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This is Father Jared Cramer from St. John's Episcopal Church in Grand Haven, Michigan, here with today's edition of Christian Mythbusters, a regular segment I offer to counter some common misconceptions about the Christian faith. For the last two weeks, I've been talking about the Gospel according to Jelly Roll. First, that there's no asterisk after the word "neighbor." And second, that while we are fighting monsters, we must be careful not to become monsters ourselves. Not long ago I was visiting a member of the parish, and a friend of hers mentioned he'd been listening to these episodes. Then he asked me a great question about what I was saying. He asked, “But what about when they're real monsters that you’re fighting?” I told him to hold on, because that was where I’d go next. It’s an honest question, and it deserves an honest answer. Because far too often, when the church has come face to face with something truly monstrous, it has stepped back and abdicated its role as the body of Christ in the world. The theologian William Cavanaugh tells one of those stories in his masterful book, Torture and Eucharist. It's about Chile under the Pinochet dictatorship, where torture worked like a kind of liturgy of the state. It made people disappear and broke apart every community that might resist. For too long, the church cared for souls while leaving the bodies to the generals. But eventually it woke up. It defended the families of the disappeared, and the bishops declared torturers cut off from communion. Cavanaugh's point is that the Eucharist itself is the answer to torture. The state disappears bodies. The church gathers them back into the Body of Christ. We see the same failure, initially, in the church's response to Hitler. Most German Christians went along, and even the Confessing Church too often stayed silent as its Jewish neighbors were rounded up. We rightly remember Dietrich Bonhoeffer as the exception. But what I find most honest about Bonhoeffer is that he never pretended resistance was simple. When he joined the conspirators against Hitler, he didn't claim to be righteous. He wrote about the guilt we take on when we act responsibly in a broken world, and he threw himself on the mercy of God. He fought a monster while wrestling with how not to become one. So how do we walk this path? I think one of the most powerful witnesses comes from my own Anglican tradition: Desmond Tutu, who became the Archbishop of Cape Town. For decades he stood against apartheid, a system that was truly monstrous. He called it evil without flinching. He called on the world to impose sanctions. He buried the young people the police had killed and preached at their funerals with a fire that terrified the government. But he never treated his enemies as less than human. In 1985, at a funeral for activists, an angry crowd turned on a man they believed was a police informer and were about to burn him alive. Tutu pushed into that crowd, threw himself between them and the man, and saved his life. Bishop Tutu fought apartheid with everything he had, and he would not let the movement become the very thing it was fighting. For Tutu, the goal was never just defeating his oppressors. It was a future where oppressor and oppressed could both be free, both be human, both be reconciled. Truth told plainly. Justice demanded. And mercy held out, even to the guilty. So here's the myth I’m trying to bust: that loving your enemy means going soft on evil. Tutu shows us the opposite. You can name the monster. You can fight the monster with everything you have. And you can still refuse to let hatred make you one, because even your enemy was made in the image of God. Thanks for being with me. To find out more about my parish, you can go to sjegh.com. Until next time, remember, protest like Jesus, love recklessly, and live your faith out in a community that accepts you but also challenges you to be better tomorrow than you are today.

This is Father Jared Cramer from St. John's Episcopal Church in Grand Haven, Michigan, here with today's edition of Christian Mythbusters, a regular segment I offer to counter some common misconceptions about the Christian faith. Last week I talked about the Gospel according to Jelly Roll, how a country star with forty arrests and a face full of tattoos ended up preaching a better sermon on Jimmy Kimmel Live than most seminary graduates, busting the myth that Christianity is about being right while everyone else is wrong. He did it by reminding us there's no asterisk after the word “neighbor.” This week, I want to tell part two of that story. Near the end of his monologue on his final night hosting Jimmy Kimmel, he shared a story of his dad when he was on his deathbed. I’ll quote him here:  “My father, Buddy DeFord, God rest his soul, was a blue-collar Democrat, and his brother was a red-hat Republican. And this might be hard for people out there to understand, but they were absolutely best friends. And when my father was in hospice on his deathbed and I had the opportunity to ask him everything I wanted to know, I said, 'Dad, how are you and your brother so tight when y'all didn't agree about anything?' "And he looked at me and said, 'Son, we agreed about hundreds of things. We only didn't agree about a few things, and we were not going to let the few things we didn't agree about define our entire relationship.'” Now, if you’ve listened to me at all, you probably know that I have some strong feelings about what’s facing our country right now, what’s facing the church, what’s facing us as humans on this fragile blue ball in space. But I think Jelly Roll is saying something important here. It connects to the other quote I used at the end of last week’s episode, “While we are fighting monsters, we must be careful not to become a monster ourselves.” That quote is actually a paraphrase of German philosopher Friedrich Nietzche (talk about unlikely preachers), but it speaks to a real and true danger each of us face—especially those of us who are the most passionate. Here's the myth I think Buddy DeFord’s deathbed wisdom busts: that conviction and relationship are somehow opposites, that the more strongly you believe something, the less room you have left to love the person across the table who believes differently. Buddy and his brother apparently never got that memo. They didn’t pretend the disagreements weren’t real. They just refused to let a handful of disagreements be bigger than the hundreds of things that actually held them together. That's not moral relativism, and it’s not indifference to what matters. It's something the desert fathers and mothers understood deeply… that the person in front of you is never reducible to how they first appear to you. Saint Anthony didn’t retreat to the wilderness because he’d stopped caring about truth. He went there to learn how to see the image of God in every person he met, including the ones who’d wronged him. That’s hard, disciplined work, and it’s the opposite of the algorithm-fed outrage that tells us the person who disagrees with us is an enemy to be destroyed rather than a neighbor to be loved. I don't think Jesus is calling us to stop fighting monsters. There are monsters worth fighting—injustice, cruelty, misogyny, heterosexism, transphobia, the systems that grind down the poor and the stranger and the immigrant… But he is calling us to fight them as people who still remember how to sit at a table with people who think differently than us, how to engage them with mercy, gentleness, kindness, and a bit of curiosity, to remember that the goal was never to win the argument but to love the neighbor. Buddy DeFord figured that out somewhere along the way. I hope the rest of us can figure it out before it's too late. Thanks for being with me. To find out more about my parish, you can go to sjegh.com. Until next time, remember, protest like Jesus, love recklessly, and live your faith out in a community that accepts you but also challenges you to be better tomorrow than you are today.

This is Father Jared Cramer from St. John's Episcopal Church in Grand Haven, Michigan, here with today's edition of Christian Mythbusters, a regular segment I offer to counter some common misconceptions about the Christian faith. It is good to be back with you after having just concluded a four month sabbatical from ministry. Those four months of rest, renewal, and study have invigorated my ministry. I also did significant work on a book I’m writing, tentatively titled Revelation Unbound: Inspiring a Community of Resistance. Today, however, I find myself drawn to Jimmy Kimmel and Jelly Roll. Now, I don't often find myself citing Jimmy Kimmel Live as a source for a segment on Christian theology. Same thing for Jelly Roll. True, he is a country music star, three-time Grammy winner, a man who by his own count has been arrested around forty times. He is a man covered with tattoos, including on his face, and someone who has been clear about the scars in his life. So, he’s someone a lot of people know, but that doesn’t mean he’s generally a go-to for theology.  However, Jelly Roll recently spent a couple of weeks guest hosting Kimmel’s show. On his final night hosting, after a week of Trump jokes had gotten him raked over the coals by conservative media, he took a break from the monologue and just… talked. For several minutes. A few times through tears. No, that’s not it. He didn’t just talk. He preached. And he preached against one of the strongest myths of American Christianity—that it’s all about you being right and others being wrong.  Jelly Roll dismantled that myth better than most seminary-trained preachers I know. He talked about the experience of people having previously assumed he was MAGA and now assuming he is a mouthpiece for the liberal media.  He talked about his sense of calling to be a voice for the voiceless, because he knows those people. He grew up and lived his life as one of those people. And then, holding back the tears, he said, “My daddy always told me it is never too late to do the right thing. So I am going to try to do the right thing right now because human dignity isn’t Republican nor Democrat. Compassion isn’t left wing, and mercy isn’t right wing. Pain and healing knows no partisanship. Hurting hearts are more important than poll numbers, and there are no boundaries or borders for broken families.” He went on to talk about being a person of second chances and how that has shaped who he is. He insisted that second chances and the American dream cannot just be for people like him. He insisted that though he cusses and tells jokes he truly is a man of faith and that he cannot read the Gospels without being confronted by the words of Jesus himself in Matthew chapter twenty-five: when I was hungry, you gave me food; when I was thirsty, you gave me a drink; when I was a stranger, you welcomed me in.” He then drew our attention to what Jesus said are the two great commandments: love God and love your neighbor as yourself. And reminded us that there is no asterisk after neighbor. In his words, “There wasn’t a political party exemption. It did not require us to know what country you were born in. There wasn’t a sentence afterward that said, ‘Unless you’re afraid of them.’ It just said, ‘Love your neighbor.” This is, of course, exactly what the tradition of the church has always taught, even when the church itself has failed to live it. Augustine and Aquinas both wrestled with what it means to love rightly—not by drawing tighter and tighter circles around people like us, but by letting the love of God push us outward, past our comfort, into love of stranger and even enemy. Jelly Roll didn’t need a doctorate in theology to get there. He needed a hard life, an honest reading of the Gospels, and the nerve to say it on network television. He also said something else worth sitting with: while we’re fighting monsters, we have to be careful not to become monsters ourselves. That’s not a bad one-sentence summary of about half the New Testament. And there’s not much more I could say that’s better than that. So, thanks Jelly Roll. You basically wrote my first Mythbusters back for me.  Thanks for being with me. To find out more about my parish, you can go to sjegh.com. Until next time, remember, protest like Jesus, love recklessly, and live your faith out in a community that accepts you but also challenges you to be better tomorrow than you are today.

This is Father Jared Cramer from St. John's Episcopal Church in Grand Haven, Michigan, here with today's edition of Christian Mythbusters, a regular segment I offer to counter some common misconceptions about the Christian faith. Today I want to talk about rest. And why so many Christians are terrible at it. The myth I want to bust is one that runs so deep in American Christianity that most of us don't even recognize it as a theological claim. It's this: that your worth is determined by what you produce. What you accomplish. What you create, what you say, what you do. That busyness is next to godliness. This is often called the Protestant Work Ethic, and its roots go back to the Reformation — particularly to Calvinist theology, which tied disciplined, productive labor to signs of divine election. If you worked hard and prospered, it meant God was with you. Over time, especially in America, that theological framework got absorbed into the culture so thoroughly that it no longer needs a church to sustain it. It just is the water we swim in. Hustle culture. Productivity optimization. The glorification of busy. But here's what the Bible actually says: on the seventh day, God rested. Not because God was tired. Not because there was nothing left to do. God rested because rest is built into the fabric of creation itself. Sabbath isn't an afterthought. It's the crown of the creation story. The whole week points toward it. The Hebrew word is shabbat — to cease, to stop, to let be. And in the Torah, sabbath rest was not optional or aspirational. It was commanded. It was liberation theology in calendar form — a weekly reminder that the Israelites were no longer slaves in Egypt, no longer defined by their output, no longer subject to Pharaoh's endless demand for more bricks. And precisely because they were once slaves, God insisted that not only should they rest but that they must build a society in which everyone, down to the lowest and most vulnerable, was given a day to rest… a day simply… to be.  Which means that when we refuse to rest, when we feel guilty about stopping, when our identity collapses without our to-do lists, we are acting like people who have forgotten they've been set free. And this touches my own life. Starting tomorrow, I begin a sabbatical — what our church is calling a “Renewal Leave” — that will carry me through mid-September. (That means there won’t be any more productions of Christian Mythbusters for the next four months.) This sabbatical is a genuine gift, and I don't take it for granted for a single moment. I know that most people listening don't get sabbaticals. The rhythms of sabbath rest are not equally available to everyone, and that itself is a justice issue worth naming. When rest becomes a luxury only some can afford, something has gone badly wrong. But sabbath was always meant to be more than a perk for the privileged. The Torah extended it to servants, to animals, to the land itself. It was a social practice, not just a personal one. Which means the church should be asking hard questions about a society that makes rest impossible for so many — and should be working to change it. In the meantime, here is what I know from theology and from my own life: you can build sabbath into your days even without a sabbatical. Not by escaping your responsibilities, but by regularly, intentionally, ceasing. One evening a week away from the screen. One morning that belongs to something life-giving rather than productive. A walk where you are not also listening to a podcast or wor. A meal where you are just eating. Small sabbaths, practiced faithfully, can begin to loosen the grip of the myth that you are only as valuable as what you produce. Because here is the truth: God is saving the world. Not you. Not me. We each have our part to play — and those parts matter deeply. But the weight of making things right does not rest on our shoulders alone. That is God's work, and God will see it through. Which means it is not just permissible for us to rest. It is essential. It is an act of faith. I’ll try to live in that trust, to rest in that grace and love, until I talk to you again in September. Thanks for being with me. To find out more about my parish, you can go to sjegh.com. Until next time, remember: protest like Jesus, love recklessly, and live your faith out in a community that accepts you but also challenges you to be better tomorrow than you are today.

This is Father Jared Cramer from St. John's Episcopal Church in Grand Haven, Michigan, here with today's edition of Christian Mythbusters, a regular segment I offer to counter some common misconceptions about the Christian faith. This week I came across a video of retired Anglican Bishop and renowned New Testament scholar N.T. Wright, and he was making a point that I think is worth sitting with: that Christianity is not primarily about your soul escaping this world and going to heaven when you die. Now, I know that might sound strange. For a lot of people, your soul going to heaven is Christianity. The whole point. Get saved, go to heaven. And that assumption runs so deep that most of us never think to question it. It's like being a fish in water. You don't notice the water. That means it’s definitely a myth worth breaking. I was reminded of just how deep that assumption runs when I was watching an old episode of Lost the other night. The subject of baptism came up, and John Locke explained to Claire that baptism was basically eternal insurance. A way to make sure the baby got to heaven if something happened to him. And when Claire later talked to Mr. Eko, the character who, theoretically, had the most Christian formation of anyone on the island, he didn't push back on that understanding at all. When she worried about being separated from Aaron, he essentially offered to baptize them both. An insurance double plan, apparently. Now, I don't want to be too hard on a television show. But that scene captures something real. It's the version of Christianity that enormous numbers of people have actually received. Baptism as a ticket. Salvation as an exit strategy. The point of faith is to get your soul safely out of this world and into the next one. But here's the thing: that's not what Scripture actually teaches. Wright points to the Lord's Prayer as a window into the heart of what Jesus was actually about. Notice what Jesus does not say. He does not say, "Our Father, may our souls ascend to you in heaven." He says, "Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven." The direction of movement, if you want to put it that way, is not souls leaving earth for heaven. It's God's reign arriving here in our broken, beloved world. The healing of creation. The renewal of all things. This is why the resurrection matters so much. Jesus did not rise as a disembodied spirit finally freed from the physical world. He rose bodily, as the first fruits of a new creation. The great promise of Scripture is not that God will eventually discard the physical world and take faithful souls somewhere else. It's that God will renew, restore, and redeem this world. And that changes everything about what the Christian life is for. If salvation is an exit strategy, then your job is just to get yourself and maybe a few others safely through the door before things get worse. But if salvation is about God's kingdom coming, then you are called to be part of that renewal right now. To practice justice. To love your neighbor. To work for the healing of what is broken. Not because it earns you anything, but because that is what it looks like to live in the reality Jesus announced. Baptism, in this fuller picture, is not insurance. It's initiation into a people who are learning to live as if the kingdom is already breaking in. Because it is. So the next time someone asks what Christianity is really about, you might resist the urge to reach for the heaven-and-hell framework. Instead, try this: it's about a God who loves this world so much that he entered into it, and who is committed to setting it right and healing all things—a God who invites us to be part of that work. Thanks for being with me. To find out more about my parish, you can go to sjegh.com. Until next time, remember: protest like Jesus, love recklessly, and live your faith out in a community that accepts you but also challenges you to be better tomorrow than you are today.

This is Father Jared Cramer from St. John's Episcopal Church in Grand Haven, Michigan, here with today's edition of Christian Mythbusters, a regular segment I offer to counter some common misconceptions about the Christian faith. This week, we're in the middle of the Holy Week and Easter observances, the most sacred time of the year. Some of you are hearing this closer to Easter, but the day I’m recording this (and the day the first version is being aired) is Wednesday itself, a day the church has long called "Spy Wednesday." This is the day we remember how Judas Iscariot went to the chief priests and agreed to hand Jesus over for thirty pieces of silver. And whenever Spy Wednesday comes around, so do the myths about Judas. The biggest myth is this: Judas was uniquely evil, the worst of all sinners, the one man beyond redemption. Dante put Judas in the lowest circle of hell, frozen in the mouth of Satan himself. For centuries, Christian preachers have used Judas as a symbol of ultimate betrayal, of irredeemable wickedness.  But let's slow down and take a harder look at the story. First, the Gospels don't actually agree on why Judas did what he did. Mark gives no reason for the betrayal. Matthew focuses on the money. In Luke and John, we are told that Satan entered Judas, rendering his actions not his own entirely. There's no single, tidy explanation, which should make us cautious about building a whole theology of damnation on one man we barely understand.  And yet, across all four Gospels, Jesus shares the Last Supper with Judas, breaks bread with him, does not exclude him from the table. In John's Gospel specifically, Jesus even washes the feet of Judas. Jesus meets Judas with the same love and care he offers every other disciple, even knowing what is coming. The betrayer is also the beloved. Second, it's worth noting what Jesus himself says. In John's Gospel, Jesus tells his disciples that none of them has been lost except "the one destined to be lost, so that scripture might be fulfilled." That phrase, destined to be lost, has troubled theologians for centuries. But the dominant interpretation among the early church fathers is that though Jesus foresaw the free choice of Judas to betray Jesus, even that freedom is harder to assess than we might think. Third, and maybe most importantly, we often forget that Judas felt genuine remorse. Matthew tells us he threw the thirty pieces of silver back at the priests, declared that he had betrayed innocent blood, and then went out and died by suicide. Whatever drove him to betray Jesus, he could not live with what he had done. That's not the portrait of a man who had fully rejected Christ. And here's where the Christian tradition, at its best, has something remarkable to offer: the doctrine of the harrowing of hell, the idea (expressed in the Apostles’ Creed) that Christ descended to the dead on Holy Saturday. A poet named Ruth Etchells imagined what that might be in a poem she wrote called "The Ballad of the Judas Tree."  In Hell there grew a Judas Tree / Where Judas hanged and died / Because he could not bear to see / His master crucified / Our Lord descended into Hell / And found his Judas there / For ever hanging on the tree / Grown from his own despair / So Jesus cut his Judas down / And took him in his arms / "It was for this I came" he said / "And not to do you harm / My Father gave me twelve good men / And all of them I kept / Though one betrayed and one denied / Some fled and others slept / In three days' time I must return / To make the others glad / But first I had to come to Hell / And share the death you had / My tree will grow in place of yours / Its roots lie here as well / There is no final victory / Without this soul from Hell"/ So when we all condemned him / As of every traitor worst / Remember that of all his men / Our Lord forgave him first. That last line is the theological punch: our Lord forgave him first. The myth says Judas is the exception, the one person even God's love couldn't reach. The gospel says there are no exceptions. We profess in the creeds that Christ descended into hell. We believe that the love of God pursues us into the very darkest places we can go, including the darkness we make for ourselves. Judas is a warning, yes, about the corrosive power of betrayal and despair, even more so about what happens when you so form Christ in your own image and expectations that you turn away from the real goodness God holds out to you. But if Etchells is right, Judas can also be a testimony to the relentless, pursuing love of Jesus Christ.  Thanks for being with me. To find out more about my parish, you can go to sjegh.com. Until next time, remember: protest like Jesus, love recklessly, and live your faith out in a community that accepts you but also challenges you to be better tomorrow than you are today.

This is Father Jared Cramer from St. John's Episcopal Church in Grand Haven, Michigan, here with today's edition of Christian Mythbusters, a regular segment I offer to counter some common misconceptions about the Christian faith. Recently, a lot of our conversations together have been about questions where people have confused what is common or dominant (cisgender identity, male dominance in culture) with the depth of the divine life. The results is that anyone who falls outside the boundaries of what is deemed “normal” is seen as an outlier to God’s intent for the world we live in. Today, I want to tackle one particular way that narrative plays out in an area of which we are only recently more aware—the concept of neurodiversity. Many people assume that there is one kind of normal brain, and that people who don't have it are somehow less than fully who they should be. This is a myth definitely worth breaking.  I want to talk about what the neurodivergent—or neurospicy, which is my own favorite term—can teach the rest of us. The term was "neurodiversity" was coined in 1998 by autistic Australian sociologist Judy Singer — and she was very clear that it wasn't a medical term. It was a political one. Her idea was simple: no two human minds are exactly alike, and that variation is not a defect. It is a fact about our species. Autism activists took that idea and ran with it, pushing back against what they call the "pathology model" — the assumption that there is one correct way for a brain to develop, and that every deviation from it is a disorder to be cured. Daniel Bowman Jr., a poet and English professor who is also autistic, puts it plainly: autism is his operating system, not a bug. He is not broken. He is different. And the neurotypical insistence that their way of being human is the standard makes the lives of neurodivergent people unnecessarily hard — not because their brains don't work, but because the world keeps telling them they don't fit. Now here's where the theology gets interesting. Christians have long wrestled with what it means to be made in the image of God — the imago Dei. Over the last century, a dominant answer has been: relationality. To be fully human, in the image of God, is to be in relationship — the I-Thou of Martin Buber, taken up by Barth and Bonhoeffer and half the systematic theologians of the twentieth century. The problem, as scholar Joanna Leidenhag has shown, is that when you define personhood primarily through the capacity for certain kinds of social and emotional relationship, you have — almost by accident — defined autistic people as less than fully human. Some churches have even used this framework to suggest that people with autism are incapable of genuine sanctification. That is a theological catastrophe, and it needs to be named as one. Here is what I think is closer to the truth: God, in Scripture, reveals a mind that is both deeply systematic and profoundly empathic. The orderliness of creation, the precision of the tabernacle instructions, Paul's declaration that God is not a God of disorder but of peace — these point to a divine mind that finds beauty and meaning in pattern and structure. But God also weeps. God notices Jonah's sulking over a withered plant. God is moved. Both modes of knowing and being belong to God, which means both modes of knowing and being belong to the image of God we carry. And here is what our neurospicy siblings can teach us: they often experience one or both of these modes with astonishing intensity. Bowman writes that his autistic friends are every bit as feeling, compassionate, and caring as his neurotypical ones — sometimes more so. What looks like emotional flatness from the outside is frequently a nervous system overwhelmed by the depth of what it is taking in. That is not a deficit. That is a different kind of depth. Scholar Lauren Calvin Cooke makes a related point about how the church has mistakenly equated deep faith with cognitive articulation — the ability to explain sanctification, to recite the creed, to answer the right questions in confirmation class.  But the Word did not become a proposition. The Word became flesh.  Embodied, sensory, particular human experience, that is what God entered. Which means knowledge of God lives in the body… in the bread on the tongue, in the knees that learn to kneel, in the hands that learn to receive. Our neurodivergent siblings, who often experience the world through their senses with extraordinary vividness, may have access to embodied, incarnational knowing that those of us who live mostly in our heads have been trained to overlook. To be clear: the neurospicy don't need to be fixed so they can participate in our church. Those of us who are neruotypical need to expand what we think participation looks like. We need to build communities where the fidgeter and the avoider of eye contact and the person who needs the same seat every week is not seen as a problem to manage, but as a bearer of the divine image — offering us a facet of God we might never otherwise encounter. The myth is that normal is the goal. The truth is that the image of God is far larger than any one of us — or any one kind of brain — can contain. Thanks for being with me. To find out more about my parish, you can go to sjegh.com. Until next time, remember: protest like Jesus, love recklessly, and live your faith out in a community that accepts you but also challenges you to be better tomorrow than you are today.

This is Father Jared Cramer from St. John’s Episcopal Church in Grand Haven, Michigan, here with today’s edition of Christian Mythbusters, a regular segment I offer to counter some common misconceptions about the Christian faith. Last week I talked about the myth that God is a man—and why Christian theology has always known that God transcends gender entirely. Today I want to go deeper, because some listeners pushed back with an obvious question: “But Jesus was a man, wasn't he?” And yes—historically, he was. So, what do we do with that? This brings us to today's myth: the myth that because Jesus was male, maleness must be closer to God, some key part of the divine inner life, or more capable of representing the divine. To untangle this, I want to introduce you to one of the most important theological principles in all of Christian history. It comes from St. Gregory of Nazianzus, writing around 382 AD: “That which he did not assume, he cannot save.” In other words, for Christ to redeem humanity, he had to take on full human nature—not just a body, but a mind, a will, emotions, and all the complexity of what it means to be a person. Gregory was arguing against those who thought Jesus only seemed human, or was human in only a partial way. No, Gregory insisted: the redemption of the whole person requires the incarnation of the whole person. Now here's where it gets interesting. If the saving power of the incarnation flows from Christ's humanity—from his taking on the full depth of human experience—then what follows? It follows that his maleness was a feature of his historical particularity, not the theological engine of salvation. Feminist theologians have been making this exact point for decades. While Jesus' male sex was as intrinsic to his historical particularity as were his Jewish race, his Galilean village roots, his class, and his ethnic heritage, it reveals nothing about the nature or gender of God, nor about the appropriateness of male images for the divine. Jesus was also a first-century Palestinian Jew who wore sandals and spoke Aramaic. We don't conclude from that that God is Aramaic-speaking—or that Galileans are somehow closer to the divine. As Elizabeth Johnson put it, “The heart of the problem is not that Jesus was male, but that more males have not been like Jesus.” The point is this: the incarnation saves because God entered fully into human life—into vulnerability, suffering, love, and death. The redemptive power is in the depth of that union, not in the gender of the vessel. And if that's true, then Gregory's maxim cuts in an unexpected direction. If the unassumed is the unhealed, then a Christ who only assumed male humanity would leave the rest of humanity—women, nonbinary people, anyone who doesn't fit the narrow category of male—somehow outside the full reach of salvation. Christian theology has sometimes dignified maleness as the only genuine way of being human, making Jesus' embodiment as male an ontological necessity rather than a historical option. But that's not the Gospel. That's a distortion of it. The good news—and it really is good news—is that what Christ assumed was humanity itself, in its full breadth and depth. And that means the healing of the incarnation extends to every human being: women, men, and people of every gender identity. All of it was assumed. All of it is being redeemed. This is why the diversity of human gender and identity is not a threat to Christian faith. It is, if anything, a reminder of the vastness of what God entered into—and the vastness of what God is saving. The mystery of human embodiment in all its variety doesn't shrink the Gospel. It reveals how wide the incarnation truly is. Gregory of Nazianzus wanted us to take the incarnation seriously. So let's do that—all the way to its most expansive, most healing conclusion. Thanks for being with me. To find out more about my parish, you can go to sjegh.com. Until next time, remember: protest like Jesus, love recklessly, and live your faith out in a community that accepts you but also challenges you to be better tomorrow than you are today.

This is Father Jared Cramer from St. John’s Episcopal Church in Grand Haven, Michigan, here with today’s edition of Christian Mythbusters, a regular segment I offer to counter some common misconceptions about the Christian faith. Over the past few days, there’s been a good amount of controversy swirling around a comment from Texas politician and Presbyterian seminary student James Talarico. During a speech several years ago, Talarico said something that quickly went viral again this week: “God is nonbinary.” Critics pounced. Commentators circulated the clip as evidence that progressive Christians have abandoned traditional faith. But Talarico later said he was making a theological point that shouldn’t really be controversial—the idea that God is beyond human gender categories. Which brings us to today’s myth: the myth that God is a man… because apparently some people think that’s true.  And if you think about it for even a moment, that idea doesn’t make much sense. Christians believe God created the entire universe—space, time, matter, life itself. God is the source and ground of all being, the ultimate divine reality that exists beyond the limits of human biology. If God is the creator of gender, then God cannot be confined to a single gender. But here’s the thing: many people really do imagine God as literally male. I remember leading a Bible study early in my ministry, when I was still a brand-new priest. At one point in the discussion, an older woman in the group said something that genuinely surprised me. She told us that she believed God really was an old man with a long white beard—basically the same image you see in Renaissance paintings. And she didn’t mean that symbolically. She meant it quite literally. Now, to be clear, scripture often uses masculine language for God. Jesus taught us to pray “Our Father.” But the reality is the Bible also uses feminine imagery for God—comparing God to a mother eagle protecting her young, a woman searching for a lost coin, or a mother comforting her child. The point is not that God is male or female. The point is that every human metaphor eventually falls short. In fact, the very first chapter of the Bible pushes us in this direction. In Genesis we are told that human beings are created in the image of God: “male and female he created them.” Notice what that implies. The fullness of humanity reflects the divine image. No single gender contains it all. And that insight has something important to say for how Christians think about gender today. If all people bear the image of God, then transgender and nonbinary people are not mistakes. They are not outside of God’s creative intention. They, too, reflect the divine image in the world. In fact, that might be a particular gift the trans community offers the rest of us. Because their lives challenge the assumption that gender must fit neatly into simple binary categories, they remind us of something theology has always known: God transcends the boxes we try to place around reality. And so why would we be surprised when humans do the same?   In that way, the existence and witness of trans and nonbinary people can help reveal something profound about the mystery of God, about the reality of gender not being one or the other but a multitude of diversity.  When Genesis described God looking at creation, Genesis said God declared it “very good.” That blessing extends to the full diversity of humanity—including those whose lives challenge categories we once assumed were fixed. And this is something the great mystics of the Christian tradition understood very well. They taught that the deepest path into the heart of God is what theologians call the apophatic way—the path of realizing that God ultimately surpasses every concept, every category, every image we try to use. The closer we get to God, the more we discover that the divine mystery is always larger than our assumptions. And when we learn to live in that mystery, something beautiful happens: our theology becomes humbler, our compassion becomes wider, and we begin to recognize the image of God shining in people we might once have overlooked. Thanks for being with me. To find out more about my parish, you can go to sjegh.com. Until next time, remember: protest like Jesus, love recklessly, and live your faith out in a community that accepts you but also challenges you to be better tomorrow than you are today.

This is Father Jared Cramer from St. John’s Episcopal Church in Grand Haven, Michigan, here with today’s edition of Christian Mythbusters, a regular segment I offer to counter some common misconceptions about the Christian faith. One of the biggest myths many of us carry about faith is this: that if your beliefs change, your faith must be failing. For a lot of people—especially those of us who grew up in evangelical environments—faith was often presented as a kind of finished product. The right doctrines. The right interpretations. The right answers. Once you “arrived,” the expectation was that you would simply defend those answers for the rest of your life. But life and the Holy Spirit have a way of complicating tidy answers. You encounter new ideas. You meet people whose experiences challenge what you were taught. You discover parts of scripture you had never really wrestled with before. The Holy Spirit moves in your heart, asking you to reconsider something you’ve always believed. And suddenly the faith that once felt certain begins to shift. For many people, that moment can be terrifying. Because if faith is supposed to be a fixed set of beliefs, then questioning those beliefs can feel like the beginning of the end. But the deeper Christian tradition offers a very different picture of faith. In the Rule of St. Benedict—the sixth-century guide for monastic life—monks take three vows: stability, obedience, and something called conversatio morum. That Latin phrase is famously hard to translate, but it’s often rendered as “conversion of life.” Not conversion as a one-time event. Conversion as a lifelong process. Conversatio morum assumes something many modern Christians forget: following Christ means continually being changed. Your understanding deepens. Your assumptions are challenged. Your life slowly reshapes itself around the way of Jesus. In other words, change is not a failure of faith… change is faith. That idea was enormously important for me personally. I grew up in an evangelical world where certainty was often treated as the highest virtue. But as I encountered the wider Christian tradition—scripture, history, theology, and the sacramental life of the church—I found myself asking questions that my earlier faith didn’t always know how to answer. For a while, that felt like everything was unraveling. But discovering this older Christian wisdom from St. Benedict reframed the entire experience. What I thought was “deconstruction” w something far older: conversion of life. Conversatio morum. It reminded me that the goal of Christianity is not intellectual rigidity. The goal is transformation after the mind of Christ. And in many ways, that realization is what eventually drew me into the Anglican tradition. Anglicanism holds deeply to the ancient faith of the church—its creeds, its scriptures, its sacramental life—but it also carries a humility about our understanding. It recognizes that the Holy Spirit is still at work reforming the church ever closer to God’s intent. That means we hold tradition seriously, but we also remain open to asking whether some of the church’s long-held assumptions were shaped more by culture than by the heart of God. Questions about the roles of women in the church, or about LGBTQ people and their place in the life of faith, have forced Christians to wrestle deeply with scripture, tradition, and lived experience.  And in many parts of the Anglican world, including my own, that wrestling has led to the recognition that what once seemed like the “traditional” position may actually have been culturally conditioned by forces of patriarchy, discrimination, or marginalization… that the Spirit may be leading the church toward a fuller understanding of God’s love and justice than we previously held. That too is conversatio morum. The apostle Paul puts it this way in his letter to the Romans: “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds.” Notice that word: renewing. Not once but again and again and again. A Benedictine writer once captured the spirit of this beautifully with a simple phrase: “always we begin again.” That’s what the Christian life looks like. We learn. We grow. We repent. We reconsider. And through it all, the Spirit keeps shaping us more and more into the likeness of Christ. Always we begin again—a truth of discipleship that sometimes might feel scary but that is actually a profound gift. The myth is that faith means never changing. The truth is that following Jesus means being willing to be changed—again and again—as we grow ever closer to God’s intent for us to be a people of love, justice, humility, grace, and mercy—particularly for ourselves. Thanks for being with me. To find out more about my parish, you can go to sjegh.com. Until next time, remember: protest like Jesus, love recklessly, and live your faith out in a community that accepts you but also challenges you to be better tomorrow than you are today.

This is Father Jared Cramer from St. John’s Episcopal Church in Grand Haven, Michigan, here with today’s edition of Christian Mythbusters, a regular segment I offer to counter some common misconceptions about the Christian faith. Since most of you will be hearing this either on Ash Wednesday or sometime near the start of Lent, let’s talk about one of the most common myths surrounding this day. The myth is this: Ash Wednesday and Lent are about God wanting you to feel bad about yourself. I want to speak personally for a moment. Growing up in an evangelical context, I often felt like I never quite measured up. No matter how sincere my faith was, no matter how hard I tried, there was always this quiet sense that I was falling short—that real Christians were somehow stronger, purer, more certain than I was. Faith sometimes felt less like grace and more like a test I kept failing. And yet, strangely, when I encountered The Episcopal Church, Ash Wednesday became the day I first began to feel like I belonged. Because on Ash Wednesday, nobody is pretending. Nobody is polished. Nobody is performing spiritual success. We all come forward the same way—marked with ashes, named as dust, honest about our limits. Beat up, broken, and bedraggled… and still here. Still loved. Still called. Still held in grace. It was in the Season of Lent that I think I first began to understand what Brennan Manning called the Ragamuffin Gospel—the stunning truth that God’s love is not for the shiny and successful, but for ragamuffins: the bedraggled, the inconsistent, the ones who know they don’t have it all together. Manning wrote that “God loves you as you are, not as you should be, because none of us are as we should be.” That is the heart of Ash Wednesday. The ashes are not God saying, You are a failure. The ashes are God saying, You are human—and I am not done loving you yet . And if you grew up, like I did, with Rich Mullins somewhere in the background of your faith, you may remember how often he circled this same mystery. Mullins once said he wasn’t a good Christian—just a beggar showing other beggars where to find bread. That’s Ash Wednesday. Not the gathering of the spiritually impressive, but the gathering of beggars who know they need grace. In Scripture, ashes are never about worthlessness. They are about turning—repentance, reorientation, coming home. When people put on ashes in the Bible, they were not declaring, “I am nothing.” They were saying, “I want to live in what is real again. I want to return to God.” Ashes are not the mark of failure. They are the mark of hope—the sign that transformation is still possible. And notice this: everyone comes forward. The faithful and the doubting. The strong and the struggling. The certain and the searching. Ash Wednesday and Lent do not divide the worthy from the unworthy. They reveals something we all share—we are dust, we are fragile, we are unfinished… and we are loved anyway. Because “you are dust” is not the end of the sentence. In Genesis, God forms humanity from dust and breathes divine life into it. Dust, in the Christian imagination, is not trash. It is sacred material touched by God. To remember that we are dust is also to remember that we are beloved—created, sustained, and redeemed not by our performance, but by grace.. So if you have ever felt like you didn’t measure up—spiritually, morally, or personally—Ash Wednesday and Lent speak a different word. You do not have to pretend. You do not have to perform. You do not have to be impressive to belong. God meets us right here—in the ashes, in the honesty, in the ragamuffin truth of being human. And strangely, that is where freedom begins. Thanks for being with me. To find out more about my parish, you can go to sjegh.com. Until next time, remember: protest like Jesus, love recklessly, and live your faith out in a community that accepts you but also challenges you to be better tomorrow than you are today.

This is Father Jared Cramer from St. John’s Episcopal Church in Grand Haven, Michigan, here with today’s edition of Christian Mythbusters, a regular segment I offer to counter some common misconceptions about the Christian faith. One of the most common myths about Christianity is that conversion is always sudden, dramatic, and once-and-for-all. Many people picture the blinding light, the voice from heaven, the instant turnaround of Saul becoming Paul on the road to Damascus. It’s a powerful story, and for many Christians—myself included growing up in an evangelical context—it becomes the model of what “real” conversion is supposed to look like. If you didn’t have a lightning-bolt moment, you might wonder whether your faith story somehow counts less. But the deeper truth of the Christian tradition is far richer and far more human. Yes, some people do experience dramatic, life-changing moments that feel like a Damascus Road. But most of us are converted not once, but many times. Conversion, in the Christian sense, is not merely a single event—it is a lifelong process of being reshaped by God’s love  . Consider St. Peter. His story is not one of a single, decisive turning point, but of repeated conversions. First, he leaves his nets and follows Jesus. Then, in fear, he denies Jesus three times. Later, he is restored and entrusted with the care of the flock, as Jesus tells him: “Feed my sheep.” But even that is not the end of his transformation. In the Book of Acts, Peter must undergo another conversion when he realizes, through the vision of the sheet filled with unclean animals and then the outpouring of the Holy Spirit, that Gentiles are fully welcomed into God’s people without preconditions. Everything in his religious upbringing, everything he thought Scripture said, had taught him otherwise, yet the Spirit made the old certainty impossible to hold. And still, Peter’s story continues. In Paul’s Letter to the Galatians, we hear that Peter later stopped eating with Gentile believers out of fear of criticism from more traditional Jewish Christians. Paul confronted him publicly. Even an apostle, even a leader of the Church, was still learning, still growing, still being converted. An ancient Christian tradition tells us that near the end of his life, during the persecution under Nero, Peter fled Rome in fear. On the road, he encountered the risen Christ and asked, “Lord, where are you going?”—Domine, quo vadis? Christ replied, “I am going to Rome to be crucified again.” In that moment, Peter experienced yet another conversion. He turned around, returned to the city, and faced martyrdom with courage. Even at the end, Peter was still becoming who God called him to be. This is the pattern many of us recognize in our own lives—not a single, perfect turning, but a journey marked by growth, failure, repentance, and renewal. The Benedictine tradition has a name for this: conversatio morum, often translated as “conversion of life.” It means an ongoing transformation, a daily turning toward God, a willingness to keep being changed. And that requires humility. It requires the courage to admit we might not yet fully understand God, Scripture, or even ourselves. It requires openness to discover that what we once thought certain may need to grow, deepen, or even be re-imagined in light of the Holy Spirit’s work. Above all, it requires attentiveness—to notice where God is moving in our lives, where love is calling us forward, where grace is inviting us to rise again after we fall. So if your faith has not been one dramatic moment but a series of small awakenings, setbacks, and new beginnings, take heart. You are not failing at Christianity—you are living it. The Christian life is not about arriving once and for all; it is about continuing to be converted, again and again, into the likeness of Christ through God’s love. Thanks for being with me. To find out more about my parish, you can go to sjegh.com. Until next time, remember: protest like Jesus, love recklessly, and live your faith out in a community that accepts you but also challenges you to be better tomorrow than you are today.

This is Father Jared Cramer from St. John’s Episcopal Church in Grand Haven, Michigan, here with today’s edition of Christian Mythbusters, a regular segment I offer to counter some common misconceptions about the Christian faith. Earlier this week I was watching the Grammys, and one of the moments that really stayed with me was the memorial tribute honoring Ozzy Osbourne and his work with Black Sabbath. I know that might surprise some of you—either because I’m a Christian priest, or perhaps because you think I’m too young for his music (which, honestly, would be very kind of you to say). But that moment got me thinking about a myth I had to unlearn when I was younger: the fear I was taught to have of certain kinds of rock and roll. When I was growing up, especially in evangelical Christian circles, there was a deep anxiety about Satanism lurking in popular culture. In the late Cold War era, with rapid social change, declining trust in institutions, and genuine moral panic about drugs, violence, and youth culture, many Christians were told that the safest response was suspicion. Music became a convenient scapegoat. Bands like KISS or Black Sabbath weren’t just loud or strange; they were portrayed as spiritually dangerous, gateways to corruption, or even tools of the devil. But here’s the myth: that heavy metal, especially early metal, was primarily about glorifying evil. In reality, much of it was doing exactly the opposite. Black Sabbath’s dark imagery wasn’t an endorsement of violence or Satanism; it was a critique of evil. Their sound reflected the industrial grit, economic anxiety, and moral exhaustion of postwar Britain. They were naming the darkness of the world, not celebrating it. And that’s a deeply biblical move. Take the song highlighted in the tribute, War Pigs. Written during the Vietnam War, the song is a blistering condemnation of political leaders who send the poor and powerless to die while they themselves remain safe. “Generals gathered in their masses, just like witches at black masses”—that’s not praise. That’s accusation. The song imagines those responsible for war eventually facing judgment for their actions. When it was released in 1970, it became an anthem not just of rock and roll, but of the broader anti-war movement, giving voice to moral outrage many people felt but struggled to articulate. That’s prophecy. And prophecy doesn’t always come wrapped in polite language or religious packaging. One of the central Christian convictions I hold is that all truth is God’s truth, no matter where it comes from. Scripture itself is full of unlikely prophets: shepherds, foreigners, women whose voices were ignored, even a talking donkey. God has never limited truth-telling to officially sanctioned religious spaces. Music often takes on that prophetic role. You can hear it in folk artists like Bob Dylan or Joan Baez, in soul and gospel-infused protest songs by Nina Simone, in hip-hop, and yes, even in heavy metal. You can hear it today in artists like Jesse Welles, a folk troubadour who’s been compared to the great social commentators of the past; in his song United Health he criticizes the commodification of care with lines like, “There ain’t no you in United Health, there ain’t no me in the company, there ain’t no us in the private trust.” In Jesse’s music, just like the music of so many who came before him, artists in sist that music can and should challenge the powerful. So here’s the myth to bust: that God only speaks through “safe” or explicitly religious art. Nothing could be further from the truth. The truth is that God’s Spirit has always been more adventurous than that. Sometimes the clearest moral vision comes from the margins, amplified through distorted guitars and uncomfortable truths. Rest in power, Ozzy, and rise in glory. Thanks for being with me. To find out more about my parish, you can go to sjegh.com. Until next time, remember: protest like Jesus, love recklessly, and live your faith out in a community that accepts you but also challenges you to be better tomorrow than you are today.

This is Father Jared Cramer from St. John’s Episcopal Church in Grand Haven, Michigan, here with today’s edition of Christian Mythbusters, a regular segment I offer to counter some common misconceptions about the Christian faith. One of the quiet myths I hear all the time—especially right now—is this: “If I’m exhausted by the news, my faith must be weak.” If you’re feeling that way, let me say this as clearly as I can: that myth is false. And believing it does real spiritual damage. Exhaustion is not a failure of faith. In fact, exhaustion is often a sign that your heart is still open—that you are still paying attention in a world that gives us endless reasons to shut down, harden up, or go numb. The truly dangerous spiritual posture isn’t weariness; it’s indifference.  The mystics of the church have known this for centuries—the pain and ache you feel in your heart is not because you are losing your connection with God. Rather, it is usually the Holy Spirit moving within you, pricking your heart, cultivating tenderness, compassion, and an impetus to action.  The Bible is also remarkably honest about this. The prophet Jeremiah—sometimes called the “weeping prophet”—doesn’t offer tidy spiritual slogans. He cries out. He accuses. He says, in effect, “God, this is too much, and I don’t understand why you’re letting it happen.” That’s not weak faith. That’s covenantal faith—the kind that trusts God enough to tell the truth. And of course, we see this most clearly in Jesus himself. Jesus weeps at the tomb of Lazarus. Jesus laments over Jerusalem. Jesus prays in Gethsemane with such anguish that the gospel writers struggle to put it into words. At no point does Jesus treat grief, fear, or exhaustion as a spiritual defect. He treats them as part of loving a broken world without turning away from it. Christian faith is not about being endlessly resilient. It’s about being honest before God and one another. Lament is not a detour from faith; it’s one of faith’s deepest expressions. To lament is to refuse to pretend that injustice is normal, that violence is acceptable, or that suffering doesn’t matter. And here’s where this becomes especially important for how we live in the public square. Honest faith—faith that can name exhaustion and grief—actually makes deeper solidarity possible. When we stop pretending that we “have all the answers,” we can stand shoulder to shoulder with people of different faiths, or no faith at all, who are also grieving, angry, and yearning for a more just world. Lament becomes a shared language. When Christians lead with certainty alone, we often end up isolated. But when we lead with truth—when we say, “Yes, this is devastating, and yes, it hurts, and no, we don’t have a neat explanation”—we discover common ground. Not theological agreement, necessarily, but moral clarity and human connection. This kind of honesty doesn’t weaken resistance; it strengthens it. It keeps resistance from becoming performative or cruel. It reminds us that justice work is not about winning arguments, but about protecting human dignity. Lament keeps our resistance rooted in compassion rather than contempt, in love rather than despair. Christian hope, at its best, is not optimism. It’s not denial. It’s the stubborn refusal to believe that suffering gets the last word. And that kind of hope can coexist with tears, fatigue, and righteous anger. In fact, it usually does. So if the news has you worn down, don’t assume your faith is failing. It may be telling you something true: that the world is broken, that love is costly, and that God is still calling us—not to carry everything, but to show up honestly, together. Thanks for being with me. To find out more about my parish, you can go to sjegh.com. Until next time, remember: protest like Jesus, love recklessly, and live your faith out in a community that accepts you but also challenges you to be better tomorrow than you are today.

This is Father Jared Cramer from St. John’s Episcopal Church in Grand Haven, Michigan, here with today’s edition of Christian Mythbusters, a regular segment I offer to counter some common misconceptions about the Christian faith. Lately, I’ve been feeling a real knot of anxiety as I watch the news—especially rhetoric and posturing that seem to treat long-standing allies as expendable or weak. When powerful nations start speaking about smaller ones as though they are merely pieces on a chessboard, Christians should feel uneasy. And that uneasiness isn’t about partisanship; it’s about memory. It’s about what Christians learned, often painfully, in the aftermath of World War II. One common myth is that Christianity’s role in politics is limited to private morality—what individuals do in their personal lives. But after the devastation of the Second World War, many Christian leaders believed something much more expansive: that faith had something to say about how nations relate to one another. Churches across Europe and North America were deeply involved in rebuilding not only cities, but trust. Christian ethicists and statesmen argued that peace required structures strong enough to restrain aggression and relationships deep enough to prevent fear from metastasizing into violence. Alliances were not seen as signs of weakness, but as moral commitments—promises that human life mattered more than national ego. At the heart of that postwar vision were two convictions that Christianity holds together and that our age keeps trying to tear apart. The first is the dignity of every human life. Christians insist that people are not valuable because they are useful, powerful, or strategically convenient, but because they are made in the image of God. That belief has political consequences. It means that nations, like individuals, are not mere means to someone else’s ends. Respecting the dignity of human life leads naturally to respecting the dignity of peoples—their right to self-determination, their culture, their security, and their voice in shaping their own future. The second conviction is that peace is built through relationship, not domination. Christianity does not imagine peace as something imposed by the strongest actor getting its way. The Christian story is one in which reconciliation happens through costly commitment—through covenants, promises, and mutual responsibility. After World War II, many Christians believed that binding nations together in shared responsibility, even when it was inconvenient, was one way of taking sin seriously while still hoping for something better than endless cycles of revenge and fear. That’s why bullying rhetoric should trouble Christians so deeply. When nations are treated as obstacles to be overcome rather than partners to be engaged, the logic of the cross is replaced by the logic of coercion. Christianity does not deny that power exists or that threats are real. But it insists that power untethered from moral restraint becomes destructive, and that fear-based politics corrodes the very peace it claims to defend. Recovering a Christian vision of peace today does not mean pretending the world is simple or safe. It means remembering that strong relationships—patiently built, consistently honored, and mutually accountable—are not naïve ideals but hard-won lessons written in the ruins of the twentieth century. It means insisting that dignity and solidarity belong together: that honoring the worth of every person and every people requires us to resist both isolationism and imperial arrogance. Christians are called to be witnesses to that alternative vision, even when it makes us uncomfortable or anxious. Especially then. Because the peace of Christ was never secured by threats, and it has never been preserved by humiliation. It is carried forward by people and communities willing to choose covenant over convenience, and faithfulness over fear. Thanks for being with me. To find out more about my parish, you can go to sjegh.com. Until next time, remember: protest like Jesus, love recklessly, and live your faith out in a community that accepts you but also challenges you to be better tomorrow than you are today.