Since the troubles began — our global pandemic and the personal and professional flotsam it leaves in our wake — I have been struggling with the relationship between theology and praxis. I am stridently and unapologetically declaring that the Kingdom of God is here, and it is a Kingdom of peace, love, and — although my brothers and sisters in my faith community push hard against me on this point — justice.
I declare Black Lives Matter or Ahmaud Arbery was Lynched and my co-laborers in the local church block me on FaceBook, my neighbors insult me to my face…
And learn to stop saying ‘Black Lives Matter, But…’
The other day a friend of mine shared how they found new freedom in Christ — a cliche and socio-religious phrase of my fundamentalist past which still elicits a visceral reaction when I hear it. But this was not a Jesus-juke about how they justified their behavior or rationalized a risky decision. And it wasn’t a form of passive-aggressive moral judgement.
It was real. And it had three components.
It’s not about me
What matters is people knowing and following Jesus
Their story resonated with me because they were…
America is a Christian Nation. T/F
America is the greatest nation on earth. T/F
Racial socioeconomic and health disparities are a result of failure of personal responsibility. T/F
Capitalism is morally superior to other economic systems. T/F
Just like that we can isolate political preferences.
Call me a racist, that is fine. I will agree with you. I am — as it happens — also a white evangelical.
Before we begin I’ll acknowledge that no one knows what it means to be an evangelical. Most often they are seen as a voting bloc.
If you want a deep-dive into the history and meaning, check out Thomas S. Kidd’s “Who is an Evangelical: The History of a Movement in Crisis.”
I define evangelicalism as the intersection of conservative…
I never wanted to go to a death camp. In fact, I never understood why people did go to death camps. As a kid I read Maus — if you haven’t read it stop what you are doing and go find a copy.
That graphic novel told me everything I needed to know about death camps: I knew as a kid growing up in Germany that they were real and they were nearby. Nearly everyone I knew had been to either Dachau or Auschwitz. But I was not going. I had already seen enough.
My wife, before we were married, would explain my social awkwardness to our friends with the simple apology “he’s not American.” I would argue the facts, nearly every time — I had a US passport after all, spoke (and still speak) English as my native tongue, and have family roots in Indiana, Wisconsin, and Delaware.
But she was right. I was born at RAF Lakenheath in England and raised in Heidelberg, Germany and America has never felt like home. Even after living in the U.S. now for seventeen years some days something feels off, and even surreal. I am not…
An expert teacher and avid runner with expertise in citizenship and identity, rhetorical theory, and cultural intelligence.