whom to share my life. But in a sea of digital faces – simplified, commodifiable presentations of self – how do you find a faithful friend?

How do you find a faithful friend?

“When you gain friends,” cautions Ben Sira, “gain them through testing, and do not trust them hastily” (Sirach 6:7). Writing in the second century BCE, Ben Sira could not have predicted the complex world of online dating in 2025. (Don’t even get me started on the ethical challenges of catfishing and AI-generated profiles.) Nevertheless, his guidance is very relevant to today’s modern dating dance.

Embracing failures

Atlantic columnist Arthur C. Brooks writes that dating is a lot like a business start-up. Business entrepreneurs know that a certain amount of risk and failure is inevitable to achieving that one success. For Brooks, both in business and dating, he acknowledges that failures are painful. However, even breakups hold immense potential if one accepts their inevitability and meets their arrival as an opportunity to learn.

He writes, “Common skills that people who have broken up learn are how to balance their relationships with friends and the relationship they have with their partner, how to trust with caution, and the importance of being a friend, as well as a lover, to their partner.”

I have had many dating failures; I will probably have many more. Brooks advises me to learn from each one, to not see breakups as a personal shortcoming but rather to objectively (as much as humanly possible) take stock of each relationship and note what I might do differently next time. If I welcome the chance to grow, rather than risk repeating doomed patterns, each breakup will bring me closer to that one treasured success.

Trusted relationships come by trial and testing.

Though writing from worlds and millennia apart, Brooks and Ben Sira seem to draw from the same ancient well of wisdom: that trusted relationships come by trial and testing. Ben Sira warns, “There are friends who are companions at the table, but they will not stand by you in time of trouble” (Sirach 6:10). Every first date means a new companion at my table. Therefore, I should meet each one with a spirit of caution but openness. Finding a faithful friend is worth the reward.

A version of this article was published by Presbyterian Outlook on July 24, 2025.

Praying compline with my dying dog

On my dog’s last night, I turned to the ancient prayer of Compline to offer a sacred goodbye filled with love, grief, and abiding joy.

As I brushed my teeth in the bathroom, I glimpsed a fluffy, sausage-shaped silhouette passing by the doorway. My little Pembroke Welsh Corgi Amy was making her way to cuddle up in a crescent shape at the foot of my bed, like she did every night. Except tonight, she inched along slowly, wheezing and coughing as she went.

Days prior, I received a call from our vet. “Are you somewhere quiet where you can sit down?” She asked me. “I’m afraid it’s not good news…”

X-rays had revealed a massive tumor in Amy’s chest. The vet listed treatment options, but my little pooch with a mighty heart and an even mightier personality was almost 13. So, I chose Option D: “None of the above.” I would simply do my best to keep the old girl comfortable. Thankfully, she had been symptom-free until recently. Now, however, her breathing was labored, and she was struggling to move. I didn’t want her to suffer. I made an appointment with our vet to euthanize her.

Hearing her struggle for air as she slowly made her way to the bedroom, I was racked with guilt and deep sadness. Tomorrow morning, I would take her to the vet one last time. I had never done this before.

Seeking insight for the next steps, I had rediscovered a spiritual roadmap for grappling with canine death penned by one of my favorite theologians, Andrew Root. In The Grace of Dogs, Root recalls the day their beloved black lab, Kirby, was euthanized. After the medicine was pushed into Kirby’s veins, Root’s young son, Owen, stayed with Kirby until the very end. When the light had left Kirby’s eyes, Owen exited the room briefly to retrieve a cup of water and a dog treat. He put the dog treat on Kirby’s back and dipped his fingers into the cup of water. With his wet fingers, he made a sign of a cross on Kirby’s forehead and said, “I love you, Kirby. Goodbye.” What a beautiful and sacred moment that must have been to behold, a young boy bidding his four-legged friend goodbye and committing him into the hands of God.

I wanted her to know that I would be ok. So I prayed Compline with my dying dog.

In my bedroom, I sat with Amy and softly stroked her belly, watching her little chest heave up and down. One furry paw found its way onto my knee, and two big, brown eyes peered up at me. Though she was clearly in pain, I was moved by how serene she seemed, almost peaceful, like she somehow could sense it would all be over within hours. Now, like Root’s wise son Owen, it seemed only right to send my dear pup into the arms of God with a farewell blessing of her own.

Pulling up the Daily Office on my phone, I began to read aloud the service designated for that late hour. From the Latin meaning “completion,” Compline is an ancient bedtime liturgy and the last prayer office of the day. We pray Compline before going to sleep, to lay at Jesus’ feet all the things that worry us in the wee, small hours.

Compline is intended to be spoken aloud in the company of others. There are prayers and Scriptures, calls and responses. This particular evening included readings from Psalm 91: “I will say unto the Lord, ‘You are refuge and my stronghold, my God in whom I will trust’” and from Psalm 31: “Into your hands I commend my spirit, for you have redeemed me, O Lord, O God of truth…”

I paused, as the air whistled out of Amy’s nose in a deep sigh. Scratching her ears, I continued. This next part held the words I was yearning for most of all. “Tend the sick, Lord Christ. Give rest to the weary. Bless the dying. Soothe the suffering. Pity the afflicted. Shield the joyous. All for your love’s sake. Amen.” Certainly, my prayer that night was for Amy’s eternal protection and for her suffering to be alleviated. Yet my mind kept returning to the plea, “shield the joyous.”

Amy chased butterflies and was the queen of everyone’s couch. She loved to play with sticks and lived to forage for crumbs on my kitchen floor. She even knew how to pick ripe cherry tomatoes off the vine without disturbing any of the green ones. With no tail, her whole backend shook when she was excited. She was a goofy ball of wiggly fuzz. Truly. She was filled with so much joy for the world around her, and in turn, she brought others so much joy.

I agree with Root and many others. Dogs are a grace. That little paw on my knee that night reminded me of all this girl had seen me through: my first job, my first home, an engagement, a marriage, two moves, a separation, a divorce, making new friends, and coming into my own in singlehood. She was my glimmer of joy, a living promise of God’s grace and the greater joy to come.

I wanted to say all this to her, and more. I wanted her to know that I would be ok. So I prayed Compline with my dying dog. I sought out an ancient, ecclesiological prayer, beyond any words I could ever muster up on my own in that moment.

Shield the joyous. It seemed so fitting that these last words should be the final, farewell blessing for my little dog, my dear friend.

Shield the joyous. It seemed so fitting that these last words should be the final, farewell blessing for my little dog, my dear friend. I prayed that the joy of the Lord would linger with her in her last hours and carry her into whatever heavenly place is prepared for dogs — for I do believe in such a place, as does Root, as does Dietrich Bonhoeffer, among others.

In The Grace of Dogs, Root tells the story of a small boy questioning Bonhoeffer about an afterlife for dogs. Reflecting on Bonhoeffer’s response, Root writes, God promises to be with us in life and in death. God also promises to protect our joy and the joy of the ones we love eternally, including those with wet noses and four legs.

My apartment is quiet now. No sounds of little feet scurrying on the floor. No more barking. No more snoring. No more wheezing. However, photos of Amy’s happy face dot my walls, and the celebration of her life has connected me with old friends I haven’t heard from in a long time. She continues to teach me to keep my heart open, and I try to honor her in that. Today, I have a freshly laundered dog bed and new toys waiting in the other room for whenever I find the next pup. And… I also just filled out a new dating profile.

Staying, leaving and the blessings of Orpah and Ruth

Ruth stayed. Orpah left. Both were blessed. Choosing the right ending requires courage, faith and grace.

I still wear my wedding ring. Though not for the same reasons.

Following my divorce, I began browsing inspirational photos online. Ring-hand rings. Redesigned wedding rings. #DivorceRing on TikTok unleashed a collection of video shorts featuring sparkly gems and women sharing their reasons for splitting. Once I was convinced this trend was popular enough that I wouldn’t be laughed out of a jewelry store, I made an appointment with an heirloom design consultant.

The consultant examined my wedding ring thoughtfully as I shared my ideas. She enthusiastically greeted my new vision for my ring. Digital renderings were produced and sent. I shared my feedback, and the designs were tweaked to my liking. Back and forth this went for several cycles. Once I settled on a blueprint, a scale replica made of wax was presented to me in a tiny cardboard box. Within weeks, I was called back to the consultant’s office and, at last, received the real version in an actual jewelry box.

Katy's redesigned ring. Small blue and clear stones swirl around a central diamond. — Katy’s redesigned ring.

Much like the first time, sliding the ring onto my finger enkindled a swell of emotions. First, elation: this signified a beginning, a new chapter, a fresh start. Then, tears. Most were tears of joy — but there was also sadness because the redesigned ring represented an end as much as a beginning. This ring had once been the most significant symbol of my married life. More than signing the divorce legal papers, receiving the reconstructed ring cemented the last remaining part of my former life to its permanent closure.

This year marks the second anniversary of my divorce. Looking back, naming what happened is still a bit delicate. Things didn’t work out. We grew apart. Our lives went in separate directions. It was no one’s fault… These statements are all true, but after much time and exhausting efforts to save our marriage, I packed up; moved out; and found a lawyer. I was the one to initiate an ending.

In her book How to Walk into a Room: The Art of Knowing When to Stay and When to Walk Away, Emily P. Freeman writes, “With endings, especially complicated and nuanced ones, it’s important to say as clearly as you are able to what has happened.” Choosing to end a marriage most definitely falls into the “complicated and nuanced” category. If I were to name in plain English why it ended, it’s as simple as this: I left.

The redesigned ring represented an end as much as a beginning.

And as my divorce was finalizing in my personal life, a different kind of ending was unfolding in my professional one.

Our large Presbyterian congregation in Philadelphia was in the throes of a massive transition that included staff restructuring and an interim head of staff departing abruptly on medical disability. Colleagues resigned. Congregants walked out the door. Nameplates on office doors were changed — and changed again, all while worship and church life continued.

Towards the end of the turnover, we happened to hold two funerals for former staff. Familiar faces and former colleagues returned to say goodbye. It was bittersweet, but also heartwarming. An era in the life of our congregation had officially ended.

For me, this ending felt different than my marriage: I stayed.

Determining whether to end a marriage or to stay in an installed congregational calling are two separate decisions. However, there are notable similarities. Both are relationships. One is between two persons. The other is between a pastor and a congregation. Both require a covenant to one another and public vows. I have learned there is grace for choosing either.

In marriage, two people promise to spend their lives together. Though the commitment a pastor makes to her congregation is probably not forever, her life becomes so intertwined with those of her congregants that they inevitably grow together. Marriage and installation vows are sacred callings. The choice to walk away from either is painful. But the decision to remain may hurt, too. Staying brings a finality all its own.

When does staying best honor the original commitment? When is leaving the healthiest option?

When one enters a covenant, like marriage, some believe there is no option to walk away. I would be dishonest if I claimed to never have had any doubts about my decision. When does staying best honor the original commitment? When is leaving the healthiest option? Is it possible God’s grace is waiting behind either door?

In transitional seasons, I find myself turning to the Book of Ruth. After Naomi’s husband and her two sons tragically and suddenly die, Naomi tells her daughters-in-law to leave her and return to their families. Naomi is a widow in the Ancient Near East with no prospect for a husband or sons. She feels she has nothing to offer her kin. But Ruth refuses to leave: “Do not press me leave you, to turn back from following you! Where you go, I will go; where you lodge, I will lodge… (Ruth 1:16)” In my season of transitions, Ruth’s words echoed in my thoughts. But I also noticed the actions of Naomi’s other daughter-in-law: Orpah, who weeps and bids Naomi farewell. She returns to her family. Just as Naomi told her to do.

Our tradition celebrates Ruth. She is lauded as a loyal, loving daughter-in-law, her actions symbolic of the abiding presence and steadfast faith of the God of Israel. But isn’t there a divine plan for Orpah as well? Her choice led her down a different path. She honored her mother-in-law’s wishes. As a result, she got to return home to her family. After all, history only needed one of them, either Ruth or Orpah, to continue the family line leading to the birth of Christ. Perhaps God had blessed Orpah for a different purpose.

Isn’t there a divine plan for Orpah as well?

I find myself wondering about Orpah’s story. In the text, Orpah doesn’t hesitate. She doesn’t have second thoughts. She bids Naomi a tearful goodbye and moves forward. What was it that she knew about herself that made her choice so clear? What did she know about her relationship with her mother-in-law and sister-in-law? Maybe she anticipated that Ruth would stay. Perhaps she could foresee that Ruth was the right one to stay and support Naomi, that they were best for one another. Maybe Orpah knew more than any of them. We’ll never know. Staying or leaving, it is possible that both Orpah and Ruth chose the right ending.

In the end, whether to stay or to leave, only God knows what is best. Choosing the right end for one’s given situation is a testament to inner courage, excellent self-understanding, and ultimately, requires an enormous amount of faith. Endings delineate and draw a border around what one will and will not accept. Endings define our limits, as well as our calling. Though one door shuts, another opens. Once through the threshold, new possibilities unfold.

Endings define our limits, as well as our calling.

Today, I wear my redesigned wedding ring on my right hand. Reminiscent of its former charm, past elements now converge with new ones to form a beautiful, unique creation all its own. My ring reminds me of God’s faithfulness through the twists and turns of my past, culminating in my own personal transformation.

Endings show us who we are — and who God has called us to become.

When friendships change

I recently took a trip to the Jersey Shore with a dear friend. No, we didn’t go to that Jersey Shore. We hit the road for a getaway to the seaside town of Cape May: full of bright pastel Victorian homes, pale historic beaches dotted with “Cape May diamonds” (quartz pebbles), and big porches set for afternoon tea. Together, we celebrated my friend’s warmly anticipated entry into her second trimester and toasted our years of friendship — zero-proof style, of course.

A few highlights from our weekend “down the shore” were nature walks, dolphin sightings, and scrumptious seafood. However, I believe the scene I will hold most fondly is from our last evening in Cape May. As the light faded, we found our way into two rocking chairs, side-by-side on the wrap-around veranda of the B&B where we were staying. Creaking in our swaying seats, I remember thinking it was like time had stopped, as we chatted happily about life and watched horse-drawn carriages roll by under the old-world lamplight.

When I think about our friendship, I think about conversations like these. We both like to talk… a lot. Our friendship was forged as we both underwent different seasons of challenge and processed it all together: over wine and too much dessert. Now that my friend has arrived at the threshold of parenthood, I am so delighted that we could salute this next chapter of her life in a place so charmingly conducive to discussing it. Undoubtedly our friendship will change over the coming months. But I will always look back tenderly at that weekend snapshot in time and marvel over how a slow-paced, seaside setting captured the very essence of our friendship so beautifully.

As a single person with only a furry, four-legged dependent, I do sometimes worry about sustaining relationships with my friends as they start families. Major lifestyle shifts are one of the main contributing factors to why even strong friendships can dwindle. After all, pregnancy certainly alters any “girls’ night” happenings. Since I won’t be staying out late sipping cocktails in Philadelphia with certain friends anymore, this means I must be intentional about the deeper reasons for our connection. My prayerful hope is that we will uphold the core reasons why we want to remain in each other’s lives — and that we will always sustain the effort to connect.

In her book, Modern Friendship: How to Nurture Our Most Valued Connections, Anna Goldfarb stresses the importance of recognizing why we have the friendships we do. Goldfarb believes that our friendships are bolstered when we acknowledge the functions our friendships play. She suggests that clarity for our friendships gives us purpose, “establishing a clear and compelling reason why both people seek one another out and continue to put in the work to maintain the friendship.”

Drawing upon the wisdom of friendship researcher Tom Rath, Goldfarb identifies eight types of friendship roles: builders, champions, collaborators, companions, connectors, energizers, mind openers, and navigators. Builders motivate you and coach you up. Champions praise you and talk you up, even when you’re not around. The rest of the categories are pretty self-explanatory. A friend can fit more than one role in your life, and our roles for one another may change as the years progress. I appreciate these identifiers to help better understand my friends, as well as to help name the qualities and characteristics I bring to the table.

To add one further layer of understanding, I like the term David Brooks uses when discussing friendships: “accompaniment.” I value Brooks’ concept because it is not exclusive to any particular type of friendship. It doesn’t matter if you are a “collaborator” friend, or an “energizer” friend. It doesn’t matter what role you have for others, or what role they have for you. Accompaniment is simply how Brooks encourages us to approach people. Brooks says that accompanying someone is about “presence, patience, trust, vulnerability, and putting others before ourselves.” In his book How to Know a Person: The Art of Seeing Deeply and Being Deeply Seen, Brooks writes, “[Accompaniment is] just riding alongside as they experience the ebbs and flows of daily life. You’re there to be of help, a faithful presence, open to whatever may come.”

Accompaniment isn’t reduced to what we can or cannot do. Accompaniment means embracing who we can be for one another. This idea is freeing for me. No matter what season of life my friends are in, my goal is to be the one who accompanies. I can be a companion who sojourns alongside my friend as she approaches and enters motherhood. This might mean I show up when she needs me. When she has a newborn at home, I can stop by with snacks for a night in or offer my babysitting services so she can have a well-deserved break. Or, it may very well mean we traverse through a season of life apart, in which we do not see each other as often but still support each other from afar.

Practicing the art of accompaniment is a mindset. Being one who accompanies requires trust. I cannot force the friendship. Instead, I must prayerfully learn to relinquish control and be content to come along for the ride. I must believe in my heart that because we each play a meaningful role in one another’s lives, we will mutually continue to make one another a priority on into the future. It means letting go and believing that the ebbs and flows of life will eventually lead us back to each other.

Practicing the art of accompaniment is a mindset that requires trust.

According to Goldfarb’s list of friend types, my fellow Jersey traveler and I are “navigator” friends. Navigators are the ones to whom one turns for support in handling life’s twists and turns. I need someone in my life to help me talk through my choices and keep me orienting me toward my core beliefs — and I believe I do this for her as well. We have stood at various crossroads together and supported each other in our decisions. We have joyfully celebrated our successes and dreams together. Now it seems we are standing at another crossroads. It’s a little scary, but, oh what a happy snapshot in time! The memory of the two of us rocking side-by-side on a big Victorian porch in Cape May is the image I will carry with me as I prepare to accompany her into this next exciting chapter of her life.

A version of this article was published on Sept. 26, 2024 by Presbyterian Outlook.

AI, humanity, and the unveiling mirror

Artificial intelligence reflects our imperfections, but that is not the whole story.

Decades before the advent of Siri and ChatGPT, “The Twilight Zone” predicted our true fears behind artificial intelligence.

In 1963, an episode aired in black-and-white called Uncle Simon. Simon and his niece Barbara have a fraught relationship. Uncle Simon ridicules and insults Barbara daily, making incessant demands. Barbara eagerly awaits the day of Simon’s last breath so she can collect her uncle’s inheritance.

When that day finally arrives, Simon leaves a sneaky provision for his niece in his will. To inherit her uncle’s estate, Barbara must take responsibility for Simon’s latest secret experiment: a robot hidden away in the basement that springs to life once it is discovered.

At first, life with her uncle’s automaton does not seem so bad. As the days pass by, the robot learns more and begins to behave strangely. Barbara becomes fearful and suspicious. Soon, the robot begins spewing insults at her, demanding hot chocolate, and ordering her around day and night — just like Uncle Simon.

Uncle Simon’s robot evolved to become all that he was: believing what he did, behaving like he did, and reasoning like he did. As “The Twilight Zone” viewers discovered, confronting a human being in the form of an unbiased computer is both amazing and terrifying to behold. Intelligent machines show us who we really are.

Intelligent machines show us who we really are.

Artificial intelligence shows both the best and worst of us. As the Presbyterian Outlook’s Editor Teri McDowell Ott observes, artificial intelligence effectually “reflects us.” It exposes our shortcomings and our faults. AI learns just as much from our virtues as our vices. It reveals our ignorance and deficiencies. We are coexisting with intelligent machines in our homes, which remind us daily of all that we don’t know. Once I asked Alexa what the meaning of life was, and she just replied vaguely: “There’s an app for that.”

Our future with intelligent machines is far from perfect. We haven’t solved the world’s problems with artificial intelligence — instead we keep unintentionally exposing the flaws within ourselves. Microsoft designed an AI chatbot to learn from social media conversations with humans. In under 24 hours, Twitter users successfully taught the bot to post offensive content, including racist and sexist tweets. A sheriff’s office in Pasco County, Florida, hoped to prevent crime by using an AI algorithm to generate lists of people deemed “likely” to break the law. The names on the lists are monitored and targeted by police, leading to claims of police bias and harassment across the county.

If artificial intelligence learns from us, then it will continue to reflect our flaws to us. So perhaps the space where the spiritual path and intelligent machinery intersect is simply the place where we are forced, once and for all, to admit that our vision is not enough. To quote the Apostle Paul in 1 Corinthians, “For now, we are seeing in a mirror dimly” (1 Corinthians 13:12). We don’t see everything. We don’t know everything. We are biased. We are broken. We are not enough.

When we arrive in this sobering place, faith gives us hope. Once we admit the raw and unflattering truth of who we really are – flaws and all – we are drawn outwards, beyond what we can see. This is where we encounter the fullness of God, and all that God has done for us. The scales fall off our eyes: “I was blind but now I see…” When we encounter the “amazing grace” of God, we can look beyond condemnation, imperfections and pride. We can see that God beholds us with divine mercy, grace and steadfast love.

Artificial intelligence reflects our imperfections, but that is not the whole story.

Artificial intelligence reflects our imperfections, but that is not the whole story. God sees us: who we were created to be, who we have been called to be, and who we will be eternally with God forevermore.

Tea time and liturgical time: Finding grace in repetition

My daily ritual of drinking tea provides punctuation and structure to my days — reminding me that I am held within the broader design of God’s time.

How to ruin a cup of tea:

Use water that is too hot, or too cold.
Over-steep or under-steep the tea.
Use an oversized mug and only put one teeny, tiny little tea bag in it.
Use an under-sized mug and put several tea bags in it.
Dump a spoonful of loose-leaf tea into a mug of hot water and forget to use a steeping device. Mm, tea soup.

Brewing tea is something I do both very well — and very poorly. It depends on the day. The process remains consistent: Heat the water; steep the leaves; repeat. However, making tea well means embracing the types, functions, and different brewing methods. I can recall the exact temperature required to brew a Japanese Sencha without burning its delicate leaves. I’ve learned that jasmine pearl tea comprises intricately hand-rolled leaves that unfurl while steeping, releasing an exceptionally soothing scent and taste reminiscent of spring. I also know that herbal “tea,” is not actually tea at all. It’s a tisane, meaning an infusion of anything apart from the tea plant (Camellia sinensis.) Only black, green, white, yellow and oolong varieties are really and truly “tea.”

I have grown to love the taste of tea and the practice of making it. My cup has become my other appendage: at my desk, on my couch, at a staff meeting, or on a Zoom call. Even while I walk around the church building and greet church members on a Sunday morning, I usually have a cup in hand. Tea is more than a routine for me: it’s a ritual that provides structure and a cadence to my life.

Though I’ve come to learn quite a bit about tea, I’m no expert. I just want to enjoy my daily cup. Even so, I frequently miss the mark in my practice. Stopping what I’m doing to make a cup of tea is meant to infuse mindfulness into my fast-paced, hectic schedule. Creating a satisfying cup calls for my grace, patience and attention. It’s supposed to invoke a swell of gratitude within me for the little things.

Yet, when I’m honest with myself, I know that making tea hasn’t automatically made me into a more virtuous person. I show up to my beloved tea kettle distracted, clumsy and impatient. I would be embarrassed to know just how many cups in my life I have burnt. I often finish my tea at my desk after a barrage of emails, looking down into my empty cup with surprise. So much for a clarifying break!

How do I make sense of this little tea habit of mine? It’s something I do every day. Most of the time, I enjoy it. But sometimes, I don’t. Some cups are good; some cups are bad. My goal isn’t to become a master tea-maker. My goal is to make another cup tomorrow … and the day after that.

Repetition is something we know well in the church. We cycle through seasons in the life of the church, one after another: seasons of fasts and feasts, joy and penitence. We follow a yearly roadmap, the liturgical calendar, which starts with Advent and continues through Christmastide, Epiphany, Lent, Easter, Pentecost and Ordinary Time, ending with Christ the King Sunday. Then, it starts over again on the first Sunday of Advent. Each special season in the life of the church calendar shapes and molds us individually, and collectively, as people of faith. We live and breathe the liturgical year together as a community. Then we start all over again.

In his book The Power of Ritual, Casper Ter Kuile lifts the comfort he finds in the church’s calendar. Unlike our civic calendar, the church’s calendar isn’t quantifiable or always increasing. Liturgical time doesn’t “travel linearly.” We don’t gain “more and more” time. Rather, liturgical time is repetitive. Our liturgical calendar follows the unique shape of a spiral. No matter where we are in time, eventually, we will circle back to this moment again.

The point isn’t to practice liturgical time “well” or to do it “right.” The point is to live it over and over again — and to have grace with ourselves as we do so.

Ter Kuile writes, “I love knowing that however I succeed or fail in whatever venture or relationship, liturgical time, together with the season, will return again and again.” In other words, the point isn’t to practice liturgical time “well” or to do it “right.” The point is to live it over and over again — and to have grace with ourselves as we do so.

I believe that within the steady cycle and structure of liturgical time, I am cradled safely within the constancy of God’s time. This is not the kind of time that can be measured or quantified based on my level of achievement or success. It’s not a linear progression. I can’t succeed or “fail” at liturgical time. I am both made and unmade by it, torn down and built up again. Always, I am shaped by it. For whatever season of the church year I am in, I will return to this same moment within the liturgical spiral of time next year. We will be different than we were last year, and so will our experiences.

I am both made and unmade by [liturgical time], torn down and built up again.

Within the spiral of liturgical time, I see my daily tea ritual for what it is: a means of grace. This little ritual provides punctuation and structure to my days — and reminds me that I am held within the broader design of God’s time.

Today, I will make a cup of tea. This cup of tea will be different than my last one and my next one. Tea-making reminds me that I am fallible; it humbles me. Tea is predictable, like liturgical time. However, I am the opposite. I am a wild card. I am distracted, clumsy, and carry all of my baggage with me into my daily practice. Therefore, sometimes tea-making is satisfying; sometimes it is not. This doesn’t make my ritual any less meaningful, and my level of success with it doesn’t define me. I will make mistakes. I am constantly changing, as is the world around me. But God’s love for me never does. If I ruin my cup of tea, so be it.

Making tea is my little window into God’s mercy on repeat, for me. No matter my level of success, I can empty my kettle, rinse out my cup, and start again. My value is not measured by the linear progression of civic time. Within the spiral of liturgical time, I am nestled securely within the embrace of God’s capacious love. God’s time holds space for all of me and provides room for me to make mistakes. For whatever today brings, by God’s grace, tomorrow is another day.

Forgiveness: Drawing close to the wound

What happens when you are denied forgiveness?

“Do you forgive me?”

The question hung in the air between my friend and me. I had just admitted fault and apologized, and I tried not to hold my breath. What if my desire for reconciliation was not returned? What if my attempts to repair the broken relationship were not reciprocated? My four little words were so full of vulnerability, hope and pregnant anticipation.

The roots of this conversation started weeks ago when my friend and I had a misunderstanding and they stopped speaking to me. I did everything I knew to do to make the situation right. I wanted our healing to follow the familiar pattern: contrition, confession, absolution, and reconciliation.

I took the steps I thought I needed to, then I waited to receive some sign, an assurance of forgiveness from my friend. To be very honest, I felt that I needed it. We all need forgiveness. Our flawed selves spill over and hurt the people in our lives, time and time again. As we say in the Lord’s Prayer, “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” By God’s grace, the ability to pardon one another’s missteps is what holds us together. Without forgiveness, we would be alone.

But forgiveness is as challenging to ask for as it is to accept. In Consolations, a lyrical ode to words themselves, poet and philosopher David Whyte describes forgiveness as nothing short of “heartache.” He writes how difficult it is to practice, for “it not only refuses to eliminate the original wound but actually draws us closer to its source.” The path to forgiveness is painful. It assumes a great deal of risk. It does not deny the damage done but accepts it and looks forward, all while recognizing something has been altered in one’s self and in one’s relationship. Furthermore, forgiveness is painful because sometimes it does not come — or it is delayed.

“[Forgiveness] not only refuses to eliminate the original wound but actually draws us closer to its source.” — David Whyte

As I write this, my friend has not forgiven me. At least, not yet. When I stood in the intersection of our “original wound” with a hand outstretched in apology, my friend did not want to meet me there. I wanted resolution and reconciliation. My friend wanted space.

Dazed by their rejection, I was not sure what to do next until another friend counseled me: “You might have to look elsewhere for closure.” That’s when I heard the assurance of pardon anew. As a pastor, I frequently lead this section of worship. One Sunday after this conversation with my friend, however, I was a participant. The leader opened, “Friends, believe the good news of the gospel.” The congregation responded, “In Jesus Christ, we are forgiven.”

Something clicked at that moment, and a weight lifted from my shoulders. I was reminded by my community that I was forgiven, and I started to believe it.

I was reminded by my community that I was forgiven, and I started to believe it.

In our Reformed tradition, we don’t wait for absolution to be given by a mortal in a robe or a collar. The business of forgiveness isn’t left to the professionals. Forgiveness comes from Christ, and since Christ’s forgiveness has already been freely given, it can be uttered equally as freely by everyone sitting in the pews: young and old; member and visitor; believer and nonbeliever.

God’s abundant grace demonstrated by Christ’s free gift of forgiveness is a key theme of our theological inheritance. While this thought is certainly good news, it can be hard to grasp. We can easily lean into either passivity or obligation. Forgiveness can easily become a forgone conclusion, regardless of how we act, or a duty.

In my rush to resolve the situation with my friend, I fell into the trap of the latter. I took what I believed to be necessary steps out of duty and obligation to my friend. I expected instant forgiveness and an immediate gesture of reconciliation in return. My friend isn’t ready to forgive me yet, but this doesn’t negate the truth that God’s promise of forgiveness and work of reconciliation is still at work in both of our lives. Perhaps inward efforts were made on behalf of my friend, and I haven’t seen them. Perhaps this will be a process. As David Whyte points out, “The great mercy is that the sincere act of trying to forgive, even if it is not entirely successful, is a form of blessing and forgiveness itself.” I still hold out hope for us, with time.

Through this experience, I have been reminded that our ability to forgive one another is not a duty or obligation. It is a sacred extension of God’s perfectly sufficient act to forgive us through Christ Jesus. Forgiveness is a means of grace. Always. It’s not something we should ever take for granted. Nor is it an obligation that binds us without freedom. If all forgiveness comes from Christ, then the good news is that all relationships are redeemable.

Our ability to forgive one another … is a sacred extension of God’s perfectly sufficient act to forgive us through Christ Jesus.

When we sit with Christ’s free gift, we are prompted to offer our own free gifts to those around us: How can we show understanding and compassion to someone who pulls back their hand from us? If reconciliation in one relationship isn’t possible for a time, can we extend ourselves outward to forgive someone else? Can we locate the “original wound” within us and have compassion for the person we used to be, as someone who has both gotten hurt and has done the hurting?

Share the good news with someone hurting and who needs to hear it. Affirm it in your heart: In Jesus Christ, we are forgiven.

Thank you for reading! As always, check out this piece and more at my Presbyterian Outlook author page!

We don’t create — We reclaim

What does it mean to reclaim something?

After retrieving the appropriate key, my colleague unlocked the door, and we stood side-by-side in the newly vacated church office of our former head of staff. It was our first time in the space since she had left. At first glance, the unoccupied room appeared typical: rows of windows; cleared bookshelves; motivational art; cushioned couches; leafy plants stretching for sunlight.

Yet, as I stepped through the threshold, I remembered recent scenes of flurried intensity in this room. The all-hours crisis and conflict management meetings, emergency conference calls, tense supervisory sessions, tearful confessions, rigorous conferences with outside consultants, etc. All the harried work of institutional transition: the good, bad and ugly.

Today, this office was silent, unlit and empty. Our head of staff had left abruptly due to unforeseen and tragic medical circumstances. The difficult work that had been done in this room was now finished. Soon, we would be calling our next senior pastor to sit behind that desk. We are preparing to write a new chapter in this room.

I am reminded how much the rooms in which we live, breathe and work reflect images of ourselves back to us. A workspace contains the archives of who we’ve been and who we are currently striving to become. It’s contained in the memories of early mornings, late nights, triumphs, failures, echoes of hearty laughter, vent sessions behind closed doors, and secret tears behind computer screens. If we take the time, we can sift through emails, forms, photos, degrees and awards to find a roadmap. Rooms store our past and present selves. They also contain space for our future potential.

A spiritual director recently asked me: “Do you imagine God experiencing you as you have experienced your life?” My kneejerk reaction was to inelegantly snort and retort, “As a hot mess?” After we both laughed and our discussion evolved to a different subject, I found myself picking his question back up again later. I was surprised to find myself thinking of standing in that empty church office alongside my pastoral colleague.

“Our past is not what we’ve left behind; it’s what we carry.” — James K.A. Smith

I imagine God experiences us like the rooms that form us. I imagine my former head of staff’s office sighing with compassion for its occupant who had to leave so unexpectedly. I imagine that room filled with grace for the ones who carry this painful past with us.

The rooms that house us bear witness to the best and worst of us. So does God. And when we clear out a room, splash the walls with a fresh coat of paint, and prepare to start over again, our experiences aren’t erased. They are a part of us and a part of a much bigger picture. A grander narrative is unfolding.

In his book How to Inhabit Time, James K.A. Smith lifts up a quote from William Faulkner: “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” Smith observes in response, “Our past is not what we’ve left behind; it’s what we carry.” Smith reminds us that even when we start over again, we aren’t starting with nothing. It isn’t creation ex nihilo. We are continuously shaped, formed and changed by our experiences.

When we go through a season of upheaval – a change, shift, move, or rupture – the task before us isn’t creation out of nothing; it’s the work of reclamation. We are called to reclaim the things we carry, the past pieces of ourselves that have formed us but have fallen temporarily from our awareness.

When we go through a season of upheaval – a change, shift, move, or rupture – the task before us isn’t creation out of nothing; it’s the work of reclamation.

To reclaim means “to recover,” “to retrieve,” and “to take back.” Images of reclamation that spring to my mind require significant labors of time and meticulous attention: unpacking boxes, repurposing furniture, mending tattered clothes, and the long process of mental and physical healing. All of these entail holding space for what is lost, broken, worn, tired, and in varying stages of disuse or disrepair. An undeniable factor in the work of reclamation is the essential acknowledgement that something or someone is worth reclaiming. Intrinsic value is found. Love and care are felt.

Every part of us is held in God’s memory. The things we carry with us, however ugly or messy they may be, are worthy of redemption. God loves even the parts of us that we have forgotten, or perhaps are actively trying to forget. Confession is a vital step in the work of reclamation. Much of our baggage is the regrets we shoulder, the guilt we feel for what we have done or left undone. Rooms witness our sins and trespasses non-judgmentally and contain these as well.

An undeniable factor in the work of reclamation is the essential acknowledgement that something or someone is worth reclaiming in the first place.

There was no closure or reconciliation between myself and my former head of staff before she had to leave. To continue the analogy, her empty office knows that: as does God. God is asking me to trust that God already holds the knowledge of what was done and said in this room, and therefore, to release the confessions of my heart back to God. By God’s grace, I am working on that. I am working on reclaiming the parts of myself that have changed over time or were temporarily shelved.

I am grateful that every piece of us is held in God’s memory. God knows what we have been and what we will be, our past and our potential. And in this little sliver of time we call the present is when we are given the grace to keep trying, to keep reclaiming, to keep carrying the memories we hold that have formed and shaped us.

Here in the present, may we dust ourselves off and breathe. Imagine God experiences you like the rooms that have housed you, remember you, and have formed you. Breathe into God’s daily experience of you: full of abiding compassion, mercy, and love.

Thank you for reading! As always, check out this piece and more at my Presbyterian Outlook author page!

Pilgrimage reflections from the messy middle

What’s the difference between transition and transformation?

I wonder, what does it mean to be on a spiritual journey we never intended to take in the first place?

I’ve been asking myself this question a lot lately. I didn’t join the Great Resignation of 2021-2022. I like my job. I like the congregation I serve. In fact, I like it so much that I relocated to town. I happily adopted the local zip code and kissed my twice-daily views of Jersey Turnpike bumpers goodbye. Then one day, I looked up to realize I was working in a place I didn’t fully recognize. My office was the same, but the ground around me had shifted. Overnight, the journey of transition had begun and had permeated every aspect of our congregational life. It was as though I was serving an entirely different church…

Like so many institutions right now, our large congregation on the Philadelphia Main Line is experiencing massive change. In about a year’s time, nearly all my former colleagues have departed. Seats around our conference table are vacant or filled with interim colleagues, chief of which is highlighted by our ongoing search for a senior pastor. It has been a bumpy road, particularly over these past several months. Congregational grief over lost relationships and missing institutional memory remains acute. Some members have walked out the door, weary of the constant flood of change.

Yet prospective members want to join, hopeful that something new under the sun is happening here. Our new staff team has locked arms and are eager to create and lead together. I confess that sometimes it feels as though we are trying to build on sand. At any point, will office responsibilities get shuffled around yet again? Will another volunteer step into my office feeling discouraged? The internal dialogue in my head loops on repeat: How did we even get here? Where are we going next? Maybe I should start a dog-walking business, just to be safe…

Nevertheless, here we are: a liminal setting we never intended to be. Since arriving in this unanticipated space, I wonder what it all means — for our congregation and for me. In many ways, life itself is a series of arriving in unexpected places. I suppose it’s what we do after we arrive in each space that matters. Specifically, when God calls each of us forth into uncharted territory: how will we respond?Will we answer the call?

To be clear, I am still in the midst of the pilgrimage. These are not my sage reflections from life on the other side, but rather my obscured views peering out from some choppy “middle” place. It’s not easy to articulate my thoughts on the journey so far. As I have learned, existing in this liminal space means many things are truth all at once, often in tension. I love my new colleagues, but I miss my former ones. The ubiquity of impermanence is overwhelming; still a new door of possibilities has cracked open to us wider than ever before. I can see the light of revitalization streaming through, and it’s so clear to me that God is at work here.

The question now is: how will we step forward into this next phase of the journey? How do we interpret God’s work faithfully and with intention? How do we participate and join in with what God is already doing in this place? The soil is fertile in the congregation for renewal, regrowth, and – dare I say – revival. What will we do with the fertile soil God has handed us? All this remains to be seen…

My experience in the messy middle has made me wonder if churches overuse the word “transition.” Without a doubt, the word “transition” is a beneficial one to keep bookmarked in our congregational lexicons, especially today. A transitional season is a midway point, a place of change, a time of fluidity, and a shift toward the next thing. Lord knows, none of us are strangers to transition these days! Though to be very clear, a time of transition is only intended to carry us so far — by its very definition. It literally means “to go across,” like a bridge. In anticipation of our arrival on the other side, we need another word at the ready in our back pockets.

With that in mind, as our congregation takes the next step into an uncertain future, I am craving a different word: “transformation.” Transformation means to be changed, to undergo a metamorphosis. For my weary soul, transformation feels exciting, holistic, and capacious: brimming with big possibilities and full of potential. Transformation offers an invitation to step into something bigger than we are, a metaphysical transcendence beyond the finite limitations of who and what we once were.

Transformation is a term expansive enough to fit both our enthusiasm for what is to come and our sadness at what once was. To be transformed doesn’t mean we step away from our grief and simply leave it behind us in the dust, unaddressed and denied. The transformative process is one that takes our grief along with us to this next pivotal phase of the journey, allowing every part of us to be shaped and molded, especially the pieces of us still broken and hurting. Truly God’s hand is the redemptive agent in the sacred work of transformation.

If we’re honest with ourselves, transformation is equal parts exhilarating and frightening. Ready or not, widespread spiritual and ecclesial transformation is already happening. Whatever comes next, in the life of our own congregations – or for the American Church at large – it will be nothing we’ve ever seen before. Once we go across that bridge, we won’t be the same. Our God who leads us to the other side will shape us and form us in ways beyond our wildest imaginations. Transition takes decisive steps toward a new place; it is the bridge that carries us over to the other side. Transformation is full immersion into uncharted territory— how will God change us?