This is the Line

/ Jason Morris / Leave a comment

Before anything else, let me say this plainly: If the church has hurt you…If you are grieving what faith used to be for you…If you feel disappointed, exhausted, angry, or quietly heartbroken by Christians or Christian institutions…

There is room for you. There is space for your grief. There is no rush to “fix” it or spiritualize it away.

Jesus never scolded people for being wounded by religion. He consistently made room for them.

Many of us are carrying church-shaped bruises these days. Some are fresh. Some go way back. Some are the result of hypocrisy, exclusion, abuse of power, or faith used as a weapon rather than a healing balm. If you’ve stepped back, grown quieter, or are holding onto a mustard seed of faith with open hands instead of clenched fists—that doesn’t make you faithless. It makes you honest.

So, let’s move forward…together, with compassion for ourselves and one another. 

In the midst of all the noise, outrage, and confusion swirling around faith, politics and culture, I want to name my line.

Love.

Not vaguely sentimental love. Not politeness. Not “bless your heart” spirituality. Not the “real love” that Mary J. Blige sang about…But the kind of love Jesus lived, taught, and embodied. The love that costs something and gives something at the same time.

Some may argue that Scripture can be contradictory and unclear. However, when it comes to love, Jesus was remarkably clear.

“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength… and you shall love your neighbor as yourself” (Mark 12:30–31).

“By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another” (John 13:35).

“Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you” (Luke 6:27). 

“Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful” (Luke 6:36).

This is the line Jesus draws again and again.

It’s not about who’s in and who’s out (though He does explore what happens to those who share or withhold love in Matthew 25:31-46).

It’s not about who’s right and who’s wrong…or who wins or dominates or shouts the loudest.

It’s about one word…Love.

That doesn’t mean love never confronts or avoids telling the truth. Jesus was loving and honest, compassionate and courageous. But love was always the point. 

If what we’re doing doesn’t look like love, sound like love, or move toward love, it’s time to pause and reassess.

Here’s some good news that often gets lost: following Jesus was never meant to feel like carrying the weight of the world alone. We will face triumphs and trials, joy and pain (“give it to ’em, Rob Base!“), calm and chaos…but we don’t have to face these things alone.

Jesus invites the tired and burdened to rest (Matthew 11:28). He feeds people before he teaches them. He notices outsiders. He laughs at dinner tables. He tells stories with humor, irony, and surprise. He welcomes the marginalized and outcast. He trusts flawed people and seems oddly unconcerned with perfection.

The United Methodist tradition puts language to this grace-filled reality. We believe that God’s grace meets us before we know we need it (prevenient grace), walks with us as we grow (sanctifying grace), and never lets go when we stumble (justifying grace). We believe (or at least I believe) that grace is not fragile, love is not scarce, and hope is not naïve.

So maybe this season isn’t about fixing the church all at once…or at all? Maybe it’s about being the church in small, faithful ways.

We can show the love Jesus calls us to embody when we choose kindness when cruelty is easier, practice generosity in a culture of scarcity, listen instead of label, laugh when joy feels rebellious, authentically show up with a commitment to be open and honest. 

Maybe this love Jesus calls us to is about embodying the fruits of the Spirit, not as a checklist, but as a way of life: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control (Galatians 5:22–23). It’s not flashy or trendy (or at least it shouldn’t be), but it does change lives.

If you’re still reading this…please know that you don’t have to carry the whole church on your shoulders. You don’t have to argue with everyone. You don’t have to explain yourself constantly. You’re allowed to choose love. You’re allowed to choose joy. You’re allowed to choose Jesus, even when others distort him.

This is the line I’m committing to…to love God and love people, to tell the truth with humility, to make room for grace, and to trust that the Spirit is still at work. 

If you ever find yourself saying, “I’m not sure where I fit anymore,” you’re not alone. Here’s some good news…The table Jesus sets is wide. There’s room for doubt and hope, laughter and tears, faith that’s confident and faith that’s hanging on by a thread.

This is the line…or at least my line…Love still leads us. Grace still holds us. Hope still matters. The Spirit is still moving

And I still believe that is more than enough.

Where’s the Line?

/ Jason Morris / Leave a comment

I keep asking a question that feels unavoidably Christian and painfully unanswered:

Where’s the line?

At what point do followers of Jesus finally say, “Enough”?

Enough cruelty masquerading as strength.

Enough corruption excused as strategy.

Enough moral rot baptized as faithfulness.

I ask this as a Christian shaped by the United Methodist tradition, a tradition that insists grace never excuses harm, that personal holiness is inseparable from social holiness, and that faith is always measured by fruit. I ask this as someone who loves the church enough to tell the truth about what is killing it.

The extreme margins of both liberal and conservative political and religious movements reveal a disturbing reality: when ideology becomes ultimate, morality becomes optional. Moral compromise exists on both sides of the aisle. Power deforms whoever worships it. Pride is bipartisan. Hypocrisy knows no party.

But that truth does not justify the embrace, much less the celebration, of a political regime and cultural posture that openly mocks, belittles, dehumanizes, and contradicts the way of Jesus.

And that is precisely what so many self-professed Christians have chosen to do.

Jesus said we would be known by our fruits (Matthew 7:16). So let’s be honest about the harvest.

We see the heinously horrific treatment of immigrant neighbors, people Scripture commands us to welcome, protect, and love (Leviticus 19:34; Matthew 25:35).

We see the brutal execution of citizens while Christians shrug or cheer, despite a Savior who refused the violence of empire even at the cost of his own life (Matthew 26:52).

We see grotesque concentrations of wealth and power, entangled with names long associated with exploitation and abuse (Epstein, in case you’re wondering), while Jesus’ warnings about the rich are quietly ignored (Luke 12:15; Luke 16:19–31).

We hear constant name-calling, cruelty, sexism, racism, and public mockery, while the One Christians claim to follow blesses the meek, condemns dehumanization, and identifies himself with “the least of these” (Matthew 5:3–12; Matthew 25:40).

And still…nothing.

Where is the moral outrage from those who once insisted character matters?

Where is the repentance from those who taught me that sin corrodes the soul?

Where is the prophetic courage to say, “This is not the Gospel. This is not who we are. This is not the way of Jesus”?

Instead, we watch politicians debate and dismiss the theology of the Pope, as though Christianity now belongs to the powerful rather than to the poor, the wounded, and the forgotten. As if faith itself is only valid when it serves political dominance.

What we are witnessing is a breathtaking act of theological dishonesty.

Jesus never addressed the modern culture-war talking points that led to the overwhelming evangelical support of one party. But he spoke constantly about love of neighbor, care for the vulnerable, rejection of violence, humility, truthfulness, mercy, and justice. He warned explicitly against religious leaders who obsessed over being “right” while neglecting “the weightier matters of the law: justice, mercy, and faithfulness” (Matthew 23:23).

Are these so-called issues really worth the erosion of democracy?

Worth normalizing cruelty as virtue?

Worth sacrificing the church’s credibility and moral witness for generations to come?

The prophet Amos didn’t mince words:

“I hate, I despise your festivals… But let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream” (Amos 5:21–24).

Jesus echoed that same judgment when he condemned religious performance divorced from love (Matthew 23), and Paul reinforced it when he reminded the church that without love, even the most confident faith is empty noise (1 Corinthians 13).

So I ask again, where is the line?

When will my evangelical brothers and sisters find the faith-filled courage to say, “Enough! We’ve lost our way”?

I fear that many are deeply entangled, so captive to pride, fear, ego, greed, and power that they can no longer recognize the fruits of the Spirit when they appear: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control (Galatians 5:22–23). Instead, we see their opposites defended with Scripture ripped from context and grace weaponized to silence critique.

And yet, against my own cynicism, I cling to hope.

I still believe no one is beyond transformation. Grace still disrupts. Repentance is still possible. Resurrection still follows crucifixion.

John Wesley believed God’s grace is always reaching for us…before we know it, while we resist it, and long after we think it’s too late.

But grace does not mean silence.

Hope does not mean denial.

Love does not mean moral surrender.

So I will commit myself, again and again, to the way of Jesus.

To love over fear.

To truth over power.

To humility over dominance.

To justice over comfort.

I will measure my faith not by political victories, but by fruit. I will refuse to confuse cruelty with courage or power with faithfulness. And I will keep embodying, however imperfectly, the fruits of the Spirit in a world addicted to their opposites.

And maybe one day if enough Christians choose the way of Jesus over the way of empire, I won’t feel the need to say, “I’m not that kind of Christian.”

Until then, I’ll keep asking the question the church seems desperate to avoid.

Where’s the line?

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