The Danger of Flippant Labels

/ Jason Morris / Leave a comment

We live in an age of easy labels.

Disagree with someone and, in an instant, they can become an “enemy.” Express a different view and suddenly you’re a “radical,” a “communist,” or worse. These labels roll off tongues quickly and thoughtlessly, as if naming someone with a single word could possibly capture the complexity of their humanity. 

But these careless labels aren’t harmless. They are used to dismiss, belittle, and devalue those with whom we disagree. These labels distort truth, divide communities, and dehumanize people created in the image of God.

I think often about my great-grandfather when I see this happening. He was a Russian immigrant, born in Dobrinka into a family of exiles who had fled Germany for the Volga River region of Russia. After the death of his father, his family immigrated to the United States seeking a better life. Like so many immigrants, he worked hard to learn English and to speak without an accent—he even encouraged his brother to do the same, hoping it might spare him from prejudice.

He served proudly in the U.S. military during World War I. He loved this country deeply. Through hard work and determination, he found minor success as a farmer, a small business owner, and a landlord. He also answered a higher calling—serving as a pastor in the Church of God (Anderson). His faith wasn’t a Sunday-only affair; it was the center of his life, the reason he gave generously, treated workers fairly, and opened his home to others.

And yet, during the McCarthy era, my great-grandfather was labeled a communist. Not because he was part of any party or movement, but because his place of birth and his values—justice, compassion, care for the poor—were suddenly viewed through the warped lens of fear. His desire to live out the teachings of Jesus made him suspect. He faced discrimination and business losses as threats of being placed on a “list” loomed over him.

Still, he never stopped believing that the Gospel meant something more than private faith. He took seriously the example of the early church in Acts—where believers shared what they had, ensuring that no one among them was in need.

His legacy shaped my family’s story. My father, who admired him deeply, would probably best be described in a political sense as a democratic socialist. When I hear people today flippantly use the label “communist,” I can’t help but think of those old stories my father shared of my great-grandfather.

Labels like that are meant to shut down conversation. They’re meant to discredit, to divide, to silence. But when Christians reach for them too easily, we risk betraying the very heart of our faith.

We have used labels like “communist” to dismiss people working for the fair treatment of all people, while celebrating “Christians” who, due to their refusal to humble themselves and work together, withhold food from the hungry, healthcare from the sick, or shelter from the unhoused. When I see this, I find myself thinking that perhaps we’ve misunderstood Jesus altogether.

Jesus didn’t label people. He listened to them, healed them, ate with them, and loved them. He warned against hypocrisy and fear-driven religion. The Kingdom he announced wasn’t divided by ideology but united by compassion.

The early church didn’t thrive because it was powerful or “right.” It thrived because it was known for its love.

Maybe it’s time we reclaim that same spirit—choosing understanding over accusation, curiosity over condemnation, and love over labels.

To learn a bit more about my great-grandfather’s faith, generosity and legacy, watch this short video put together by Anderson University and the Church of God: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9iqY9wiGqrs

Pastoring in a Fractured World: A Reflection for Pastor’s Appreciation Month

/ Jason Morris / 1 Comment

I don’t need to tell you that the world feels fractured. Politically, socially, and yes, religiously, the landscape is a minefield of cultural tensions. As a pastor, I know many feel that fracture running right through the doors of the church and, more often than not, right through our own hearts.

The call to pastoral leadership in this context has become immensely complex. The job description today often feels less like pastor and more like a combination of cultural mediator, theological punching bag, and emotional trauma counselor.

Yet, in the midst of this complexity, our ultimate anchor remains profoundly simple.

The servant leadership to which we are called finds its purest expression in the Gospel of John. In chapter 13, Jesus knew his time was short. He didn’t use his final hours to issue a mission statement or hold a strategic planning session. Instead, he took off his outer garment, picked up a towel and a basin, and washed the feet of his disciples.

This is the non-negotiable definition of Christian leadership: a call not to power, but to humble service. We are called to embody the cross, which means putting the needs of the flock—even the dirty, resistant, and confused parts of the flock—before our own comfort or reputation. It is a humble, dirty, and often thankless act of love.

When a leader sincerely attempts to be faithful to Jesus, Scripture, and the rich tradition of United Methodist theology—a tradition that demands us to hold together grace, Scripture, reason, experience, and tradition—we are almost guaranteed to disappoint everyone.

My sincere pursuit of the radical, inclusive love of the Gospel is often labeled “too liberal” by one segment of the congregation. Simultaneously, my commitment to the authority of Scripture and the tradition of the church is immediately dismissed as “too conservative” by others. All the while, I am simply trying to remain faithful Jesus.

This environment has given rise to a deeply disappointing form of spiritual toxicity. We face not just theological disagreement, but outright personal attack. The name-calling—the accusations of heresy, the claims of being a “CINO” (Christian In Name Only), or whatever new term is trending online—is mean-spirited and fundamentally unchristian.

It is particularly painful when the genuine anger and disappointment people feel about our broader denominational decision are indiscriminately directed toward the local pastor who is simply trying to serve the community. Honestly, it hurts when people dismissively label pastors and ministry leaders as “woke liberal social justice warriors” when all we are doing is trying to follow in the Way of Jesus. 

Perhaps the most disheartening trend is the retreat from true Christian dialogue. People are making rash decisions—leaving the church, withdrawing from ministry, severing relationships, withholding gifts—based on incomplete or false narratives they’ve encountered outside our walls. The absence of a simple conversation is a wound. A moment of discussion with their pastor could often correct the misunderstanding or confusion, but many choose to walk away in silence, taking their pain and misinformation with them. And, let’s be honest, some don’t walk away in silence. They’ll talk about the church and why they are leaving with anyone who is willing to listen…except, of course, the pastor and church leadership!

This phenomenon is fueled by the rise of unvetted authority. We now live in an age where those who lack theological training have elevated themselves as experts simply because they found someone on Google who happens to agree with their pre-existing bias. They proof-text a verse of Scripture—ripped entirely out of its historical, literary, and theological context—and wield it as a weapon against the very community of Christ that gave it to us. It’s an act of deep theological arrogance that undermines centuries of scholarship and community discernment.

And then, at least for this pastor, there is the deepest hurt: the betrayal from within the body of clergy.

I must confess a profound disappointment in fellow clergy colleagues who have chosen to engage in tactics that can only be described as manipulative. When leaders actively lie and alter facts in order to “woo” people away from neighboring congregations, it is not discipleship, it’s not evangelism—it is opportunism. The concept of “stealing sheep” is an ancient indictment in the church, and its practice today is no less offensive to the Holy Spirit. We must trust that the success of a true ministry lies in fidelity to the Gospel, not in numerical gains achieved through unethical, divisive means. That kind of short-term thinking will never be rewarded in the long haul of God’s Kingdom.

So, what shall we do? I believe we must return to the towel.

We put on the apron of a servant, we bow down low, and we wash the feet. We commit ourselves anew to the hard, often lonely work of being a faithful pastor. We will keep preaching the transforming power of grace, teaching the depth of Scripture, and seeking the unity of Christ, even if it means we are never popular.

We lead not for praise, but for Christ. We serve not for reward, but because we have been served. And we trust that even in the storm, the work done in humble love is the only work that truly lasts.

So, if you are a pastor who is feeling the heaviness of our fractured world, know that you are not alone. Know that you are are seen…you are valued…you are loved…you are needed.

Happy Pastor’s Appreciation Month!

Singing with 80,000 Strangers: A Night with Zach Bryan at Notre Dame

/ Jason Morris / Leave a comment

On Saturday, September 6, I joined about 80,000 people inside Notre Dame Stadium for what might be the biggest choir I’ve ever been a part of. For two hours, we sang together—led by Zach Bryan and his band.

And what a band it was! A full horn section, a string quartet (plus a fiddler), steel guitar, banjo, bass, drums, and, of course, plenty of guitars filled out a massive sound. They didn’t just walk onstage—they marched in, playing pieces of the Notre Dame fight song, immediately drawing the crowd in. From the first note, Zach and his crew had us in the palm of their hands.

Bryan’s voice is something to behold—outlaw-country grit one moment, an aching baritone the next, then exploding into an intense growl that feels ripped straight from the soul. He worked the entire stage, making sure every side of the stadium felt included. And it wasn’t just loud anthems. There were quiet, vulnerable moments—like an extended a cappella section of Burn, Burn, Burn that united 80,000 voices—and there were joy-filled celebrations, like the 20-minute encore of Revival, where every band member took a solo while the crowd danced, shouted, and sang at the top of their lungs.

Now, yes—the crowd was singing about “rot gut whiskey” and being baptized with a bottle of Beam. But there was something holy happening in that stadium. Maybe it was Touchdown Jesus gazing over the crowd. Maybe it was the golden dome with Mary lifted high above campus. Maybe it was the steeple of the Basilica of the Sacred Heart piercing the skyline. Or maybe it was simply the communal power of 80,000 strangers, voices joined together. Whatever it was, there were sacred moments in that space.

Zach Bryan is not a Christian artist, but his music carries spiritual undercurrents. His songs wrestle with forgiveness, loss, loneliness, hope, and even prayer. He doesn’t paint life into something neat and tidy. He names the pain, the anger, and the doubt, and he does it with a raw honesty that feels refreshing in a world of clichés. In many ways, Christians could learn from that kind of honesty—naming reality without pretending everything’s fine.

Bryan also seems to live with a posture of wonder, seeing God in everything—trees, spring nights, friendships, grief, even the imperfections of life. That posture invites us into something deeper.

I wouldn’t call what happened Saturday night “worship” in the traditional sense. But it was sacred. It was real. It was thousands of people longing, lamenting, laughing, and singing together. And maybe—just maybe—those 80,000 voices will carry something of that night with them: the courage to be honest, the openness to see God in everything, and the reminder that there is something holy in gathering together and singing our lives out loud.

Some lyrics that stayed with me:

“Anger grows in my bones if you could not tell / But I’ll find comfort in company / Lord, forgive us, my boys and me / We’re havin’ an all-night revival / Someone call the women and someone steal the Bible / For the sake of my survival / Baptize me in a bottle of Beam, put Johnny on the vinyl (from the song Revival)

“I’d like to get lost on some old back road / Find a shade tree and a honey hole / And talk to my grandpa again / And I see God in everything / The trees and pain and nights in the spring/ So why do I still long for a home?…So let me go down the line / I wanna feel it all / Joy, pain, and sky / So let me go down the line / We all burn, burn, burn and then die (from the song Burn, Burn, Burn)

“To you, I’m just a man, to me, you’re all I am / Where the hell am I supposed to go / I poisoned myself again, somethin’ in the orange / Tells me you’re never comin’ home / If you leave today, I’ll just stare at the way / The orange touches all things around / The grass, trees, and dew, how I just hate you / Please turn those headlights around” (from Something in the Orange)

“The kids are in town for a funeral / And the grass all smells the same as the day you broke your arm swingin’ / On that kid out on the river / You bailed him out, never said a thing about Jesus or the way he’s livin’ / If you could see ’em now, you’d be proud / But you’d think they’s yuppies / Your funeral was beautiful / I bet God heard you comin’” (from Pink Skies)

“Only God and my mama know what I need / And I feel the hardwood floors on my knees / As I beg You, just to take it easy on me / Well, I wanna die an old man / Messed-up stories of me and all my old friends / And laugh about how we all thought it won’t end / How we all wind up where we begin / Movin’ at God speed / Where only God and our mamas know what we need / And we feel the hardwood floors on our knees / As we beg the world to bring us to our feet” (from Godspeed)

“Burn, Burn, Burn”
“Revival”

Misrepresenting Jesus: A Daily Problem

/ Jason Morris / Leave a comment

I have a confession to make: I misrepresent Jesus every single day.

Sometimes it happens in ways that are small and easy to ignore—a cynical thought, a critical comment, a moment of pride that flares up in the middle of a conversation.

Other times, it’s bigger. I catch myself judging fellow Christians harshly, saying things like, “How dare they wear a cross or proclaim to be followers of Christ when their words, actions, and votes contradict the very teachings of Jesus?”

And then I realize, in that very moment, I’m guilty of the same thing. I’m misrepresenting Jesus by letting my judgment and ego take the wheel…because this judgment is often coming from a place of egotistical pride, rather than compassionate concern.

Jesus once asked, “Why do you see the speck in your neighbor’s eye but do not notice the plank in your own?”(Matthew 7:3). Those words hit hard because they expose the truth: it’s easy to spot the faults of others and ignore our own. I can read books like John Pavlovitz’s If God is Love, Don’t Be a Jerk and smugly nod along, thinking, “Yes, all those jerky Christians need to hear this.” But if I’m honest, I need to hear it too.

That doesn’t mean we stop holding one another accountable. There are absolutely times when Christians must call out the blatant misuse of Jesus’ name—especially when faith is weaponized to harm the vulnerable, excuse injustice, or prop up systems of oppression. But accountability without humility is just arrogance dressed in religious clothing. Accountability without compassion is just another form of judgment.

The truth is, we’re all stumbling our way through this life of faith. I fall short more than I get it right. And maybe that’s the point—faith is less about proving we’re perfect and more about learning how to extend grace, even as we long for justice. It’s about being honest about the ways we misrepresent Jesus and choosing to live differently tomorrow.

Because let’s be clear: when we use our religion to justify policies and behaviors that strip dignity away from people, we’re misrepresenting Jesus. When we cheer on violence, ignore genocide, mistreat the stranger in our midst, or cut funding for programs that provide healthcare, food, housing, and education, we’re putting words in Jesus’ mouth that He never spoke. We are misrepresenting Jesus when we’re using His name and our Christian faith to defend hatred.

Instead, what if we became known for our civility rather than our rage? What if we embodied the fruits of the Spirit—love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control—instead of the rotten fruit of division, judgment, and hatred? What if we really believed Jesus is big enough to overcome what divides us? What if we proclaimed, in word and deed, that we are ready to “let love rule” (as Lenny Kravitz sings)?

If Jesus is truly our guide, then the world should be able to see it. Not through our pride or our shouting, but through the ways we live—honest about our failures, committed to being better, and working tirelessly for love, grace, compassion, peace and mercy.

Maybe then, we could spend less time misrepresenting Jesus and more time showing the world who He really is.

“You Don’t Look Like a Pastor.”

/ Jason Morris / Leave a comment

It was a Friday night about 14 years ago.

I was leading the wedding rehearsal for a young couple at the church I was serving. I was wearing my typical rehearsal attire: khaki’s, polo, my favorite Doc Martens. For those who know me, this qualifies as “dressed up!” I mean, the polo was even tucked in!

As the bridal party was gathering, the father of the bride introduced himself and started asking some questions: “Where’s the altar? Where’s the kneeling rail? Where do people get saved?”

Based on his line of questioning, I had a pretty good idea of the type of church this gentleman attended. We had a nice conversation about worship styles and ministry approaches. It seemed like the conversation was coming to a close when we both agreed that keeping Jesus as the focus is what’s most important.

Then he made a statement that was more puzzling than anything else. “You don’t look like a pastor.”

I implied that I’d rather “live and be” like a pastor than just keep up the appearance of a pastor and then asked, “So, what exactly does that mean?”

He replied, “Oh, you know…suit and tie, clean shaven, slick backed hair, that kind of stuff.”

Now, to be fair, my hair was in a bit of a wild state as I was in the middle of a wager to grow my hair out like chef Hubert Keller.

I’ve always embraced an attitude of, “this is who I am, so this is what you’ll get” when it comes to my pastoral “style.” Whether it’s my attire, my use of humor/sarcasm, my early onset grumpiness, my proclamation that I have one suit and I only wear it for weddings, funerals, and to ask for large sums of money, or my desire to help us not take ourselves too seriously, I really just don’t care that much what others think.

While I believe we should take care of ourselves so that we are healthy enough to serve, I’m not sure God truly desires that we place too much pride in our appearance. In fact, 1 Samuel 16:7 pretty much confirms my assumption, “…Humans see only what is visible to the eyes, but the Lord sees into the heart.”

And, most church-going Christians will agree, “it’s the heart that matters most.” But, far too many are still convinced that we need to come in our “Sunday best.”

I remember hearing a colleague share about a member who pulled him aside to announce his disappointment in one of the younger members church attire. The person announced that he felt it was disrepectful to wear jeans, a t-shirt and sneakers to a worship service. “That’s no way to honor God,” the man stated.

My friend replied, “Well, I’m not sure if you are aware of this, but that person is wearing $500 designer jeans, $1,200 sneakers, and is one of our most faithful and generous members. And, he shows up early every Sunday to lead our high school Bible study.” Now, I’m not sure he should have talked about the persons generosity…but I know he was just trying to humble (and shut up) the grumpy member.

Some have suggested that we dress in a way that reflects our context. Well, the most direct neighbors to our church would probably be the people sleeping in our alley or across the street at the mission. Wearing a suit and tie just might feel a bit out of touch. Down the street is the “business sector.” 15 years ago, the suit and tie would have been more prevalent, but today even the business sector has become more casual. If I see someone in a suit and tie, I assume they are on their way to court!

I mean, the largest and fastest growing churches in my local context are some of the most casual, informal churches I’ve ever visited. Some of the pastors and worship leaders in these congregations look like they just got out of their pontoon or were in the background of a Justin Bieber video. I mean, my only question is why are Dahmer glasses (wire-rimmed, double-bridged, aviator-style frames) so popular among evangelical megachurch pastors?

Maybe it isn’t about attire after all?

I mean, just exactly who are we trying to impress? God or our neighbor? I don’t think anyone could convince me that those who “dress up” score more points with God than those who don’t.

It’s not about being hip and cool…it’s not about our Sunday best…it’s about being ourselves – being who God created us to be.

So, whether you are a suit and tie, dress and hat, jeans and t-shirt, formal, informal or business casual type person, just be yourself! I’m conviced that God prefers that we all “be” the part than “look” the part.