Jerusalem Jackson Greer's Blog
September 24, 2025
Rufus Thomas
Minnie Pearl and Rufus Thomas
We had to put down our beloved Rufus Thomas, an original Arkansas Barking Dog, on Monday.
We had eleven summers with him across Arkansas, New Jersey, and Ohio.
He leaves behind his sister, and littermate, Minnie Pearl, his adopted sister, Martha Stewart, and his humans, Nathan, Jerusalem, Wylie, Eli, Connor, Miles, and Charlotte. He also leaves behind his Uncle Joshua, who found him and his many sisters in a thicket down the road and rescued them all, along with his momma.
At age eleven (or seventy-seven if the math is to be believed), he had developed a cancer too aggressive and awkwardly placed to treat. We let him Rufus until he could Rufus no longer. And then Nathan, Minnie Pearl, and I took him to the sweet young vet in town, and we said our goodbyes as he drifted into the great blue yonder.
In the days since, and honestly, in the days leading up, I have cried buckets and rivers and solo cups’ worth of tears.
I cry for the goodbye I had to say to Rufus, and for the loss of him in our life. I cry for the days he won’t get to spend barking from his perch on the bench on the back deck, over the fence, driving us all to yell, RUFUS HUSH! And I cry for the loss of any hope he still had of catching just one more chicken. I cry for the squishy puppy with too much skin and big brown eyes who chewed up everything and who curled into a ball to sleep no matter his age. I cry because he was him, and now he is gone.
But mostly I cry for Minnie Pearl, who has never been away from him for more than a couple of hours until now.
I cry for her broken heart. For being left to live without him. For remaining behind.
I cry because I know.
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March 24, 2025
Land of the Living
Years ago, when Nathan and I were first married, I was introduced to hunting for the first time. As someone who did not grow up around guns or hunting, this was quite the shift for me, and it took a lot of conversations and discerning on both of our parts to figure out how to proceed together. Through this process, I learned a lot. I learned about my assumptions and prejudices and the differences between hunting for sport, money, and bragging rights and hunting for conservation and sustenance. I learned about responsible and transparent gun ownership and care and activism for these things. And we found a way forward, informed by our faith, a faith that requires us to care for all of creation – not just human interest.
In recent years, I discovered the Order of Naucratius when I interviewed two of the leaders on an episode of Spade, Spoon, Soul. This Order is a society in The Episcopal Church for anglers and hunters who believe that hunting and fishing are sacred activities, and with that premise, their goal is to help connect local hunters and anglers who have harvested in abundance with people who are hungry. They follow a rule of life modeled on the four practices: Take. Bless. Break. Give. These are found throughout the Gospel as Jesus takes food, blesses it, breaks it up, and gives it to the people. Naucratius members believe that this is not his work alone; Jesus also instructs us to do the same.
Finding this order has been a huge gift to Nathan and me in our ministries of land stewardship and spiritual connection and discipleship- the ministry of meeting people where they meet God. There is now a chapter of the Order here in Southern Ohio, and they make their spiritual home at Procter Center, where Nathan and I live and work. A few weeks ago we joined members from other chapters for an annual hog camp in south Louisiana as hospitality chaplains, serving and learning more about this order and their call to serve. Two of my gifts to the community were a Liturgy for Processing and a sermon at the closing worship service. Below is the text of that sermon, a sermon rooted in the care of creation, in loving all that God loves. As I wrote the sermon, primarily based on Psalm 27, I wondered, “what if I had not believed that God would show up here? What if I hadn’t thought God had Good News to share through these practices? I would have missed so much goodness.”
A Sermon for the Order of Naucratius Hog Camp 2025, Second Sunday in Lent, Year C
What if I had not believedthat I should see the goodness of the Lord
in the land of the living! - Psalm 27:17
Today, on this second Sunday in Lent in the year 2025, here on the Brady farm, off Folly Brown Road, in East Feliciana Parish Louisiana, I want us to begin by taking a few moments to think about where we have seen the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living this week.
Was it in the sky full of stars on those first few nights, maybe like the sky God showed Abraham thousands of years ago?
Perhaps your moment came, sitting high in a stand like the Psalmist on a Rock, or maybe it was low in a blind, like a chick under a mama hen’s wings.
[image error][image error]Perhaps it was around a crowded table, elbow to elbow in processing a hog or peeling crawfish.
Perhaps it was near the pond or the river.
[image error]Perhaps it was around a fire, spirits in your hand, and laughter on your lips.
This week, I have experienced God’s goodness by being back in the familiar South, with bird songs, trees, and accents that feel like home.
I have found it in the sound of thunder – something I miss up north.
[image error]I have experienced God’s goodness in the light that filters through the Magnolia tree as the wind blows, casting perfect shadows in the front bedroom of the Brady house.
It has been in helping keep up with and care for Gunneson, a companion for all of us.
And it has been in seeing more clean dishes than dirty ones in the kitchen sink each time I pass through. Clear signs that everyone here is taking care of each other.
In each of these moments, I have experienced the goodness of God here in the land of the living through all my senses:
[image error]Gunnison’s fur under my fingers, the cold,wet grass on my toes, the spice of crawfish seasoning on my tongue, the call of the coyotes as we sit around the campfire, the smell of a fresh pot of coffee when I wake.
This week, I have experienced God’s goodness in embodied expressions and encounters specific to this place, these people, this time, and this land.
This place, this time, has been sacred to all of us in so many ways. And we have experienced it Here. Now.
For generations, Christian culture has dangled the “someday” of heaven as the goal of our faithfulness.
We take passages like the one we read today from the letter to the Philippians (Philippians 3:17-4:1), and we pick out phrases like “their minds are set on earthly things. But our citizenship is in heaven” and skip over the entire context of this letter – a letter filled with instructions and thoughts on what it takes to live an embodied faithful life here on Earth.
We stand on river banks for baptism services, singing songs that glorify leaving our “temporary home” for “someday in glory” and ignore caring for the very water rushing over our heads.
Interestingly, most of what Jesus talks about, what the Psalmist and the prophets, what the books of poetry and of law in the Torah – and even what Paul himself speaks about – has to do with what it means to love God, love what God loves, and love our neighbors on this earth, as a joint member of creation.
We humans bear both the Imago Dei and Imago Mundi, which are just fancy ways of saying we bear both the image of God and the image of earth. We are made of matter and spirit—not just one, but both. The DNA of both the Created and the Creator is stamped upon each of us.
As far as we know, even as pithy as it sounds, we are not a body with a spirit or a spirit with a body.
In this time, in this place, we are body and spirit together.
The fibers of each of these realities are blended and woven together so tightly that trying to separate them here in this life would fragment our entire being.
And yet, we continue to try.
We humans—and maybe Christians, most of all—continue to work to divide ourselves and our world into categories. We label certain things as “spiritual” and others as “ordinary” or “earthly.” We elevate the things we—not God—have labeled spiritual and scorn or ignore the things we—not God—have labeled “earthly.” Then, we wonder why we feel so disconnected from God, from creation, and from each other.
This kind of dualistic thinking – the idea that there are ways or places that God loves and wants us to love – while there are other places that are irrelevant or off the map of God’s interest – leads to a posture that allows or even encourages us to “Take” and “Use” Creation without also practicing Blessing, Breaking, and Giving – the core practices of the Order of Naucratius.
This kind of split-thinking allows us to use the land without awareness that we are just as much of it as the earthworm and the trout.
This kind of thinking allows us to be in a place without feeling responsible to that place.
It allows us to take what we want with little regard for the consequences of that action.
The truth is that this posture is just plain bad theology. It is a theology that totally ignores who God is and what God has called us as Jesus’ followers to embody.
It ignores the reality that the “love of God correlates with the places we occupy; Loving God means to order the land in ways that fit God’s character – mercy, grace, compassion, generosity, faithfulness.” (Leonard Hjalmarson)
Sally McFague, in her book Body of God, writes, “Incarnational theology always insists that both sin and Salvation are earthly matters – fleshy concrete particular matters having to do with disoperation and well-being in relation to the forms of God’s presence. Anything we do against the many different bodies that God loves- the bodies of other people, other animals, and nature- is a sin against God…”
In the Catechism of The Episcopal Church, sin is defined as “the seeking of our own will instead of the will of God, thus distorting our relationship with God, with other people, and with all creation.”
When reading this definition and considering its implications for our relationship to the land and the places we inhabit, it is hard to ignore that humans, seeking their own will instead of God’s, destroy the very land that nourishes and supports us. We pollute the air that sustains us.
We waste the water that brings about new life.
We ignore the inhumane treatment of animals in our food systems.
We choose to cultivate pristine lawns over restorative habitats.
We both co-opt and dismiss the wisdom of our indigenous siblings for the sake of profit.
We use or steal the labor of immigrants and people with low incomes and then dispose of them when they are no longer useful.
We choose the ease of domination and subjugation over the complexities and messiness of holy co-creation.
Often, when it comes to how we live as members of God’s creation, we consciously or subconsciously use our “heavenly citizenship” as a free pass for bad earthly behavior.
But, if we are honest with ourselves, we know that these things distort our relationship with God and everything God loves.
They are tools of death and destruction.
Bluntly put, they are sin.
I think this awareness—that something is off—might be part of why we—or many of us anyway—are here this week. We know something is out of balance in the relationship we humans—even Christians—have with our neighbors in creation. Something is off in our relationship with our neighbor soil, our neighbor honey bee, our neighbor sycamore tree, Amite (also known as Little Son’s river), and wild hog.
Something is broken between humanity and creation, and we are trying to find paths and practices to help us return to a place of wholeness and restoration, not just for our sake but for all of creation.
As you know, thanks to the Fish Fry and the liturgical calendar, we are currently in the season of Lent.
Lent is a season of repentance and reflection. A time to strip away pretenses, enter the wilderness of our common and individual culpability in the unjust systems of the world, and repent with open and contrite hearts. Not because we should, but because we can.
Having the Hog Hunt in Lent matters because, liturgically, this is a time in the year that is set apart for prayerful reflection on how we can be better walking,- talking,-singing,-creating, hunting, -dishwashing,- fire building,-breakfast making, – crawfish boiling -embodied seekers of God’s will instead of our will. And what better place to practice than at Hog Camp?
Here in Lent and at Hog Camp, we are given the chance to realign our relationship with God, with other people, and with all of creation—on the land and in the places that we inhabit—both temporarily and permanently.
Not just for the hope of someday but for the hope of today, the dream of God here on Earth, now, as it is in heaven.
Lent reminds is that as beloved children of a God whose glory is rooted in mercy, we are invited to apologize, change, and start again and again,
We can- if we choose- continue, with God’s help, to work to be in right relationship with all of Creation – here and now, informed by our heavenly citizenship, instead of being excused by it.
Those of us who gathered here this week can also share the stories of where we encountered the goodness of God in the land of the living over these few days.
We can carry the Naucratis practices of Take, Break, Bless and Give out beyond the hunt, and beyond camp, embodying, teaching, and sharing them in our communities, our homes, and our churches – not just during Lent in Louisiana but every day.
We can continue to make faithful choices, caring for what God cares for, loving what God loves, honoring what God honors, and in doing so testify to the goodness of God in the land of the living here on earth, a goodness meant for all.
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March 3, 2025
God Doesn’t Say Ew Gross
“For you love all things that exist
– Wisdom 11:24
and detest none of the things that you have made,
for you would not have formed anything if you had hated it.”
On a recent Monday, two friends, both professing Christians, posted two different pictures, each representing their outrage.
[image error]The first image was a screen cap of a message my friend sent to our state representative regarding the importance of keeping health supplies for menstruating humans in library bathrooms. The other post was by a friend who came across a tree covered in giant version of a common bug, which freaked her out. She used words like “horror” and “disgusting” when describing the encounter.
Coming across both of these images within moments of each other got me thinking.
In the first instance, my friend was conveying her outrage – rooted in her Christian faith, a faith that informs her belief that all humans are worthy of dignity, respect, and love – over the ongoing direct and indirect inhumane aggressions against Transgender humans by both federal and local government agencies. She spoke from her core Christian value that all humans are intrinsically made and loved by God.
In the second instance, another friend expressed disgust and fear at coming across a new-to-her insects. Insects that looked extremely different from the version she was used to, but insects who are also intrinsically made and loved by God.
Reading these posts back to back, it occurred to me that there might be a connection.
Is there a connection between calling a giant bug gross and denying Trans humans basic health supplies?
In 2014 when we moved to Preservation Acres, our little farm in Arkansas, I made a conscious effort to become more comfortable with crawling, stinging, and flying creatures of all kinds. Since I had chosen to move to their homeland,I decided to work on seeing these creatures as my siblings instead of my enemies. I figured that since I was the invader and domesticator of their wild habitat, it was my job to be a humble, open learner, and a good guest.
I was the interloper, not them. They were simply being who they were created to be – creepers, crawlers, fliers, stingers, and inches.
I believed it was my duty, as the one holding the greater position of power – at least in terms of size- to use my position of power for the good of the whole instead of just for myself. I believed that caring for the “least of these” with great intention was, in fact, part of my Christian duty on the farm.
In the years since we left Preservation Acres, I have lived on two more farms in two more states and have subsequently met an even wider variety of slugs, bugs, moths, and their kindred. When it is possible and safe, I do my best to either live alongside them in peace or rehome them to a more hospitable location outside the four walls of my house. Even when it isn’t possible or safe, I am acutely aware that I am using the inherent power and privilege of being human to end the life of a living being.
Like many other Christian traditions, we make promises and vows in the Episcopal church when we are baptised. These promises are the scaffolding on which we are meant to build our life as Jesus-followers. They are meant to inform all of our decisions, words, and actions. We make these promises at baptism (or in the case of infant baptism, they are made on our behalf), and then we renew these promises each year thereafter as a reminder of our commitment to God, ourselves, and each other. We renew these vows as a reminder of what it means to live as a member of the Body of Christ on this earth.
Most of these promises focus on our relationship with God, our neighbors, and ourselves, which is all fine and good. And. It’s not the whole story. We humans are not the only living organisms on this planet. Nor are we the only ones God cares about. And so, a few years ago, after years of work by theologians, creation care advocates, and regular church members, our governing body, General Convention, approved additional language to be used during the sacrament of Baptism.
Here are the promises we make, with the new language in bold:
Will you continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers?I will, with God’s help.
Will you persevere in resisting evil, and, whenever you fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord?
I will, with God’s help.
Will you proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ?
I will, with God’s help.
Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself?
I will, with God’s help.
“Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect
the dignity of the Earth and every human being?”;
I will with God’s help.
Will you cherish the wondrous works of God, and protect the beauty and integrity of
all creation?
I will with God’s help.
– from the Service for Baptism
With the addition of these promises, our Christian commitment to love and care for all that God loves and cares for is explicitly spelled out. The focus of our Christian journey is expanded beyond just our human needs and human cares. Now, our Christian identity and responsibilities are placed within the broader framework of creation, and we are challenged to think about how our actions and attitudes impact all of creation, not just the human experience.
In her book, Come Have Breakfast: Meditations on God and the Earth, Elizabeth A. Johnson sites verses like Pslam 104:24 and 50:10-11 as examples of how “the personal pronouns ‘yours’ and ‘mine’ convey the spiritual sense that the dynamic presence of the Creator undergirds, enfolds, and bears up the natural world, it’s processes and it’s creatures at every moment.” In other words,
O Lord, how manifold are your works!
In wisdom you have made them all;
the earth is full of your creatures. – Psalm 104:24
For every wild animal of the forest is mine,
the cattle on a thousand hills.
I know all the birds of the air,
and all that moves in the field is mine. – Psalm 50:10-11
Johnson shows us that God cares about, for, and always watches over all of creation. The flourishing of all of creation matters to God. Not just the flourishing of humans. Not just the flourishing of cute fluffy polar bears and beautiful and majestic Eagles, or the small and expected caterpillars.
This brings me back to those two posts a few Mondays ago.
Reading those posts back to back, I couldn’t help but wonder. Does the inclination of so many humans, especially those professing to be Christians, to be hateful and dismissive of our Transgender neighbors stem from the same place that allows or encourages us to declare an unusual insect to be “gross” ?
Does the ease at which we squash bugs and declare particular created four and six-legged beings to be “gross” contribute to the ease at which we sneer or laugh at our Trans siblings? Does our lack of care about what plastics are doing to our soil and water contribute to the ease at which we dismiss the care of those whose medical needs differ from ours? Does our determination to build a world that is convenient and easy for the majority of the Western world, despite the changes it causes to migration patterns and the health of chickens, lead to the kind of contempt and arrogance that refuses to honor the name and pronouns our neighbors choose for themselves?
And who taught us that bugs are gross anyway? Who taught us to be scared of grasshoppers and to stomp on ants? Who taught us to mock and squash what God has made?
I grew up in a Christian tradition that very much viewed the earth and all of creation as “ours” instead of God’s. The attitude was to use it up and throw it out because earth was only a temporary stopping point on the journey back to Heaven. The posture was that of domination over stewardship, ownership of over co-creating and caring with God. It was a posture that placed Christian humans within that belief system above all other created beings – including the soil, the oceans, caterpillars, and yes, even other humans.
It is a posture that reflects and informs a culture rooted in the pursuit of self-interest and taking versus the pursuit of the common good and giving.
And yet there is nothing in scripture that leads me to believe that God says “ew gross” when gazing upon any of God’s creations – human, insect or otherwise.
Instead, I find a Creator who loves the soil, the earthworm, the hammerhead shark, the sycamore tree, and each fearfully and wonderfully made human. Instead of a bully who squashes and mocks, I find a Creator calling each of them by name, calling each of them good.
It is us, not God, who calls God’s beloved creation “gross”. And until we begin to see all of creation as beloved and ourselves as learners, caretakers, and co-sojourners alongside – and not above- creation, we will continue to sin against God and our neighbor, enabling a culture where it is okay to pollute the air and harm Trans siblings.
This coming Wednesday is Ash Wednesday, and we will begin the liturgical season of Lent.
Lent is a time for repentance, fasting, and charitable giving.
Maybe this Lent we could repent of our use of words such as “gross” and “disgusting” when speaking of God’s creation.
Maybe we could fast from bug squashing and silence in the face of injustices against any of God’s creation.
Maybe during Lent, if we see a bug in our houses, we could think of honoring its dignity as a created being and rehome it instead of killing it. And maybe the next time we hear someone make fun of a Trans person’s appearance or refuse to call someone by their chosen pronouns, we can honor the intrinsic belovedness of our Trans neighbor and speak up for their dignity.
Maybe we could donate funds, time, and prayer to organizations working for Creation Justice and Transgender Care. Maybe we could learn about their work and how we can support them -not just in Lent, but for all times.
And maybe, just maybe, by doing these things, we will begin to align our actions and words with the teachings of Jesus a little more closely, learning to love as God loves just a little bit more, helping the world will become a little bit more like the Kingdom of God and a little less like the Kingdom of Us.
*Sallie McFague, Body of God
February 24, 2025
The Hoagie Roll Traditon
My dad and I, about nine years before I cooked my first Hoagie Roll. He and I shared a love of overalls, good food, books, and theology. I miss him every day.
Years ago, around the age of fourteen or fifteen, I found a recipe in one of my teen magazines—Seventeen or YM most likely, as Sassy was contraband at my house—for something called a “Hoagie Roll.” This roll is different from a hoagie sandwich but contains many of the same ingredients—just chopped up.
The recipe was part of a Super Bowl party spread in the magazine. No one loved the Super Bowl more than my dad, and no one loves a theme meal more than me, so I used my babysitting money and bought all the ingredients to make this easy take on a stromboli. My dad loved it so much that he requested it every year thereafter – and for many years, this was the one dish I took to all potlucks and parties. I have been making this dish for Super Bowl Sundays on and off since I was fourteen, but since Daddy’s passing in 2019, it has once again become a solid annual tradition in our house, a way to have him with us again.
There has never been a more critical time to share meals with neighbors, strangers, and family. Maybe this Hoagie Roll is just the thing to inspire your next gathering.
[image error] PrintJ4’s Super Bowl Hoagie RollThis is a delicious alternative to stromboli or pizza and can be served as an appetizer or main course.Author JerusalemIngredients1 box Hot Roll Mix1 Egg (for Hot Roll Mix)1 cup Hot Water (for Hot Roll Mix)2 Bell Peppers I like red and yellow8 oz Provolone Cheese – diced or cubed1 lb Ham- cubed you can usually buy this pre-cubed in the pizza toping section4 ounces Black Olives – diced or sliceInstructionsPrepare the Hot Roll mix according to directions on the box, making sure to let the dough rise Clean and dice bell peppersCube or dice cheese and meatsCombine all filling ingredients, including olives in a bowl, and set aside.[image error] Once the dough has gone through it's first rise, divide into two balls.Using a rolling pin, roll the dough out into two rectangles (about 12"x18").Add filling evenly along the middle of both rectangles.[image error] Beginning from one of the long sides, roll the dough similar to rolling a cinnamon roll or Swiss roll, tucking all the filling inside as you roll. Pinch tops and ends closed. Cover with a damp cotton towel and set in a warm place to rise once more (about 30-40 minutes.) [image error] Cook in 350 degree oven for 30-40 minutes. For a flaky crust, brush with water for the last 10 minutes.Let cool for 5-10 minutes, then slice and serve. [image error] NotesFor an extra kick serve with dipping sauces – marinara and garlic butter pair well with these flavors.Be brave, be kind, remember you are beloved,
*My dad’s name was (is?) Johnny Joe Jackson Jr, which became J4 for shorthand.
February 16, 2025
The Question No One Asks
Do you know the phenomenon of when you buy a new model of a car, a model you have never owned before, a model that maybe you haven’t even noticed that much while driving around town, and suddenly you see that car everywhere? In the carpool lane, at the bank, in the church parking lot, on a trip to grandma’s house…suddenly that car, your car seems to just be, well, almost omnipresent.
This is a little bit of what it is like to move to camp, work at camp, and then travel to other camps and hotels. But in reverse. Instead of seeing your camp everywhere, you begin to see all the things you could or should have at your camp.
This is how I find myself snapping pictures of everything from toilet plungers (Trinity Retreat Center has them in EVERY room – how novel!) to self-serve campfire starting supplies (at Kanuga) to the perfect albeit industrial lounge carpet (at Hunters Lodge).
I take pictures of the pretty and the practical. I track down directors and gardeners, chaplains, and hosts. I ask questions, I open closets, I peek around the corners of commercial kitchens and through windows of locked cabins. I horde programming leaflets, campus maps, and leave-behinds like printed coasters, unique key cards, seed packets, and bookmarks.
I am searching for clues, and I am taking notes; I am gathering inspiration and tips on how we can do things better, how we can be more practical, more hospitable, more affordable, more in alignment with our mission and values, and yes—prettier. At all times, at every camp, boutique hotel, or retreat center, I want to know—what is working? What isn’t working? How can we improve based on what you have learned?
When I find someone—like Laura or Mark at Trinity, for instance—who is each, in their own way, offering gifts and expertise that resonate with the sort of things Nathan and I hope to offer at Procter, I just want to sit at their feet for days and soak up every bit of wisdom and joy that they have in and for their ministry. Because during even the short time I had to visit with them, it was clear that they had a lot to give. They are clear on why they do what they do, and they are ready to share.
Instead, you must worship Christ as Lord of your life. And if someone asks about your hope as a believer, always be ready to explain it.
– 1 Peter 3:15 (NLT)
What I was a child and a teen, growing up in an evangelical Christian context, a lot of emphasis on 1 Peter 3:15. I was led to believe, that if I was a good enough Christian, that people – specifcally strangers – would naturally see the light of Christ within me and ask me about it. And then I would have the opportunity to witness. To share the Good News of the saving grace of Jesus.
In The Episcopal Church we like to sing the song They Will Know We are Christians by Our Love.
We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord
And we pray that our unity will one day be restored
And they’ll know we are Christians by our love, by our love
But every time we sing this song, I think, but do they? Do they know we are Christians when what constitutes love isn’t even clear? And who is the “they” in this scenario? Other Christians? Non-Christians? The people at the grocery store? My followers on Instagram?
And if they do know, why aren’t they asking me to give my account regarding the source of that love? Are they asking other people? Is there something I am doing wrong? Or, do people not ask these questions now (did they ever?) Or, maybe I am not just not around the people who would ask.
As I am writing this and processing these questions, it is occurring to me that I don’t ask. I don’t ask people – strangers, acquaintances or my nearest and dearest to explain the hope they have as a believer. To explain where the source of the love they demonstrate resides.
Maybe , just maybe, I should be just as curious about your hope and the source of the love I witness in you as I am about the fact that Trinity keeps a basket of battery-powered lanterns by its front door for anyone taking a night walk to use.
Maybe, it’s like the new car phenomenan. I can’t receive these questions until I give these questions. Maybe the explaining doesn’t start with my answer, but with my questions.
After all, I would never (I hope) walk up to Aimee at Kanuga and begin telling her, from a place of instruction, how we lead prayer walks at camp. Instead, I would (I hope) begin by asking her how she is integrating prayer and meditation into nature adventures, and then I would listen. I would learn. And if asked, I would share what we have been trying, but always with an ear towards learning from her experience, her wisdom.
There is no use pretending that the world isn’t on fire. That we all have more questions than answers about how to proceed faithfully and productively given the daily landslide of threats and trauma. And I wonder, what if instead of simply asking “are you okay?” – because no, we are not that should be a given- what would it look like to ask each other – stranger, acquaintance and nearest and dearest – to give an account of their source of hope, of love, of faith. Because, despite what we see in our feeds, these things persist. I see it. I see evidence of hope and love and faith and even joy in small and big ways everywhere I go. Sometimes they are struggling to make it up above the surface of the terrors, but they are there, and I am afraid that if we don’t reach for them in each other, they will disappear from the narrative. If we don’t give these questions a chance to be answered, we will never receive the hope, love and faith that they will naturally produce in the giver, or the receiver.
I don’t know about you, but hope, faith, and love are gifts that I could stand to give and receive. They are gifts that I would happily welcome returned to me in full—pressed down, shaken together to make room for more, running over, and poured into my lap. But like my questions to Laura, Mark, Aimee and Jimmy, the amount I give is what will determine the amount I get back.
So that is this weeks plan in the resistance against the tyranny of despair and hate. To create a spacious opening that invites accounts of hope, faith, love, and even joy. It may be awkward at first. I may get some deer in the headlight looks. But I am going to test my Sunday School teachers theory that this question matters and that Good News lives on the other side of the wondering. Only, I am going to be the one doing the asking.
May we be brave, be kind, and remember that we are loved.
February 8, 2025
Refugia
we went through fire and through water;
yet you have brought us out to a spacious place.
-Psalm 66:12
When I was five years old, Mount St Helens erupted. It was May of 1980. I have vague memories of the event being on the nightly news and in the discussions of the grown-ups around me, but beyond that, I don’t remember or even ever knew many of the details.
Now, years later I know mountain lost 1,300 ft of elevation and gained a mile-and-a-half wide crater. Debris and ashfall from the volcanic blast devastated the mountain and its surroundings for miles, covering everything in hot, destructive ash. Apparently, everyone at the time assumed that it would take generations for life to return to this “apocalyptic death zone.”
But now, 40 years later, Mount St. Helens is bursting with life, green grass, happy critters, and new growth. It is once again a spacious place for wildlife of all kinds to bloom and take root, to expand and play, to create and thrive.
No, there isn’t any old-growth forest – yet. But there is life. There is growth. There is beauty. There is a new way of being that is filled with hope and new beginnings.
Kathleen Dean Moore explains how this happened in her book Great Tide Rising, “What the scientists know now, but didn’t understand then, is that when the mountain blasted ash and rock across the landscape, the devastation passed over some small places hidden in the lee of rocks and trees. Here, a bed of moss and deer fern hid under a log. There, under a boulder, a patch of pearly everlasting and the tunnel to a voles musty nest.”
These little pockets of safety that Moore is describing are called refugia.
Refugia, I have learned, are small protected shelters where living things can hide from destruction.
In other words, refugia are places of refuge. They are places where new life begins. Places where, as Debra Rienstra says in her book Refugia Faith, “the tender and often harrowing work, reconstruction and renewal take root.”
No matter where you are, you – like me -are living in an era where it seems that societal, weather, financial, and political “volcanos” are erupting in rapid succession at every corner of the globe – including in our backyards.
Currently, here in the US, volcanos are erupting daily as the dignity and safety of millions of the most vulnerable people in this country- including my emerging adult children – are threatened by our current government, which is causing volcanic ash and debris, composed of fear, hate, and despair to spread over our collective experience, eroding trust, friendships and hope.
And.
What Debra Rienstra points out is that what we know now, that we didn’t in 1980 when Mount Saint Helens erupted, is that the eruption is not the end of the story.
Reinstra says that “in human terms, refugia operates as microcountercultures where we endure disaster and trauma and prepare for new ways of living and growing together.”
Reguia are not always the places we stay permanently- but they are places where new life and liberation can begin. They are places that provide a place for new growth. They are the places where we begin again.
A few weeks ago, I preached on refugia, and what it means to be the Body of Christ – the embodied presence of Jesus on the earth – in a time of great eruption. During that sermon, I wondered aloud what it might mean for the Church to be refugia -to be one of those microcountercultures for our communities – spiritually and materially. I wondered what it might mean for the camp that Nathan and I shepherd to also be a location of refugia – for kids and families, for our staff and our guests. What it will take for us to embody and teach refugia practices through the farm, our programming, and our hospitality.
And I am also thinking about this little online space. About the ways in which I can create a microcounterculture through words and images, stories and prayers. About how I can add to the collection of refugia that writers, musicians, artists, and shepherds of all kinds are creating right now.
To that end, my plan is to practice posting a free weekly newsletter here (always for free, because writing is not how I make my living, and I would rather you support those who do) that focuses on the places I am finding and creating refugia – which could include occasional musings on things like being a Benedictine associate, living a liturgical life, and what my emerging adult children are teaching me to the text of my sermons, rants against injustices, recipes or craft tutorials, and images – from the digital collages I create to stay grounded, to snapshots of our home and life here on camp.
My prayer is that by offering these small gifts, you might find or be inspired to create refugia as well and that together, we grow something new, something restorative, something liberating.
January 13, 2025
Peri-Paradox
What to write when the world is burning? Anne Lamott says to put your butt in the chair every day and write.
But what to write about when the world is burning?
What could possibly matter?
The word that bubbled up for 2025 when I did my Year Compass review was DEEP.
The Star words chosen for me for Epiphany were Worth and Encourage.
But all I feel this morning is Frustrated. Annoyed. Angry.
The dog wants too many things. Up and down, begging eyes, no words.
The husband is home instead of at the office, filling our tiny living room with his presence.
I am hiding, hunkering in my cloffice (closet+office) instead – trying to approximate being alone.
It is my day off, and all I desperately want is to be alone. To be unobserved. Unnoticed. Unwatched. Unneeded.
The house is still covered in Christmas because the young adult children are still home from college, so the magic stays up.
At night, all of us piled up in the living room, fire roaring, cups and bowls of warm nourishment in our hands; it is cozy and snug.
In the daylight, the glare from the ten inches of snowstorm bouncing through the picture windows, it is all clutter and claustrophobia.
The floors are tracked with salty boot and paw prints from dogs and humans coming in and out from the snow.
The kitchen sink is never empty.
The kids sleep till noon. And then some.
At night, I cry, thinking of how empty all of it will be in ten days when they return to school, and I resent every task, every meeting that takes me from their presence between now and then.
I cry over how gray the light will be when the snow melts and the mud season begins.
Over how quiet and tidy the kitchen will be.
How unobserved I will be.
December 18, 2024
Coming on Christmas
Faith is for that which lies on the other side of reason. Faith is what makes life bearable, with all its tragedies and ambiguities and sudden, startling joys. – Madeline L’Engle
It’s coming on Christmas. Our first Christmas in our house here at camp, our second Christmas in Ohio, our third Christmas being empty nesters, our fifth Christmas since losing my dad in December 2019.
Due to a particularly busy early December, I am just now – days from Christmas – pulling out the bins of decorations, putting up the tree (went with the IKEA tree, no time for a tree hunt), resorting everything that was packed for a different house, a different life. A life that began to split at the seams – though we didn’t realize it at the time -that Christmas.
It’s coming on Christmas, and there are no children to make merry for. No wonder to create with the hope of sparking imaginations. No shoes to put out for Saint Nick, no St. Lucy parties to throw, no visits to the Blow-up house, no school concerts or plays to attend.
We are a new configuration in a new place. Our family has grown from four to six. I haven’t found my favorite shops and restaurants for last-minute Christmas shopping dates yet. Plans are all in flux depending on everyone’s arrival times. New traditions are still being tested and scouted, and I can’t yet see the magical forest of a cozy holiday for all the strange new Christmas trees.
I am a bit lost.
And.
Somewhere in the back of my heart is that little tickle – fueled by faith and trusted by experience – that says, “Traveler, there is no path. The path is made by walking.” (Antonio Machado) or as some would say – “it is solved by walking. “
And so, here I am. Walking up and down the basement stairs, opening bin after bin (yes, there are a dozen of them), standing on step stools and sofas, and trusting that though it may take a Christmas or two, I will sort and discover our new holiday path ahead, one Christmas bauble at a time.
June 30, 2024
Here
It’s been exactly one year since we received our lifeshock. One year since the volcanic news that we were no longer welcome, wanted, or needed at the farm in New Jersey landed in our inboxes. One year since a friendship we thought would last a lifetime disintegrated into ash through the text of one email. An email that left us without a home, Nathan without a job, and all of us without the future we had spent our life’s savings on.
And.
It has been exactly one year since the road to camp began to open in front of us.
Could this road have opened without that lifeshock? Sure. Absolutely. We have long longed for this kind of ministry and community living; it is what we were hoping for in New Jersey. We worked to create it with every Small Group gathering, Halloween Party, Christmas Eve celebration, and liturgical farm shenanigan we hosted in years past.
This kind of life – this intertwining of faith, land, celebration, rest, play, feasting, and worship – within the bounds of community and love – it is the only way we know how to be, and it is all we have ever wanted to share with others.
So, yes. We could have gotten to camp without a long and expensive and ulitmately heartbreaking layover in New Jersey.
But we didn’t.
It didn’t happen any other way. The lifeshock and our landing here at camp are forever part of the same story. They are part of our story, part of our whole story – past, present, and whatever is still to come.
It is what happened.
And for posterity’s sake, I wanted to mark this day with one little blog post.
As a record that we made it to the other side.
That we made it to the miracle that is our life at camp.
May 3, 2024
18 Years
18 years.
This blog is 18 and a couple of weeks old.
Where did all that time go?
It’s not a place I visit very often anymore. Maybe it will be again. Or maybe I will become one of those substackers.
But today, sitting in a hotel room in San Francisco, on the cusp of graduating from graduate school, eight months into a new job, living in a new state (Ohio) after surviving the weirdest year of my life in New Jersey, with 2 grown children and 2 grown bonus children, and the same husband of 27 years, it just seemed like the thing to do.
So here I am. No grand post. No great photos. No real story just yet. Just a stake in the ground of this digital record of my life to say I am still here.
