Last Words: I Was Hungry

February 22, 2026February 21, 2026 / Jason Morris / Leave a comment

Throughout the season of Lent, I’ll be sharing my Sunday messages on this blog. You can view the full service on the First Wayne Street UMC YouTube page.

Today is the first Sunday of the season of Lent. Lent is a season of reflection, repentance, and renewal. For forty days, we walk with Jesus toward the cross. We slow down. We tell the truth about ourselves. We examine our lives. We return to God. And each Sunday is intended to be a day of celebration, like a mini-Easter!

Historically, Lent has been marked by fasting. Fasting is not about spiritual performance. It is not about proving how disciplined we are. Fasting is about making space. We give something up so that we can become more aware of our dependence on God, aware of our habits, aware of the needs around us.

When we feel hunger during a fast, it reminds us that we are not self-sufficient. We rely on daily bread. We rely on grace. It might even awaken us to another kind of hunger.

Because Lent is not only reflection. It is not only repentance. It is not only renewal. Lent is also a call to action.

Before Jesus went to the cross, He gave words that reveal what truly matters. In Matthew 25:31–46, Jesus pulls back the curtain on the Kingdom and tells us what discipleship looks like when it is real.

He says: “I was hungry and you gave me food.”

Later in the passage, we find the key verse that grounds our whole Lenten series: “Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these, who are members of my family, you did it to me.” (Matthew 25:40)

This Lent, we are asking: What if every act of mercy is an act of worship? What if every gesture of compassion draws us closer to the heart of God? What if feeding someone isn’t just charity, but communion?

Let’s look at what Jesus does here. He does not say, “I was powerful.” He does not say, “I was impressive.” He does not say, “I was morally superior.”

He says, “I was hungry.” Jesus identifies Himself with physical hunger. That means hunger is not abstract. It is not theoretical. It is not someone else’s issue. Hunger is where Christ locates Himself.

And hunger is real. It is real in our world. It is real in our nation. It is real in our community.

Children go to bed without enough food. Seniors stretch medication because groceries and medication cost too much. Parents skip meals so their kids can eat.

But there is also spiritual hunger. People hunger for hope. They hunger for dignity. They hunger to be seen. They hunger to matter.

And Jesus says that when we respond to that hunger, when we feed, when we nourish, when we care, we are responding to Jesus.

Serving the least matters because it is where we meet Christ.

Let’s be honest about something. In these United States, we often have polarizing conversations about which political party cares most, or the least, about the vulnerable. We debate platforms. We argue policies. We draw lines.

But Jesus does not ask which party we belong to. He asks whether we fed Him.

Hunger was never intended to be a political matter. It is a faith matter. A spiritual matter. A Kingdom matter.

Jesus invites us to be the ones who respond to the needs of the most vulnerable around us. Not to post about it. Not to argue about it. Not to assign responsibility to someone else. Not to blame the party who presents legislation that cuts funding to food assistance programs. Jesus invites us to respond.

If we want to inherit the Kingdom, if we want to live inside the reality of Matthew 25, then we must be the ones who feed the hungry.

Not because it wins elections. Not because it proves moral superiority. But because it reveals whether Christ truly reigns in our hearts.

When allegiance to party replaces allegiance to Christ, we have drifted. When protecting power matters more than protecting people, we have lost our way.

The Kingdom of God is not built on domination. It is revealed in bread shared, dignity restored, and hunger relieved.

In our Wesleyan, United Methodist tradition, we call this personal and social holiness, where we commit to loving God and loving neighbor in concrete, embodied ways. We do not separate piety from mercy. We do not separate worship from justice. Feeding the hungry is not a side ministry of the church. It is central to discipleship.

While Jesus states that those who feed the hungry will inherit the Kingdom, this is not about earning salvation. It is about revealing discipleship. Jesus makes it clear: true faith shows up in tangible love. Love that moves. Love that gives. Love that feeds.

Serving the least matters because it aligns our hearts with God’s heart. Throughout Scripture, God consistently sides with the vulnerable. When we serve the hungry, we step into the flow of God’s own compassion.

It dismantles our illusion of separation. When we serve someone who is hungry, we realize how interconnected we are. Their need is not distant. It touches our lives. It changes us.

It forms us spiritually. Generosity reshapes our souls. Compassion softens our hearts. Action deepens our faith. In feeding others, we are fed. In giving bread, we receive grace. We are not called to admire compassion. We are called to practice it.

So here is one concrete way we can respond right now:

Our Food Cart Ministry: Next week, bring at least one item. A can of soup. Peanut butter. Cereal. Pasta. Don’t bring the can that’s been sitting in the back of your pantry since you moved into your home 25 years ago. Bring something you would eat.

One item may feel small, but collectively, it becomes abundance. It becomes bread in someone’s hands. It becomes Christ present in our community. These gifts will support our partnership with Associated Churches and the East Wayne Street Center.

What if fasting from one luxury this week allowed us to purchase one extra item for someone else?

When we give to the East Wayne Street Center, we are not outsourcing compassion, we are participating in it.

While this collection will help address physical hunger, we all might be hungering for something. Lent asks us to consider: What are we hungry for?

Comfort? Control? Convenience? Or righteousness? Justice? Compassion?

When we fast, we retrain our appetites.
When we serve, we redirect our desires.

Instead of consuming more, we begin giving more.
Instead of ignoring hunger, we begin responding to it.

This is what it means to live out Matthew 25.

Imagine standing before Christ at the end of all things. And He says, “I was hungry.” And you realize: That person at the food pantry, that person standing on the corner, that neighbor quietly struggling…that was Him.

The beauty of this passage is not fear. It is invitation. Christ is not hiding from us. Christ is revealing where He can be found. He is found in bread lines. He is found in food carts. He is found in acts of mercy.

Every time we feed someone, we step closer to the heart of God.

So this week: Bring one item and take one step. Because love expressed through action is what matters most.

Lent is a season of reflection, repentance, and renewal, but it is also a call to action. When we feed the hungry, when we embody compassion, when we practice mercy, we are not just helping someone else. We are worshiping.

Jesus said, “I was hungry.” May we be the kind of people and church that answers, “Lord, here’s some food!”

When Power Becomes an Idol

February 19, 2026 / Jason Morris / Leave a comment

As Lent begins, a season marked by repentance, reflection, and courageous truth-telling, I find myself carrying both grief and hope. This sacred season invites us to name what is broken, within us and within the Church, while refusing to surrender to despair. What follows is a hope-filled lament born from that tension: an honest reckoning with idolatry and power, and a stubborn commitment to the peaceable, merciful way of Christ.

I grew up in a faith tradition that told me integrity mattered. Not as a suggestion. Not as a partisan strategy. But as an essential principle of Christian discipleship.

Character mattered. Truth mattered. Sexual ethics mattered. Morality mattered. Humility mattered. How you treated the vulnerable mattered.

In my tradition, I was taught that faith was personal and social. I was taught that following Jesus meant loving God, loving neighbor and loving my enemies. I was taught that holiness was not about private piety alone but about the transformation of both hearts and systems. I was raised to believe that you could not separate morality from leadership.

And now I watch large segments of the Church align themselves with leaders and movements that embody the opposite of what we once called Christian character.

We excuse lying if it protects our agenda.
We tolerate cruelty if it secures political victories.
We dismiss racism as exaggeration.
We ignore misogyny as personality.
We defend vengeance as strength.

And when anyone raises concern, they are told they are naïve, woke, liberal, divisive, or unfaithful.

But let’s say what this is: This is not just political disagreement. This is the seduction of Christian nationalism. This is the idolatry of power.

Christian nationalism confuses the Kingdom of God with the kingdoms of this world. It baptizes partisan platforms as if they are divine mandates. It equates cultural dominance with faithfulness. It wraps the cross in a flag and calls it revival.

But the Kingdom Jesus proclaimed was never secured by coercion, fear, or domination.

In fact, when Jesus was offered political power in the wilderness, he refused it. When Peter reached for a sword, Jesus told him to put it away. When Pilate asked if he was a king, Jesus responded that his kingdom was not of this world.

And yet today, many Christians speak as if the survival of the gospel depends on seizing political control. That is not discipleship. That is fear. And when fear drives faith, power becomes an idol.

As United Methodists, we inherit a different legacy. John Wesley preached personal holiness and social holiness. Methodists have organized against slavery, advocated for prison reform and insisted that faith without works of mercy was hollow.

The early Methodists fed the hungry, educated children, visited prisoners, and cared for the sick…not to dominate culture, but to embody Christ. Today, United Methodists make a commitment to “resist evil, injustice, and oppression in whatever forms they present themselves.” We are called to dismantle racism, protect human dignity, pursue peace, and care for the marginalized. We believe in prevenient grace (God’s grace already at work in every person). We believe in sanctifying grace (we are capable of growth, repentance, and transformation).

I’ve come to believe through this United Methodist lens that sanctification cannot coexist with unrepentant cruelty. Holiness cannot coexist with the celebration of corruption.

If we preach that character matters in our churches but excuse immorality in our politics, we are not being pragmatic. We are being inconsistent. And people see it. If they don’t see it now, they’ll see it in the future and find themselves questioning the institution of the Church.

Here is the question that keeps echoing in my mind: How do I reconcile the Christians who taught me morality mattered with their unwavering loyalty to what looks so blatantly immoral today?

The grief of the fading of the Church I once knew is real. It feels like betrayal when the moral framework that shaped you suddenly bends around power. It feels destabilizing when those who warned against idolatry now kneel at the altar of influence.

But here is what I am learning: The failure of the Church to embody Christ does not mean Christ has failed. Institutions drift. Movements lose their way. Leaders grasp for control. But the gospel remains.

Maybe this moment is an invitation. An invitation to disentangle Jesus from nationalism. An invitation to separate the cross from the flag. An invitation to confess where we have confused access to power with faithfulness to Christ.

The Church is at her worst when she seeks control. She is at her best when she seeks mercy.

Jesus did not say, “Blessed are the culture warriors.” He said, “Blessed are the peacemakers.”

He did not say, “Blessed are those who dominate.” He said, “Blessed are the meek.”

He did not say, “You will know them by their political victories.” He said, “You will know them by their love.”

So what do we do?

We practice what Wesley called “works of mercy.” We feed the hungry. We visit the imprisoned. We advocate for the oppressed. We tell the truth, even when it implicates “our side.” We refuse to dehumanize, even when we are dehumanized. We resist the idolatry of power by embodying the humility of Christ.

Peace is not passivity. It is active resistance to chaos.

Mercy is not weakness. It is moral courage.

Hope is not denial. It is stubborn fidelity to the way of Jesus.

Hope, for me, no longer rests in political saviors or institutional perfection. It rests in quiet faithfulness. In congregations that choose hospitality over hostility. In Christians who confess when they are wrong. In communities that love their neighbors without checking their voting record. In pastors who preach integrity even when it costs them.

If you are questioning the Church, you are not alone.

If you are grieving what you see, you are not faithless.

If you are clinging to the belief that integrity still matters, that compassion still matters, that truth still matters…that longing itself is evidence of grace.

The idolatry of power will not have the final word. Nationalism will not have the final word. Fear will not have the final word.

Love will.

And if we must choose between cultural dominance and Christlike mercy, we choose mercy.

If we must choose between political loyalty and gospel integrity, we choose integrity.

If we must choose between the idol of power and the Prince of Peace, we choose the Prince of Peace.

Every time.

In Defense of Testamints: Why Christians Are Committed to Making Alternatives No One Asked For

February 10, 2026 / Jason Morris / Leave a comment

Whenever culture does, well, just about anything, somewhere a Christian committee springs into action!

“There’s a popular song on the radio…We need a Christian version.”

“There’s a movie people like….Get Kirk Cameron on the phone.”

“There’s a halftime show…Quick! Assemble the Praise & Production Team.”

Thus begins the sacred work of Christian alternatives. It’s become a parallel universe where everything exists, just slightly worse.

Over the years, we Christians have given the world Christian rock that insists it’s not worship music (but definitely is); Christian movies where the villain is almost always an atheist professor; Christian theater that mistakes volume for conviction…And yes, Testamints! The breath mint that boldly asks, “What if we offer the world salvation…but minty?”

The motivation is almost always sincere (with a few exceptions where people just see it as a quicker way to make money and/or rise to fame…see the Christian music episode of South Park for an example). We want Christian values represented. We want something wholesome. We want to protect our kids.

But instead of creating art that’s beautiful, complex, and honest, we often settle for art that is inoffensive, over-explained, and opposed to metaphor.

You know the look. You know the sound. Christian art is often identifiable within seconds…not because it’s daring, but because it’s desperately afraid someone might miss the point.

We avoid silence. We remove any ambiguity. We always resolve the tension.

Every character arc is a sermon illustration with legs. Every song chorus sounds like it was approved by three subcommittees, a doctrinal statement and a greeting card company. If it isn’t under-produced, it’s over-produced.

Let’s be honest, many Christian films make even the most forgettable Hallmark movie feel like a bold, experimental risk worthy of an Oscar.

This is wild, because Christians claim to be telling the greatest story ever told! We have a book filled with incredible stories about a God who enters suffering, embraces complexity, and refuses easy answers. We have tremendous source material.

Yet, our storytelling and songwriting often feels like it doesn’t trust either God or the audience.

Christian art doesn’t struggle because it’s Christian. It struggles because it confuses clarity with depth and calls it faithfulness.

In 2025, the top Christian streaming artist, Forrest Frank, pulled in 1.2 billion U.S. streams. That’s genuinely impressive. He writes fun and catchy songs that reach a large audience. I mean, even I learned the trending Forrest Frank TikTok dance! His theology and political leanings may not be everyone’s cup of tea…but his music is definitely better than most Christian offerings out there.

Then, there’s 2025’s overall top streaming artist, Bad Bunny, with 19.8 billion streams. In case people were wondering, this is a large reason why he was invited to the Super Bowl…he’s the most popular recording artist in the world right now!

This is not oppression. This is not spiritual warfare. This is not the mainstream culture silencing Christians.

This is what happens when something connects beyond a niche subculture. The Super Bowl Halftime Show Planning Committee didn’t overlook us. The charts are not persecuting us. They are simply unimpressed.

There was a time when the church didn’t make “alternatives,” it made masterpieces. It invested in the fine arts.

Bach wasn’t writing “Christian-adjacent” music. Mozart wasn’t trying to be “safe.” They were crafting beauty because the church believed beauty mattered.

Today, we sometimes replace excellence with branding and call it ministry.

The recent halftime “alternative,” which originally sounded like it was going to be a Christian praise and worship gathering, until it suddenly became patriotic, perfectly captured our confusion.

It wasn’t rejected by the mainstream because it was Christian or patriotic. It wasn’t rejected because the world hates Jesus and refuses to change the channel to TBN. It wasn’t rejected because of persecution.

It was rejected because it wasn’t compelling. Parading an alternative as family-friendly and patriotic and then inviting Kid Rock to sing “Bawitaba” seems anything but family-friendly!

Calling something an “alternative” does not make it art. Insisting people should like it because it’s not the mainstream does not make it good.

Here’s a wild idea…Christians should be able to recognize goodness even when it wasn’t made for us. We should be able to spot and celebrate joy, talent, creativity, energy, and beauty whether it was created as an act of worship or not.

Sometimes that shows up in a hymn or praise chorus. Sometimes it shows up in a novel. Sometimes it shows up in a halftime show that looks nothing like Sunday morning. And that’s okay.

We are not being persecuted because our favorite artist wasn’t invited to the Super Bowl. And if “family-friendly” is the goal, defending questionable picks with “But he also sang a song that reflects his personal growth” is not mature spiritual discernment. That’s just creative rationalization and justification.

At the center of Christian faith is the Incarnation…not God creating a safer, parallel universe, but God entering this one. This messy, loud, complicated, and real universe. Maybe we should follow Jesus, and instead of creating a safe Christian alternative, we should enter into the one that is all around us…with the light, love, goodness and creativity of the God who called it all into existence.

There are strands of Christian theology that insist that all truth is God’s truth, beauty is never wasted, and the image of God shows up in unexpected places.

The Gospel does not need to be dumbed down, sanitized, or rebranded to survive.

So maybe the call is simple. Maybe we should stop making Christian alternatives. Stop settling for “good enough.” Stop confusing safety with faithfulness.

Maybe we should make art that’s honest. Let’s make art that’s excellent. Let’s make art worthy of the story we’re telling.

Because the Good News doesn’t need breath mints. It needs beauty.

This is the Line

February 7, 2026 / 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?

February 6, 2026 / 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.