 By Chadwick Walenga We are about to sit down at the table. The turkey, the potatoes, the noise, the family. The conversations we hope to have. The conversations we hope don’t get brought up. We designate this one Thursday in November to stop, bow our heads, and say "Thank you." It is a good and holy thing to pause once a year. But here in West Michigan, long before immigrants and refugees arrived from Europe (families fleeing the crushing poverty of the old world, dissenters escaping the iron grip of state churches, desperate souls crossing an ocean just to find a plot of earth where they wouldn't starve and where they didn't have to bow to a King) the People of the Fire were already here. The Potawatomi didn't wait for the fourth Thursday in November. They had a practice called the Morning Song. The moment the sun broke the horizon, before a tool was lifted or a word of complaint was spoken, they turned East to sing gratitude to the new day. They didn't wake up assuming the sun owed them a living. They didn't treat the sunrise as a scheduled appointment they were entitled to. They understood something profound: The day itself is a wild, unearned arrival. Many of us, however, have traded the sunrise for the screen. We live in an economy that doesn't want our gratitude; it wants our attention. And it is willing to mine our lives to get it. Think about it. The algorithm isn't just watching you; it’s betting on you. It takes your boredom, your fear, and your joy, and turns them into data points to predict what you will buy or how you will vote. It keeps us hooked with little chemical hits—a buzz of dopamine every time we get a "like" or a notification. So we start to perform. We polish up a "False Self." We post the highlight reel to cover up the fact that we are lonely, or tired, or just feeling "not good enough" compared to everyone else’s perfect online life. It leaves us hollow. It drains our spirit. It makes us less free, less connected, and spiritually asleep. But a Theology of Gratitude is the great awakening. It is the resistance. It aligns with that ancient Morning Song. It is the comprehensive, spirit-shaking conviction that life isn’t a product to be consumed or a data point to be mined; it is a gift to be caught. It is grace—undeserved, unearned, and overwhelming. Here is what that looks like. It begins with a realization. You have to realize that God’s provision is the "fundamental structure of reality." Think about it. The food on your table? Gift. The clothes on your back? Gift. The roof over your head? Gift. That breath you just took, and the one you’re taking right now? Gift. You didn't invent oxygen. You didn't spin the planet. You just woke up here, in the middle of this divine bounty. This is exactly why, when Jesus taught his friends how to pray, he didn't start with a strategic plan or a resume of good deeds. He told them to say: "Give us this day our daily bread." Notice the verb. Give. Not "help us earn," not "reward us for," but give. That prayer is a daily confession that we are not self-made. It is a rhythm of reliance. It is the admission that without the Giver, there is no bread. And the greatest gift? It’s not just the stuff; it’s the rescue. We are "saved by grace through faith." You didn't do it. You couldn't do it. It is the gift of God. When you finally accept that you are the object of God’s "furious love"—that you are unreservedly accepted and approved regardless of your resume or your rap sheet—you stop trying to earn your place. You stop trusting the algorithm, and you start trusting the Father. Gratitude isn’t just a warm feeling you get during a prayer. It is a moment-to-moment posture. It changes how you stand in the world. Worship isn’t just singing songs on Sunday; it is a "posture of living." It is waking up every day like the Potawatomi elders and looking around with wide-eyed wonder. It is what some call "astonished gratitude." It’s the realization that God is here, now, working in the mess and the mud. When you live with that kind of astonishment, you can’t help but celebrate. You enjoy the world. You enjoy your life. This isn’t ignoring the pain; it’s realizing that the goodness of God is "so real to us" that it gives us the strength to endure the sorrow. The greatest honor we can give God is simply to live gladly. Here is where the rubber meets the road. In a consumer culture that says "get yours," a Theology of Gratitude says "give it away." Because you have received such an abundance of grace, you become a conduit. You don't hoard the manna. You "do good." You share. You make sure there is "no needy person among you." This isn't about guilt-tripping you into volunteering. It’s about deep, delicate respect. It’s about seeing Jesus in the face of the person serving you coffee and the person asking for spare change. Service is the "extraordinary opportunity" to show gratitude to Jesus by loving the people Jesus loves. So, when you sit down this Thursday, how do you live this out? We can look again to the wisdom of the first people of this land. The Potawatomi and Anishinaabe hold to the unwritten laws of the Honorable Harvest. It is a way of interacting with the earth that mirrors exactly how a Christian should interact with Grace. The rules are simple, but they change everything: Never take the first. (Because that implies you are greedy and don't trust there is more). Never take the last. (Leave it for others, for the future). Take only what you need. Use everything you take. And always, always give a gift in return. This is the Theology of Gratitude in motion. We realize our own "poverty and ineptitude," and instead of being ashamed, we rejoice! Because we are the "poor in spirit." We are happy to have a place to go. We are happy to "mingle with other beggars at the door of God’s mercy." May you, enjoy the turkey. May you, enjoy the pie. May you, put down the phone. Step out of the algorithm. Take the Grace you need and use it fully. But don't stop there. Give a gift in return. Let your life be a perpetual "giving of thanks" that lasts long after the table is cleared.
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 By Chadwick Walenga There’s a literal way to approach scripture, and there’s a literate way. I’m often reminded of this distinction when I see that little red notification on Facebook, indicating I've been tagged. It’s rarely a good-faith question. More often than not, I’m being summoned into a theological cage match I never asked for. Someone has cherry-picked a passage, usually to find a "gotcha" or to recruit a verse for some ideological justification that, quite honestly, rests on bad theology. (Seriously... get out of my algorithm.) The notification in question this time was a classic. It was about a certain political leader, arguing that God had ordained them. The tagger's point was that even if I disagreed with that premise, it was my duty as a Christian to just "suck it up" and... turn the other cheek. When I gently pushed back on the premise, the person immediately replied with a defensive, "So you're saying that someone is lying to me?" I simply answered, "Yes." Ah, yes. The old "turn-the-other-cheek-and-be-a-literal-doormat" stream of 'Christian' teaching. This interpretation—this literal reading—treats one of the most revolutionary political statements in history as a divine command for passive submission. It’s a reading that drains the text of all its power, context, and brilliance, demanding that the oppressed simply absorb violence and injustice with a polite smile. But as I read that comment, something in me activated. I felt a bit like Neo in The Matrix: "I know jujitsu." Because that’s what Jesus was actually teaching. Not how to be a doormat, but "moral jujitsu." He was offering a militant, nonviolent strategy for the oppressed to seize the moral initiative. It's a "Third Way" that is anything but passive. When you’re stuck, really stuck, in a system of domination, you’re usually given two options: fight or flight. You can either punch back, which just feeds the beast and continues the spiral of violence. Or you can run, submit, and let a piece of your soul die. We've all been there, in relationships, at work, or in those Facebook comment threads. But Jesus comes along and says, "There's a third way." It's a way that refuses to play by the opponent's rules. It’s a way that is militant, not passive. It’s assertive, not aggressive. It’s a kind of moral jujitsu, and its core strategy is to refuse to cooperate with anything that humiliates you. You don't get to dictate the terms of my opposition. You don't get to tell me how I will resist. This isn't a script, it's jazz. It’s creative. It’s improvisational. You have to invent new tactics on the fly, because as soon as one works, the powers-that-be will outlaw it. So the oppressed have to take the law, the very thing being used against them, and push it to the point of absurdity. And here’s the kicker, the part that holds it all together: the goal isn't just to win. The goal is transformation. This whole thing has to be fired in the crucible of love. Love is the revolutionary principle that finally, finally, breaks the spiral of violence. It’s not just a technique to outwit your enemy; it’s a just means of opposing them in a way that, wonder of wonders, holds open the possibility that they might just become just, too. Jesus, being a master storyteller, didn't just give a lecture on this. He gave us pictures. He gave us these three shocking, brilliant, subversive micro-stories. First, the backhand slap. You have to understand, this wasn't a fistfight. A backhand was what a master did to a slave, a Roman to a Jew, a superior to an inferior. It wasn't about inflicting pain; it was about inflicting shame. It was a public statement: "You are nothing. Know your place." And what does Jesus say? "Turn the other cheek." This is not a command to be a doormat. This is a command to be defiant. By turning your other cheek, you are silently and powerfully asserting, "I am your equal. I am a child of God. I deny you the power to humiliate me." The oppressor is now logistically forced to treat you as an equal. To hit you again, they'd have to use a closed fist—the punch of an equal. You've just flipped the entire power dynamic. Second, the lawsuit. You're a poor farmer. You've been dragged into court by a creditor who is legally foreclosing on you. The law says he can take your outer robe as collateral. It’s likely the only thing you have for warmth, your blanket at night. Everyone is watching this public shaming. And what does Jesus say to do? Give him your outer robe. And then, give him your inner garment, too. Strip. Completely. Naked. Can you imagine the scene? The shock. The gasp from the crowd. Suddenly, who is shamed? It’s not you. It's the creditor, staring at your nakedness, which he caused. Your nakedness becomes a form of guerrilla theater, a shocking, public protest that exposes the raw, naked greed of the entire debt system. You've taken the momentum of the law and flipped it back on the one who was using it to crush you. Third, the Roman soldier. You’re walking down the road, and a Roman soldier, part of an occupying army, shoves his 60-pound pack at you. The law--his law—says you can be forced to carry it for one mile. One mile of seething, of feeling small, of being used as property. At the one-mile marker, you're free. You can drop the pack and go. But what does Jesus say? "Go with him a second mile." Imagine the soldier's face. He’s stunned. Confused. Because he is now the one in trouble. It was illegal for a Roman soldier to force a civilian to go beyond one mile. You've just placed him in jeopardy with his superiors. You've recovered your initiative. You've asserted your humanity. In that first mile, you were his property. In that second mile, you are in control, and he is thrown into a region of uncertainty and anxiety. You've flipped the script. This kind of resistance isn't easy. It’s not a parlor trick. It requires a deep, internal spiritual commitment. It demands, first and foremost, love of enemies. This is the hardest word to ever utter in a conflict. We want to skip it. But Jesus ties it directly to these tactics. Why? Because the goal isn't just a win for your side. The goal is for both sides to win. The goal is to free the oppressed from their docility, but also to free the oppressor from their own sin. This act, this "moral jujitsu," does something profound to the person doing it. It gives them new self-respect. When you've been told your whole life that you are worthless, and you find the courage to turn your cheek or walk that second mile, you call up resources of strength you never knew you had. You stand taller. And finally, it requires a willingness to suffer. This isn't about avoiding pain. It’s about choosing which pain. The pain of retaliation, which just feeds the cycle? The pain of submission, which eats your soul? Or the pain of redemptive suffering—the voluntary submission to the law’s penalty that exposes its injustice and affirms your willingness to suffer on behalf of a higher law. This, then, is the Christian revolution. It’s the belief that true power is found in weakness, and that the moral protest against oppression is rooted in the wild hope that all victims will be vindicated at God's judgment seat. Which brings us back to where we started. That Facebook tag. That demand for passive submission. That "turn-the-other-cheek-and-be-a-literal-doormat" interpretation is what happens when you approach the Bible literally instead of literately. A literal reading is flat. It’s tone-deaf. It refuses to acknowledge that the Bible isn't a single book; it’s a library. It’s a messy, beautiful, sprawling collection of histories, legal codes, private letters, songs, prophecies, and apocalyptic visions. It’s filled with the dust and sweat and perspectives of the very real lives lived in its pages. You can't read a song the same way you read a law. You can't read a personal letter the same way you read a cosmic poem. A literate reading, on the other hand, asks why. Why this word? Why this story? What was happening on the ground? What was the author doing? When you read this way, you stop seeing a command to be a doormat, and you start seeing the brilliant, subversive flash of moral jujitsu. You see the context. You see the point. This changes how we read everything. We get so tangled in knots, for instance, arguing about the literalness of Genesis, chapter one. But if you read it with literate eyes, you see its structure. Its rhythm. Its soaring, repetitive refrains. You realize Genesis 1 is, quite literally, a poem. And that just leaves one simple question: How, exactly, do you literally translate poetry?  By Chadwick Walenga "If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness." — 1 John 1:9 I've been wondering what happened to this verse. It’s not a verse you shout at the world; it’s one you whisper to yourself. It’s not a weapon to be used against unbelievers, but a mirror to be held up by believers. It’s the original "come to Jesus moment" verse, written for the family. For us. And I've been wondering if we've stopped quoting it, stopped holding it up, because we stopped believing we had anything to confess. The author of 1 John gives us a stark choice. He says that "God is light; in him there is no darkness at all." To have fellowship with that God, we have to "walk in the light." And here's the key: walking in the light doesn't mean being perfect. It means we stop hiding our imperfections. He says if we "claim to be without sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us." If we "claim we have not sinned, we make him out to be a liar." And for decades, we have been running an intensive cultural project that is, at its core, a claim to be without sin. Without weakness. Without vulnerability. Without failure. Are you tired yet? I don't mean just end-of-the-week tired. I mean soul-deep tired. The kind of tired that comes from holding up a mask, a facade, for so long you're not sure where it ends and you begin. The exhaustion of the performance. It's not just you. Something is breaking. It’s the 75 million people who have walked away from church since the 90s, an exodus not from faith, perhaps, but from the show. So if the call was to "walk in the light"—to be honest about our sin—how did we get here? How did we end up in the dark, claiming it was light? We must confess: It didn't happen by accident. It was built. We can confess that we were afraid. Afraid of a "weak" or "sissy faith." And in our fear, we started a project to "re-masculinize" God. We needed a new icon. We didn't look to the cross, the ultimate symbol of vulnerability. We looked to the silver screen. We chose John Wayne. The connection wasn't theological; it was aesthetic. It was about toughness. Swagger. It was an unspoken mantra: "Jesus can save your soul, but John Wayne will save your ass." We must confess that once we had our icon, we built an entire system to support him. We built it in the pulpit, with a "total war" faith. We built it in the home, with "divinely ordained chains of command" and bestsellers that told women to be "sizzling lovers" in a transactional bid for a new fridge. We built it in the voting booth, choosing "rugged masculine leadership" over the "wimp factor." We built it in the marketplace, where you can still buy "bolt-action shotgun spatulas" to celebrate the warrior ethic. And then, we must confess, we plugged this entire, fragile project into an accelerant. We fed it to the algorithms. We signed up for what's been called "attention colonization." We entered a digital funhouse of mirrors designed by its very nature to amplify the most enraged and polarizing voices. It was the perfect tool for the job. It created echo chambers where our own warrior image was reflected back at us, distorted and larger than life. It turned alternative views into frightening, shunned caricatures. It exploited our cognitive vulnerabilities, feeding us dopamine hits for outrage and FOMO for conformity. It separated us from the physical, uncurated reality where nuance emerges. Online, there was no nuance, only the performance. This machine was perfect for the project because it boosted a sense of victimhood, telling us we were perpetually besieged. That victim status, in turn, was used to justify an extreme and hostile response. Outrage became our default posture. It gave us, as individuals, no real place to make a stand on our own rooted worth, making us easy prey for the enraged group. And here is the breaking point. Here is the unrighteousness. A system built on "unquestionable male authority"—now amplified by algorithms that thrive on outrage—has no room for vulnerability. And a system that fears vulnerability cannot handle weakness. It cannot handle failure. It cannot handle abuse. It can only hide it. Justify it. Or, worse, blame the victim. This is how we get a chilling pattern of leaders allegedly teaching that if a woman "didn't physically cry out for help during an assault, she was essentially equally guilty." This is how we get pastors who dismiss men who cry as "wussified" and political leaders whose "testosterone-fueled masculinity" is defended as proof they are "fit for the job." The aggressive performance just became the most exhausting false self of all. We claimed to be in the light, but we were walking in the dark. We were lying. So, where do we go from here? We are Mary Magdalene at the tomb. We are in the wreckage of our own expectations. The project we built our life around—the warrior god, the militant faith—is gone. We are weeping. And we are clinging. And into that wreckage, Jesus (John 20) speaks the first word of the new world: "Don't hold on to me." It's not a rejection. It's a liberation. You can't embrace today if you're still clinging to yesterday. Your arms aren't free to embrace the living, resurrected future if they're still holding on to the dead, militant past. The way out is not a new project. The way out is the end of all projects. The way out is to finally, truly, have that "come to Jesus moment." We confess. We let go. We redefine strength not as power, but as vulnerability. We trade the warrior ethic for the basin and the towel. We stop performing. And here is the good news. Here is the antidote to the exhaustion. "If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness." The performance told us we had to be strong enough. The performance told us we had to be right. The performance told us to hide our unrighteousness. But the promise of 1 John 1:9 is that our forgiveness isn't based on our performance. It's based on His character. He is faithful—He keeps His covenant promise to heal. He is just—He has already paid the price. His justice is not a threat to us, but the very foundation of our forgiveness. This isn't a tool for judging outsiders. It's a life raft for insiders. It’s the way the family comes home. We don't have to be strong. We just have to be honest. We don't have to perform. We just have to confess. The exhaustion will finally, truly, begin to fade.  To the Editor: Yesterday, a judge ordered the White House to restore full SNAP benefits essential food support for working families, children, and seniors. Instead of complying, Donald Trump chose to challenge the ruling in the Supreme Court. Let that sink in: the president of the United States is fighting against feeding the hungry. As this ruling unfolded, images surfaced of a man collapsing in front of the president and Trump’s reaction wasn’t concern, but irritation at the inconvenience. That moment captures everything about who he is: a man numb to human suffering, unmoved by hunger or hardship. He hosted a Great Gatsby–themed party the very night before SNAP benefits were paused, a grotesque display of excess while children go to bed hungry and food pantries run bare. He continues building his own Versailles-style ballroom while thousands of federal workers remain unpaid. This is not strength. This is cruelty disguised as power. A leader who mocks compassion, who treats his supporters as props and pawns, cannot represent the spirit of America. America is better than this. We care for one another. We feed the hungry, lift the weary, and reject the worship of greed. It’s time to remember who we are and what kind of country we want to be. Peace. Michelle Petz,LCSW  Local partners highlight riverfront improvements, river monitoring, educational programs, and upcoming winter event
White River Watershed stakeholders are continuing their shared commitment to celebrating, protecting, and enhancing the White River and surrounding communities. From riverfront revitalization to classroom education and restoration efforts, collaboration remains at the heart of ongoing efforts across the watershed. Hesperia Riverfront Activation Exciting progress continues along the White River in Hesperia, where recent improvements by the Village of Hesperia to Vida Weaver Park have encouraged more community use and outdoor enjoyment. The Village has added new sidewalks & upgraded fencing to complement the pavilion constructed in 2024, and arranged for regular maintenance of restroom facilities for public use. Summer events at the park’s pavilion saw strong participation from families, anglers, and visitors alike. In addition, a new wood turtle mural project—developed in partnership with local teacher Monica Grimard—is underway to celebrate the area’s wildlife and educate residents about river ecology. Dam Updates and Public Input A public hearing regarding the White Cloud Dam is anticipated soon, with a public comment period open through November 10. See the City of White Cloud website for information on how to submit comments. In September, the Village of Hesperia hosted a public open house to gather feedback on dam rehabilitation. Information was provided on dam rehabilitation design options and the potential for a fish passage structure. Education, Monitoring, and Stewardship Education and data-driven stewardship remain at the heart of watershed engagement. The White River Watershed Partnership (WRWP) currently monitors stream temperature at nine sites across the watershed. In collaboration with Trout Unlimited, WRWP also maintains five DIY Sensor Stations that track temperature, depth, and conductivity— providing valuable insight into river health. This data is publicly available at monitormywatershed.org. WRWP representatives have also partnered with the Oceana and Newaygo Conservation Districts and MSU Extension Service, volunteering time to introduce 5th and 6th grade students to macroinvertebrates—the small aquatic creatures that help indicate water quality and ecosystem health. With support from the Schrems West Michigan Chapter of Trout Unlimited, the Salmon in the Classroom program continues to thrive in area schools, giving middle school students the opportunity to raise and release salmon while learning about river ecosystems. This past June students released their salmon into the White River, participating in benthic macroinvertebrate sampling, fly casting and other activities connecting science with hands-on conservation. Additionally, the Conservation Stewards Program—offered through Michigan State University Extension—has returned for a second year in Newaygo County thanks to high community interest. The program trains volunteers in natural resource management and conservation leadership. Community Events The stakeholder team is planning a winter community event featuring local fishing guide Kevin Feenstra, who will share insights on Muskegon River angling and wildlife. Keep an eye on Trout Unlimited social media for more information. Ongoing Partnership Efforts Trout Unlimited and other partners continue to support habitat projects and other stream restoration efforts, including planned habitat enhancement on the Upper South Branch White River with Michigan DNR, replacement of undersized and perched culverts to promote fish passage and flood resiliency with the US Forest Service, Michigan DNR and Newaygo County Road Commission and access improvements to Podunk Landing with the Oceana Road Commission and Oceana Conservation District. The effort to restore Sadony Bayou in White River Township has made large strides over the past two years. One accomplishment was a study to evaluate the fish, insects, and water chemistry and another was a community visioning project that engaged residents in identifying the ways Sadony Bayou could once again be a vibrant and healthy part of the lower White River watershed. Plans are underway for determining options for restoring the bayou. Through these collective efforts, the watershed community continues to demonstrate that meaningful progress happens when residents, organizations, and local leaders work together to care for the river that connects us all.  By Chadwick Walenga The Map We Still Live In My friend Mark Kane handed me a gift several weeks ago. It’s a stack of paper from 1973, his master’s report, 160+ pages. But it’s not just a report. It’s a map. And it’s a story. And the strangest part is that it’s a map of our home. A story about this community that we still call home, written 50-plus years ago. A story about a handful of faithful people who looked around at Newaygo, Oceana, and Lake counties and decided to get to work. Reading it, I’m struck by how little the core of our community life has changed. The good, and the bad. The Bad That Lingers The report names this national delusion, this myth we were (and in many ways still are) drunk on: "Metropoliana". It’s the great, shining story that says the City is all that matters. A story that makes it easy to forget, to make invisible, the millions of people living in quiet misery. So many wondering what Thanksgiving is going to look like. What healthcare will be available. "Invisible" isn't just a feeling. It has numbers. Back then, the report tells us, this "financial starvation" of rural communities was so complete that out of 83 counties in Michigan, Lake County was ranked dead last, 83rd, in the Poverty Index Score. These are the ones the psalmist cries out for: "the afflicted who have no helper". That’s the bad that lingers. The feeling that the systems, the big national stories, the flow of money... they just don't see us. They've been failing to see us for a long, long time. The Good That Endures But that’s not the whole story. And this is where the map gets personal. Because Mark’s story of "the good" forces a gentle confession. It shows us what the work of Jesus looks like, and in doing so, it highlights how easily that name has been hijacked. So often today, the loudest voices have confused the mission. They’ve traded the sacrificial, serving nature of Jesus for a "culture warrior" persona. They’ve embraced "militant masculinity" and "political coercion" that is all about defining "us" against "them". It’s a faith of "patriarchal authority" that seeks to rule, not to serve. But Mark's report shows us another way. The original way. It shows us what happens when a small group of people, rooted in a deep faith, decides to stop waiting. They remembered their original vocation, the one from the very beginning: "to tend and keep" the garden. Coming out of the Quaker tradition, this group from the American Friends Service Committee had a different idea. They weren’t going to be saviors. They were going to be "catalysts". Not "heroes", not the "bullhorn guy" with an "agenda-driven" love, but the "spark". This is a profound, humble initiation, not a quest for glory. And their work wasn't abstract. This was justice you can touch. With a hammer. This isn't the "religious show" that God "can't stand" because it "ignores the poor". This is the holy, gritty work of "doing good deeds". They were building relationships, not just porches. They were "embedding", listening, and sharing meals. They were living out the truth that "how we treat others is how we treat God". That’s the good that endures. The Wall We Still Hit But the bad wasn’t done. Just as this local, faithful, catalytic energy was ready to scale up... the system spoke. Washington. Early 1973. President Nixon. A moratorium. "All low-income housing subsidies... frozen". Just like that. The faucet is turned off. The O.E.O. funding they were counting on... gone. That’s the "wall". That’s the moment your local, grassroots hope runs smack into a massive, impersonal, political reality. It's the very test Jesus talked about. This is the "rain" and the "streams" and the "winds" that "beat against that house". The question in that moment is: What is your foundation built on? Is it built on the sand of whether or not you are in the good graces of those who hold the keys to federal funding and systemic approval? Or is it built on the rock of those who actually "puts them into practice"? When the wall hits, when the resources dry up and it feels hopeless, the only move left is the one we’re promised always works: "Is anyone crying for help? God is listening, ready to rescue you". The Pivot We Can Be This is the good part. This is the page of the map that I want to laminate. What do you do when the system fails? When "Washington" makes it clear it isn't coming to save you? They didn't pack up. They didn't go home. They pivoted. They held a conference in May '73. And the whole conversation, the entire mission, shifted. The question was no longer, "How do we get the money from Washington?". The question became, "What can we do? Right here. With what we have?". And that... that’s the question for the church. It’s the pivot from a faith of "what can I get?" to the path of "what can I give?". It’s the pivot from a faith of coercion to a faith of co-suffering. They stopped waiting for the national dam to power their city and started building their own local generators. They got "scrappy" and "resourceful". This is the pivot to a different economy. It's the economy where you are commanded "to be rich in good deeds, and to be generous and willing to share". It's the radical, earthy command from Deuteronomy to not go over your vines twice, but to "Leave what remains for the foreigner, the fatherless and the widow". It's the economy of Acts 2, where they "had all things in common... sharing them with all, as anyone might have need". This is what it looks like to "Carry each other’s burdens". My friend Mark, in sharing this report, gave us more than a history lesson. He gave us a blueprint for reclaiming our identity. He reminded me that the "bad" in our community—the feeling of being overlooked, the systemic walls—it's not new. But he also reminded me that the church's temptation to fight the wrong battles—to become "culture warriors" instead of community healers—is a distraction from our real work. The enduring, powerful good is the faithful pivot. It’s the scrappy, creative, relentless energy of a few people who believe their job is to show up for the common good. This is the work that recognizes the "divine breath is flowing through every single human being", making the ground we stand on holy. This is the work that dismantles the "us vs. them" walls, because in Christ, there is "no division... we are all in a common relationship". That was the church being the church in 1973. It’s the only way the church can be the church today. It’s the "defining mark" Jesus gave us: "By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another". Thank you, Mark, for reminding us. For showing us the map. Now, it's our turn to pick up the hammer. |
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