Stepping Towards a Better Way

/ Jason Morris / 2 Comments

The turning of a new year always feels like a holy pause to me—a deep breath between what has been and what might yet be. The calendar flips, but more than that, our hearts quietly whisper their hopes: maybe this year can be different… maybe this year can be better.

As people of faith, especially within my United Methodist tradition, we step into a new year anchored in grace and propelled by love. We believe God is not finished with us, with the church, or with the world. We trust that the Spirit is still moving—often ahead of us—calling us toward compassion, justice, peace, and radical inclusion.

What the world desperately needs right now isn’t uniformity or unison. It’s harmony. Uniformity says we all have to look the same, think the same, vote the same, worship the same. Unison says we all have to sing the exact same note. But harmony? Harmony invites us to sing our notes—different, textured, sometimes unexpected—while still committing to the same song. The song of love. The song of grace. The song of justice and hope. Harmony is messy and beautiful, and it requires listening as much as it requires courage. And maybe that’s exactly what God has always wanted.

I hope this is the year Christians—and the Church—find the courage to stop clinging to tradition simply because “we’ve always done it that way.” Tradition can be a gift, but it is a terrible master. Jesus himself was never afraid to challenge religious systems that had stopped bearing good fruit. When a practice no longer leads to love, no longer heals, no longer liberates, no longer reflects the heart of God—it’s not faithfulness to hold on tighter. It’s faithfulness to ask hard questions and to seek a better way.

And yes, that means it’s okay—holy, even—to doubt. To question. To wrestle. Jacob literally wrestled with God and limped away changed, blessed, and renamed. Faith has never been about having all the answers. It’s about refusing to let go of God, even when the night is long and the questions feel heavier than the answers. A faith that cannot be questioned is a faith that cannot grow.

Jesus showed us a powerful model of deconstruction and reconstruction long before those words entered our vocabulary. He named the flaws of the religious institution—not to destroy it, but to redeem it. “You have heard it said… but I say to you.” Again and again, Jesus peeled back layers of fear, exclusion, and legalism and offered something better: deeper love, wider grace, embodied compassion, and a kingdom where the last are first and the outsider belongs.

So maybe this is our prayer for the new year:

May this be the year of a better way.

A better way of being the Church.

A better way of loving our neighbors.

A better way of listening to voices we’ve ignored.

A better way of seeking justice without losing compassion.

A better way of holding faith and doubt together without fear.

The world doesn’t need a louder church—it needs a more loving one. A more honest one. A more courageous one. And I believe, with everything in me, that God is still calling us forward—not backward—into a future shaped by hope.

Here’s to a new year.

Here’s to harmony.

Here’s to holy wrestling.

And here’s to following Jesus into a better way.

The Hope of Christmas When the Good News Feels, Well, Less Good

/ Jason Morris / Leave a comment

It’s hard to deny how divided the United States feels right now. Our politics, our media, our neighborhoods—and yes, even our churches—often seem more shaped by fear, suspicion, and outrage than by love. In that landscape, Jesus’ prayer in John 17 feels almost painfully idealistic: “that they may all be one.” Not just united in belief, but bound together in love, so that the world might believe.

For many of us, that prayer doesn’t feel like a present reality. It feels like a distant dream. Maybe even an unrealistic one.

And yet, every Christmas, we gather to celebrate good news of great joy for all people (Luke 2:10).

That phrase—all people—is beautiful. It’s also uncomfortable. Because if we’re honest, many Christians, especially here in the United States, have spent decades drawing lines around who counts as “all.” We’ve narrowed the circle. We’ve attached conditions. We’ve confused cultural identity, political allegiance, and national loyalty with faithfulness to Christ. We’ve allowed these boundaries to divide us – even over issues that don’t directly impact us.

The angel didn’t make those distinctions. The good news wasn’t announced to the powerful, the religious elites, or the morally “pure.” It was proclaimed to shepherds—people on the margins, people with little status, people others overlooked. From the very beginning, the gospel was expansive, disruptive, and boundary-breaking.

But somewhere along the way, our collective witness has made that good news feel… less good.

During Advent this year, our church ran ads inviting the community to join us for Christmas Eve worship. We received plenty of “likes.” But we also received harsh, negative, and sometimes vulgar comments and messages. Not all of them came from real people (let’s give it up for the AI bots!)—but many did. And behind many of those responses are real stories: people who were hurt by the church, excluded by Christians, shamed in the name of God, or told—explicitly or implicitly—that they didn’t belong.

Responding with grace in moments like that isn’t easy. But it matters. Because how we respond says something about the Jesus we claim to follow.

In the United States today, many Christians have embraced lies as truth. We have championed causes Jesus never addressed while ignoring clear biblical calls to love our neighbor, welcome the stranger, care for the poor, pursue justice, and bear good fruit. We have aligned ourselves with individuals, parties, and platforms that show little evidence of the fruits of the Spirit—love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control—and still insist on calling it “Christian.”

That’s not just a theological problem. It’s a credibility problem.

When the church is known more for what it opposes than for whom it loves, the good news stops sounding like great joy. When our words are loud but our compassion is quiet, the gospel loses its power. When our faith looks nothing like Jesus, people stop listening—and who can blame them?

And yet.

Right in the middle of all of this, we stop. We pause. We light candles. We sing familiar hymns. We tell the story again.

A baby, born in a manger. Not in a palace. Not in safety. Not with power or privilege. God choosing vulnerability. God choosing nearness. God choosing to enter the world as it is—not as we wish it were.

Christmas doesn’t deny the brokenness of our world. It declares that God shows up in it.

The hope of Christmas isn’t that everything is suddenly fixed. The hope is that something new has begun. Something better. Something greater than fear, division, and despair. A light that still shines, even when the darkness feels overwhelming.

At Christmas, we remember that the good news really is for all people. And maybe the hope this year is that it won’t just be something we proclaim—but something we live.

Maybe the hope is that we will become people of the good news.
People whose love is wider than our comfort.
People whose grace is louder than our outrage.
People whose lives bring great joy—not just to those who agree with us, but to all people.

That may feel like a distant dream.

But then again, so did a Savior born in a manger.

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”