The Peace of God in an Occupied Capital

Dismiss all anxiety from your minds; instead, present your needs to God through prayer and petition, giving thanks for all circumstances. Then God’s own peace, which is beyond all understanding, will stand guard over your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus. ~ Philippians 4:6-7

Dear FBC Family:

Sometimes the Spirit’s timing feels downright intentional. Long before federal authorities would assume control of DC policing, our sermon calendar had us turning to Paul's words about "the peace of God which is beyond all understanding."

This Sunday we’ll engage the kind of peace that runs deeper than emotional tranquility. It's the peace that sustained Jesus as he wept over Jerusalem, the peace that held him as he overturned tables in the temple, the peace that accompanied him to the cross.

This ancient promise of peace that "stands guard" meets us here as our city faces profound uncertainty. Like many of you, I've been unsettled by the president's decision to declare a "crime emergency" in DC and assert federal authority over Washington—at a time when violent crime in the city is at a 30-year low, and without meaningful consultation with our mayor and local leaders.

All of us carry the weight of violence in our world—from local shootings to global conflicts, from domestic abuse to mass tragedies. No community is untouched by this epidemic of harm. But governance by intimidation rather than collaboration feels more like occupation than partnership.

The peace of God does not ask us to be silent in the face of injustice or poor governance. It doesn't tell us to close our eyes when forces intimidate our immigrant and unhoused neighbors. Instead, it grounds us in something deeper than fear or reactivity. The peace of God invites us to respond with purpose rather than react from anger or fear.

How do we live from this peace when our city feels occupied?

1. We name the real problems with courage. Yes, our city needs continued work on public safety. Yes, any violence against our neighbors demands our attention. And yes, undermining local democratic leadership while bypassing collaborative planning is also a serious problem. The peace of Christ allows us to hold multiple truths at once without choosing sides in false dilemmas.
   

2. We prioritize the most vulnerable. Any honest discussion of public safety must begin with those who face danger from multiple directions—both from crime and from aggressive enforcement tactics that too often target poor people, immigrants, and our black and brown neighbors. The peace of Christ keeps asking: who suffers most when we get this wrong?
   

3. We pray for the people around us. In addition to general prayers for "peace in our city," we can entrust to God:

   • families grieving loved ones lost to violence,

   • police officers and community leaders trying to build trust,

   • elected officials making difficult decisions under pressure,

   • federal personnel who didn't choose this assignment,

   • neighbors feeling afraid on multiple fronts.
     

4. We  resist fear that seeks to divide us. Fear is a powerful political tool, but it's a poor foundation for policy. The peace that passes understanding allows us to acknowledge real problems while resisting solutions rooted in intimidation or scapegoating.
   

5. We speak and act with hope. In these anxious and polarized times we remain people of resurrection hope. First Baptist Church has long believed that following Christ means engaging the world around us with both prophetic courage and tender compassion. This means continuing to work for the flourishing of our city and all who call it home, even when (especially when) the path forward seems unclear.

The peace of Christ isn't passive. It flows naturally and endlessly from the living presence of God. Friends, may we be people who carry Christ's peace into every conversation about our city's future, speaking truth with love and refusing to let fear have the last word.

In the Great Peace,

In the days ahead, I encourage you to stay informed through reliable local news, hold our city's leaders and residents in prayer, and look for ways to contribute to healing. If you're feeling anxious about current events, I am here for conversation and prayer (and Pastor Eric will be, too, when he returns next week from vacation).

A Prayer on the 80th Anniversary of Hiroshima

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Hiroshima August 1945

Present, loving God, on this 80th anniversary of the atomic bombing of Hiroshima, we remember the 140,000 children, women and men who perished in that blinding flash, the survivors who carried visible scars and invisible trauma, and the families whose stories were forever changed in a single moment.

We confess, O God, our human capacity for both devastating destruction and remarkable resilience. We have seen how quickly fear can eclipse love, how swiftly we can forget our shared humanity when we feel threatened or different from one another.

Yet we also witness, in the testimony of hibakusha—the survivors—a profound commitment to peace that transcends bitterness. In their courage to share their stories, we see your Spirit working to transform suffering into wisdom, trauma into testimony for peace.

Today we pray for world leaders who hold such power in their hands. Grant them the humility to seek counsel, the wisdom to choose dialogue over destruction, and the courage to lay down the tools of war. Help us all to remember that every person carries your image—in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, in Ukraine and Gaza, in Haiti and South Sudan—and every place where conflict threatens your beloved children.

We pray for our own hearts, that we might choose reconciliation in our daily relationships, practice forgiveness in small moments, and build bridges rather than walls in our communities. May our congregation be a sanctuary where former enemies find fellowship, where differences become opportunities for deeper understanding.

Holy Spirit, move among the nations. Transform our swords into plowshares, our nuclear arsenals into instruments of healing, our fear into faith. Help us envision and work toward a world in which children never again need to fear the sky, where the light that falls upon cities brings only warmth and life.

Beautifully Imperfect by Design

Romare Bearden, Family Dinner. Collage on masonite 1968.

This Sunday we'll gather around Paul's vision in Romans 12 of what it means to be the body of Christ—a community where our differences don't divide us but make us whole. In a world that often emphasizes what separates us, Paul offers a radical alternative: "We have many parts in one body and the parts don't all have the same function. In the same way, though there are many of us, we are one body in Christ, and individually we belong to each other."

I've been thinking about Paul's image of the church as a body this week, and it strikes me how beautifully imperfect this metaphor really is. Bodies aren't uniform or symmetrical. My left hand doesn't look exactly like my right. My eyes serve a completely different function than my feet. Yet somehow, in their glorious mismatch, all these parts work together to create something far more beautiful and functional than any single part could be alone.

The same is true in our church family. We bring different gifts, different perspectives, different stories. Some of us are the steady hands that keep things running smoothly. Others are the eyes that see new possibilities. Some are the voices that speak truth with courage. Others are the ears that listen with extraordinary compassion. We're wonderfully, necessarily mismatched—and that's exactly how God designed us to be.

Competing in Kindness

Paul's instructions for life together acknowledge this beautiful complexity. "Outdo one another in showing honor," he writes. Not outdo each other in being right, or in having the most spiritual-sounding prayers, or in looking like we have it all together. Outdo each other in treasuring one another, in seeing the sacred worth in every person who walks through our doors.

This kind of honoring doesn't happen automatically. It requires showing up with open hearts, willing to be known and to truly know others. It means moving beyond Sunday morning pleasantries to the deeper work of community—the messy, grace-filled business of learning to love people who see the world differently than we do.

Unity, Not Uniformity

Sometimes I think we imagine unity means uniformity, that being "one body" means we all think alike or have the same temperament. But Paul's vision is far richer than that. True unity isn't about erasing our differences—it's about discovering how our differences can serve a greater wholeness.

Poet Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer captures this beautifully in her poem "Unity":

Today we lose the words
yours and mine and find
in their absence a song
that can only be sung together.

How did we ever think
we could attempt
this humanness alone?

To the table of love,
we bring soup, bring cherries,
bring the bread of our own
sweet communion.

We bring scissors to cut away
the tresses of the past,
bring dark wine to toast
the courage of showing up exposed.

And when we forget
the words to the song,
well, there is always laughter.

And when we forget to laugh,
well, there is always
the union of tears—
the way many rivers
become one river,

the way many voices
become one song.

This Sunday, as we gather as the beautifully mismatched body of Christ, may we remember that our unity isn't found in our sameness, but in our shared commitment to love well, to honor deeply, and to sing together the song that can only be sung in community.

Grace and peace,

Pastor Julie

Gratitude for Sacred Seasons

Dear FBC Family,

Your generous gift of time away for leading, preaching and teaching continues to bear fruit in ways I never could have imagined. This week marks the end of a particularly meaningful chapter: my final residency co-leading the Shalem Institute's Clergy Spiritual Life and Leadership Program with Rev. Emily Kellar, my UCC colleague and friend from Massachusetts.

Five Years of Holy Work

For half a decade, Emily and I have had the profound privilege of guiding pastors and chaplains through the same transformative 16-month journey that you encouraged me to take eight years ago. We've watched spiritual leaders from around the globe learn to quiet that relentless inner voice demanding more productivity, more achievement, more spiritual performance—and discover instead the radical grace that whispers, "By grace you are saved...not by your ministerial success.”

Trusting the Spirit's Lead

A year ago, I began sensing it was time to step away from this particular calling when our current class graduates. While I'll miss this ministry deeply, I look forward to discovering what new invitations the Spirit has in store. Sometimes our journey invites us to release something we love to make space for what's coming next.

By the way—if the "produce more, achieve more" voice sounds familiar in your own life, the 9-month contemplative journey starting in September might be just what your soul needs most.

Deep gratitude to Pastor Eric for leading and preaching this Sunday.

Blessings and peace,

The Geography of Prayer

Do you remember where you were when you first learned to pray?

Maybe it was kneeling beside your bed as a child, small hands folded while a parent listened. Maybe it was sitting in a pew, watching sunlight filter through stained glass. Maybe it was walking in the woods, or driving alone on a highway, or standing in a hospital corridor at two in the morning.

Location matters more than we think.

Mountains and Rooftops

Elijah climbed to the top of Mount Carmel to pray for rain. He needed the high place—the wide view, the thin air, the sense of being closer to heaven. When you're asking God to end a three-year drought, you want to be as far from the parched earth as possible.

But this week, as I've watched coverage of the flooding in Texas, I keep seeing a different geography of prayer. People praying from rooftops, waiting for rescue. Families praying in evacuation centers, having lost everything. Emergency workers praying as they wade through rising waters.

These prayers aren't coming from mountaintops. They're coming from the lowest places—from the valleys where water collects, from the spaces where we're most vulnerable.

Praying in the Capital City

There's something unique about praying in a city built for governing. In Washington, the high places aren't just geographical—they're institutional. The Capitol dome, the Supreme Court, the endless office buildings where briefings happen and strategies form. Most of us work in the ecosystem around these places—advocacy groups, legal practices, research organizations. We're close enough to see how decisions get made, far enough away to feel helpless sometimes. So we pray—for wisdom in our work, for patience with the process, for hope that change is still possible—as we do our part to nudge the world toward compassion and justice from whatever corner we occupy.

But we also know the low places—the moments when we're scrolling through news that breaks our hearts, conversations with friends who've lost hope in institutions we're trying to serve, the honest question that surfaces in quiet moments: "Does any of this matter?"

And here's what strikes me: both kinds of prayer get heard.

Every Elevation

The God who met Elijah on the mountain is the same God who hears our rooftop prayers—when the floodwaters of national turmoil or personal crisis rise higher than we can handle. Whether we're praying from positions of influence or from places where we feel completely powerless, God's presence reaches every elevation of human need.

But it does shape how we pray. From the high places, we pray for systems and solutions. From the low places, we pray for strength to get through today.

Maybe that's why we need both kinds of prayer in our lives. The high places teach us to trust God's bigger purposes. The low places teach us to trust God's immediate presence.

I don't know where you are today—mountaintop or rooftop, high place or low place. But I know this: God hears prayers from every elevation.

Wherever you are, God is there too.

Peace,

Taking the Long View

Dear FBC Family,

What a gift to be home! I carried you in my heart while walking the ancient streets of Ávila and Toledo, following the paths of 16th-century Spanish mystics Teresa of Ávila and John of the Cross. Our pilgrimage days were grounded in prayer and reflection, with a gentle pace that created space for solitude and contemplative silence—along with plenty of laughter among fellow travelers.

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The iconic walls surrounding the city of Ávila were constructed over a period spanning from the 11th to the 14th centuries.

I'm grateful to Pastor Eric for his thoughtful preaching and pastoral care during what became two weeks of difficult news: The murder of Senator Melissa Hortman and her husband, the Southern Baptist marriage resolution, the Supreme Court's decision on gender-affirming care in Tennessee, and the escalating conflict between Israel and Iran. Reading Sunday morning's headlines that the U.S. has entered this war left me struggling for words. As followers of Jesus, Prince of Peace, my heart grieves whenever nations—especially my own—turn to violence as a solution.

History’s Perspective

Walking through centuries-old Spanish cities reinforced for me how much we need historical perspective when our culture feels divided. The Spanish Inquisition offers a striking example.

In 1478, Ferdinand and Isabella began a brutal institution that would plague Spain for almost four centuries. It targeted anyone considered religiously suspect, particularly Jewish and Muslim converts to Christianity. Using interrogations, torture, public rituals, and penalties from spiritual correction to death, the Inquisition sought to maintain religious conformity and political power.

Many of us feel worn down by policies that change dramatically with each new presidential administration. We have historical company.

Near its end, the Inquisition faced identical cycles of reversal: Abolished in 1808, restored in 1814, abolished again in 1820, restored again in 1823—until it finally ended in 1834 under the reign of Isabella II. People spent generations wondering: Will it come back? Is my family safe? What is my neighbor saying about me? The constant anxiety must have been crushing.

Learning from the Mystics

Teresa of Ávila and John of the Cross lived under constant threat from this nightmarish system. The Inquisition viewed mystical experiences with suspicion, questioning whether direct encounters with God bypassed church authority. Both faced investigation; their writings were scrutinized for heresy.

Yet they persisted. Teresa wrote with courage about her prayer life and visions. John composed poetry capturing the soul's journey toward God (and is widely viewed today as Spain’s greatest poet). They found faith not despite the turmoil around them, but through practices that sustained them within it.

Walking where they walked, I thought about how different their faith was from the institutional religion that threatened them. While the Inquisition used fear and control, Teresa and John embodied the invitation of Jesus—to come and find rest, to abide in love, to trust in God's grace. Their mystical encounters weren't about bypassing the church but about discovering the heart of the Gospel: that God draws near to us in love, not condemnation.

Beyond the Headlines

Their example offers us a way of being present to pain without being consumed by it. These ancient Christians show us how to remain rooted in what matters most when the ground shifts beneath us. They remind us that taking the long view isn't about detachment from the world's pain but about engaging from a deeper place with God.

When fear drives the headlines, we can trust that God's purposes—revealed in Christ's life of compassion, justice, and mercy—unfold across centuries, not news cycles.

Paz y bendiciones,

A Pilgrimage to Spain: Gracias!

A Pilgrimage to Spain: Gracias!

Dear FBC Family,

One of the many things for which I am deeply grateful is the continual encouragement I receive from our congregation to care for my own soul. As one of my mentors said to me years ago: "The best gift you have to give to your congregation is a whole, healthy, God-centered you." Thank you for all the ways you support our entire FBC staff as we endeavor to lean into wholeness.

As a way of nurturing my spirit, next week I will fly from Dulles to Madrid to embark upon a contemplative pilgrimage to the historic cities of Ávila and Toledo, Spain, led by the Shalem Institute. There I will walk in the footsteps of two profound 16th-century Spanish Catholic mystics—Teresa of Ávila and John of the Cross—whose teachings on spiritual deepening and the "dark night of the soul" have served as contemplative guideposts for nearly five centuries.

Timeless Wisdom in Troubled Times

What makes Teresa and John's spiritual insights particularly compelling is the context in which they lived. They ministered during Spain's golden age, when it was the most powerful empire in the world—yet this was also the era of the Spanish Inquisition, when fear and religious persecution cast long shadows across the land. The church had become entangled with state power in ways that brought heaviness and oppression to ordinary people.

In the midst of this darkness, Teresa and John discovered profound pathways to divine intimacy. Their mystical writings emerged not from comfortable circumstances, but from wrestling with God in times of institutional corruption and societal upheaval. Perhaps this is why their wisdom resonates so deeply today, as we also grapple with the tension between political power and spiritual grounding, between the noise of our troubled world and the still, small voice of the Holy.

Vacation vs. Pilgrimage

While I'll certainly savor the delights Spain offers—the architecture, the food, the culture—there are meaningful differences between a pilgrimage and a vacation.

Pilgrims move at a slower pace. As I am fond of saying, "We live in a rocket-speed society, but we have wagon-train souls." An unhurried rhythm allows us to be more fully present to each experience, each prayer, each moment of wonder.

A pilgrimage also carries a deeper intentionality—the focused practice of looking and listening for the presence and voice of the Holy in ancient stones, quiet chapels, and the stories of those who walked this path centuries before us.

Each day will be grounded in prayer and reflection, with a relaxed pace that allows for spacious moments of solitude and contemplative silence. I'm hoping to draw from this deep well of spiritual nourishment and return refreshed for the important work we share together.

Gratitude and Return

Thank you for this precious gift of time for rest and renewal. I'm grateful to our gifted staff and lay leaders, and especially to Pastor Eric for preaching on the two Sundays I'm away. Your generous spirit in supporting this journey means more than you know.

I look forward to being with you again on June 29th as we celebrate what God has done in and through our church this past year at our Annual Meeting. Perhaps I'll even have a story or two to share about walking in the footsteps of saints.

If you'd like to follow along with the itinerary, you can find it here.

Que Dios los bendiga (May God bless you all)…

Pastor Julie

As I Have Loved You

Reflections on Sunday’s Sermon
(May 25, 2025)

On Sunday we wrestled with Jesus' radical commandment: "Love one another as I have loved you." 

Picture Jesus in that upper room. He sits with all twelve disciples around him, and knowing all that is to come, washes each of their feet:  

He washes the feet of Judas, knowing Judas will betray him. 
He washes the feet of Peter, knowing Peter will deny him. 
He washes the feet of Thomas, knowing Thomas will doubt him. 

This is unconditional love, love that expects nothing, yet gives everything—even to those who will cause us pain.

"As I have loved you, so you are to love one another."

Throughout history, some have dared to love this way.

In the year 295, a young Christian, Maximilian of Tebessa, was drafted by the Roman army but refused to serve. His only loyalty, he said, was to God. This brought great shame to his father—a veteran who knew his son's decision meant death. At his beheading, Maximilian noticed the shabby clothing of his executioner and called to his father in the crowd: "Give this man my new clothes."

During the 1994 Rwandan genocide, Immaculée Ilibagiza, a young Tutsi woman, watched as Hutu extremists murdered nearly a million people—including most of her family. She survived by hiding in a tiny bathroom with seven other women for 91 days while killers searched for them. When the genocide ended, Immaculée faced an impossible choice. She met one of the men who had killed her mother—now imprisoned and broken. Instead of seeking revenge, she looked into his eyes and said, "I forgive you." And her love didn't stop there. She began caring for the orphaned children of those who had murdered her family.

Laramiun Byrd’s mother Mary and Oshea Israel

In 1993, 16-year-old Laramiun Byrd was shot and killed at a party in Minneapolis. The shooter was Oshea Israel—also 16—who was convicted and sentenced to 25 years in prison. Laramiun's mother, Mary Johnson, was consumed with hatred and a desire for revenge. But twelve years later, she sensed God calling her to visit her son's killer in prison. She told Oshea, "We need to lay down the hurt and forgive each other." When Oshea was released, Mary helped him rebuild his life. Today, he lives next door to her. She calls him her "spiritual son."

Who is the Christ We Follow?
 
How do we practice this kind of love in a world full of injustice and pain? When our government prioritized white Afrikaners from South Africa for refugee status while people from other countries have languished for years in perilous conditions, I felt a deep, burning sense of injustice. The timing and selectivity of this resettlement effort feels deeply troubling, particularly when white South Africans—7% of the population—continue to own some 72% of the country's prime agricultural land.

Faith communities have been forced to wrestle with an impossible question: How do we love as Jesus loved when the institutions we’re committed to partner with perpetuate the very injustices we are called to oppose?

The Episcopal Church chose to end their migration resettlement partnership with the government rather than participate in what they believe is a discriminatory process. Reaffirming their steadfast commitment to racial justice and reconciliation, they reject the preferential treatment given to the Afrikaners over other refugees who have been waiting for years.

Meanwhile, Welcome House Raleigh, an organization affiliated with Cooperative Baptist Fellowship, after much discernment chose to welcome the Afrikaners. “We are against racist ideologies like apartheid in South Africa,” said one leader, “and we know the role Afrikaners had in that. And we are fully aware of our own history as white Baptists in the South. So, it took a lot of time and discussion, but it came down to the question of, ‘Who is the Christ we follow?’”

Friends, this is hard discipleship. In truth, I believe both groups honored the gospel. 

A Holy Invitation

I love what Barbara Brown Taylor says about costly love: “I do not know what is right. All I know is whom I love, and how far I have to go before there is no one left whom I do not love. If I am wrong, then I figure the Word of God will know what to do with me. I am betting my life on that.”

This is the holy work before us: to stretch our hearts until there is room for everyone, trusting that God will guide us in the loving.

Breath prayer for this week:  

Inhale: As you have loved me...
Exhale: so help me to love.

Being Led Where We Don't Want to Go

Sunday’s Sermon in a Nutshell
(John 21:15-19)

None of us gets to sketch the blueprint of our own becoming. We may set intentions and chart courses, yet life leads us down pathways we never imagined—and sometimes to destinations we would flee from, if we could.

In John's Gospel, Jesus speaks tenderly to Peter: "When you were young, you dressed yourself and walked wherever you wished, but when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands while another clothes you and carries you where you do not want to go." These words hold both the gentle ache of aging and the deeper mystery of what it means to follow.

Discipleship calls us to both active and passive faithfulness.

We lean forward into prayer and service, into generosity and justice-making. And we learn, too, the sacred art of receiving—accepting what comes, opening our hands to what God asks, discovering grace even in the circumstances we never would have chosen.

In these days when dehumanizing the "other" has been perfected to an art form, Peter's story whispers something our souls need to hear: The apostle upon whom Jesus promised to build his church died as a non-citizen—an immigrant lacking legal status in Rome.

Unlike Paul, whose Roman citizenship afforded him the dignity of a swift beheading, tradition says Peter was crucified upside-down in Nero's arena, subjected to the full brutality reserved for foreigners deemed dangerous to the state.

This detail pulses with more than historical significance—it carries the heartbeat of the gospel itself. The foundation of Christ's church was laid by someone the powerful dismissed as outsider.

What does this mean for us, here and now?

• The love of God recognizes no borders

• Christ's call cares nothing for documentation or national identity

• In God's kin-dom, citizenship in the realm of Love matters most

• We are called to wrap our arms around those our society pushes away

Our congregation already lives this beautiful truth through your openhearted welcome of all people and your faithful, persistent advocacy for justice. In these times when fear and "othering" fill the airwaves, let us lean even more deeply into this gospel calling.

Jesus invites us to follow—sometimes toward places our hearts would resist, but always toward places where Love is needed most. Today, those places include standing shoulder-to-shoulder with our immigrant neighbors, offering the kind of hospitality that heals, and remembering that in Christ's eyes, we are all foreigners welcomed home.

The same Jesus who said "Follow me" to Peter calls us to stretch out our hands—not in surrender to fear, but in embrace of those whom those the world would render invisible.

Where is Christ leading you today?

Peace and every good...

A Shepherd Among Us: Remembering Pope Francis

Francis. Even his chosen papal name signaled a different kind of shepherd. Electing to honor the humble saint of Assisi, known for his devotion to the poor and creation, Pope Francis signaled a papacy marked by compassion. This past Easter Monday, at 88, we mourned his passing, a loss felt far beyond the Catholic Church.

For twelve years, Francis offered spiritual leadership rooted in humility, peacemaking, and a profound love for all God’s creation, especially the marginalized. He chose simplicity, residing in the Vatican's guesthouse rather than opulent papal apartments, a living testament to his values. He knelt and kissed the feet of South Sudan's rival leaders, imploring them to make peace. He washed the feet of prisoners and laughed with children. He possessed a rare ability to connect, to see and be seen.

Francis’ 2015 visit to Washington D.C. captivated the nation. I recall watching from our house in Atlanta as he addressed Congress, a historic moment. His gentle spirit, calling them “dear friends,” and his heartfelt advocacy for immigrants and refugees, social justice, and environmental stewardship moved me to tears.

Pope Francis's engagement with global issues flowed from a deep, personal faith in Christ. He sought to make Christ's love tangible, particularly for those on the peripheries of society. His was a ministry of presence, of walking alongside those who often felt unseen.

Interestingly, while his emphasis on mercy and pastoral accompaniment resonated deeply with many outside the Church, it sparked debate within. Some questioned whether his approach risked doctrinal ambiguity. This tension, between mercy and law, between pastoral application and doctrinal clarity, is a familiar one, mirroring the very theological polarizations Baptists have grappled with for decades.

Pope Francis, in his own way, wrestled with these questions, seeking to embody the mercy of Christ in a world often marked by division and despair. He reminded us that we are all part of a larger flock, a global family bound by our shared humanity.

Let us remember Pope Francis with warmth and gratitude. May his legacy of love and service inspire us to reflect Christ's light in a world longing for mercy.

Thank you, Francis. Rest in Christ’s loving embrace.

A Holy Week Letter from Pastor Julie

My Beloved FBC Family,

As we walk through this sacred Holy Week, my heart is deeply intertwined with yours. I carry a profound ache within me, mirroring the anxieties and griefs I know many of you carry. The state of our nation and its reverberations across the globe weigh heavily on our collective spirit.

I am acutely aware of the concerns that ripple through our congregation, concerns that echo my own. The uncertainty surrounding jobs, livelihoods and retirement plans casts a long shadow. The fear for our neighbors, for our Black and Brown siblings, for the lives of immigrants, for our LGBTQ+ family, and for our poor and marginalized communities is palpable.

We witness with dismay the disregard for due process, the pain of unlawful deportations, the chilling effect on free speech, and the erosion of the very principles of law we have cherished. The silence and capitulation of those who know better amplify our feelings of helplessness.

And perhaps most heartbreaking of all is the daily grief of witnessing millions who profess the name of Christ actively celebrating these developments, a stark contradiction to the very essence of the gospel we embrace. This dissonance can leave us feeling isolated, helpless and afraid.

In the face of such heavy realities, it is easy to feel overwhelmed, lost in a sea of anxiety and despair. And yet…it is precisely in this darkness, in this profound sense of human frailty and societal brokenness, that the unwavering light of Holy Week shines most brightly.

For this week reminds us that even Jesus, the Christ, walked through the valley of the shadow of death, experiencing betrayal, abandonment, injustice, and the crushing weight of the world’s sin. Jesus knew fear, sorrow, and the agonizing silence of those who should have stood by him.

But thank God, the story doesn’t end there. The darkness of Good Friday gives way to the radiance of Easter Sunday. The tomb, meant to be the final word, becomes the beautiful testament to the unfailing, unshakable love of God. The resurrection of Jesus Christ is a living, breathing promise that death does not have the final say. Injustice does not have the final say. Fear does not have the final say.

This Holy Week, let us all draw closer to the heart of Jesus. Let us lament the brokenness we see, both within ourselves and in the world around us. Let us acknowledge our fears and our feelings of helplessness.

And…let us also cling fiercely to the unwavering truth of God’s love, a love that conquered death itself. And let us open ourselves to the tender, transforming presence of Holy Spirit, who empowers us to be instruments of God’s peace, agents of God’s justice, and channels of God’s love in a world desperately in need of these.

Friends, may this Holy Week be a time of both honest reflection and profound renewal for each of you. Know that you are deeply loved, and that we walk this journey together, held in the embrace of a God whose love never fails.

With deep love and gratitude for you,

We are All on the Same Boat

“Any immigrant who lives with you must be treated as if they were one of your citizens. You must love them as yourself, because you were immigrants in the land of Egypt; I am the Lord your God.” (Leviticus 19:34)

“I was a stranger and you welcomed me.” (Jesus, Matthew 25:35)

Friends, words are coming hard these days. The volume and velocity of the chaos and cruelty being visited upon the American people (and the world) in this moment defy description. 

Some of you, I know, are feeling the pain in personal ways. Your jobs are in jeopardy. Your personhood is under threat. Your very existence is maligned. I am praying for you daily. 

This afternoon, my heart and mind are with the thousands of immigrants and asylum seekers in our country. People who pay their taxes, contribute to our communities, strengthen our churches, enrich our schools and are some of the best neighbors imaginable are terrified right now. 

A few weeks ago, while walking our dog Charlie around campus at Catholic University of America, we passed through CUA’s Welcome Plaza where Canadian artist Timothy Schmalz’s striking sculpture, “Angels Unawares,” was blanketed with snow. 

The 3.5-ton bronze piece is the second casting; the original artwork was commissioned by the Vatican and unveiled by Pope Francis in September 2019 in St. Peter’s Square for the World Day of Migrants and Refugees.

The 20-foot sculpture depicts 140 diverse migrants and refugees from different countries and historical eras huddled together on a boat as if seeking a safe harbor. 

The figures in the front of the boat include a Muslim woman fleeing Syria, a Jewish man holding suitcases while escaping Nazi Germany, a pregnant woman from Poland, and an Irish boy leaving home because of that country’s potato famine. 

In the back of the boat is the figure of a Cherokee man clutching his face in grief as he is forced from his tribe’s lands during the “Trail of Tears.”

And in the boat with all the rest of the immigrants and refugees is the Holy Family, shown on their flight into Egypt with Joseph holding carpentry tools and Mary cradling the baby Jesus in her arms.

Rising from the middle of the figures standing shoulder-to-shoulder on the boat is a set of large angel wings. The sculpture includes the quote from Hebrews 13:2, “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” 

As I stood there with Charlie, the freezing, gray day and stark snow seemed to amplify the desperation of those in the boat. Every immigration story carries with it anticipation and anguish, longing and fear.  

“Don’t mistreat or oppress an immigrant, because you were once immigrants in the land of Egypt,” says God to the people. (Exodus 22:21) In other words—we are all in that boat. 

Friends, if we want to follow in the footsteps of Jesus, who himself was a refugee, and to see Christ in all people, especially those who are vulnerable, then we need to understand that ours is a story of connectedness, not separateness.

When “Angels Unawares” was unveiled in St. Peter’s Square six years ago, Pope Francis said, “We have realized that we are on the same boat, all of us fragile and disoriented, but at the same time important and needed, all of us called to row together, each of us in need of comforting the other.”

May it be so in our time.

Hopelessness is Always Premature

Dear FBC Family:

Oh, friends. What a week this has been (after only three days!). I’m writing to you this morning from my mother’s dining room in Clermont, Florida, where Tim, Taylor and I are enjoying some vacation time with my mother.

We flew down Tuesday night on a plane brimming with celebratory folk returning home from the inauguration. When the pilot announced that our route would bring us close to the “Gulf of America,” the plane erupted with whoops and cheers. I didn’t fault the giddy people around me (though I did take umbrage with the pilot). Who doesn’t like to feel like a winner? I spent the two-hour flight wondering how many of the dear people around me on that plane belonged to a Christian church and, if so, what kind of spiritual guidance they were receiving from their pastors.

Plenty of prayers and declarations came this week from a variety of faith leaders, mostly Evangelical Christians. While too many sounded like partisan endorsements, the humble entreaty for mercy upon our nation’s most vulnerable ones from Mariann Budde, Episcopal Bishop of Washington, was a message one would expect to hear from a prophet of God.

Some pastoral words from the heart.

Siblings in Christ, I am holding you in the Light today.

To you in the LGBTQ+ community who are feeling anxious and derided, know that you are cherished, seen and surrounded by this faith community. Your validity is not dictated by an executive order.

To undocumented children of God in our congregation, know that you are cherished and surrounded by this faith community. You belong to the Eternal God whose love knows no borders.

To you who feel abandoned by the assault on diversity, equity and inclusion programs, know that you are beloved by your faith community. You are not alone. Your church will walk with you.

To dedicated government employees in our congregation who are feeling unappreciated or uncertain about the future, know that you are cherished and valued by this faith community. Your worth as a worker is not determined by any executive action.

How do we stay grounded in the months and years ahead?

My goodness, I’m still figuring this out for myself! But I’ll offer three modest encouragements here for keeping your spirit balanced and your soul focused:

1. Practice the Presence of God. No fancy instruction here. Just be yourself and be aware of divine presence in this moment. Rather than reprocessing the past or worrying about the future, let yourself be aware of Christ’s presence right here, right now.

2. Don’t get pulled into the vortex of outrage. As Richard Rohr reminds us, “We need the wisdom of a ‘full prophet,’ one who can love and yet criticize, one who can speak their words of correction out of an experience of gratitude, not anger. God must allow us to come to a place of freedom, a place of peace, and a place of fullness before we can speak as a prophet. A prophet must hold on to the truth of their anger, especially as it is directed toward injustice—but the danger of the anger is that when we let it control us, we’re not a help anymore. That’s why we have so many false prophets in America and in the world today.”

3. Keep asking “What is mine to do?” My mind has returned more than once this week to the Mines of Moria in Tolkien’s The Fellowship of the Ring, and the scene in which Frodo Baggins laments to Gandalf, “I wish it need not have happened in my time.” Gandalf replies, "So do I, and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.” Dear beloved of God, you cannot fix the world—nor is God calling you to fix it. You can only endeavor to do what is yours to do. What if we discern together what is ours to do?

I’ll be back in worship on February 2. This Sunday, Pastor Eric will preach from Luke chapter four, which seems tailor-made for a week like this one:

[Jesus said,] “The Spirit of Yahweh is upon me. God has anointed me and sent me to preach good news to the poor, to proclaim release to the prisoners and recovery of sight to the blind, to liberate the oppressed, and to proclaim the year of God’s favor.”

The Spirit of Yahweh is on you, too, and on all of us together. And that is worth celebrating.

With hope,

Our Way Forward: Seeing with the Eyes of the Heart

Friends, it did my soul good to be with you in worship on Sunday. As our nation feels caught right now in a hurricane of words—anxious projections, angry accusations, frantic dissections—please remember and never forget that we are the church, the living body of Jesus Christ. We belong to the God in whose image we are made, the God whose mercy is everlasting and whose truth endures in spite of what humans do.

Wherever you fall on the optimism-despair continuum, I hope these words from Sunday’s sermon may offer fresh encouragement for this day.

“If I told you I believe that the most life-affirming way to respond to the present moment in our nation is to nurture a contemplative life, I would expect raised eyebrows. You might reply, with reason, that, no, now is the time for action.

I hear that. And I get that. Anyone with eyes to see and ears to listen knows we have reasons for concern about the future of our country and the fabric of social life in the U.S.  The crisis we’re facing should, one might rightly argue, spur us to action.  Contemplation sounds too much like retreat, detachment. Real contemplation, though, is anything but. Contemplation invariably leads to action.

Contemplation, remember, means to gaze, to observe, to pay attention.

A contemplative is simply someone who’s learning to pay attention to divine presence; someone who’s learning to see beneath the surface and to listen beneath the noise—as Elijah did, outside his cave, straining to hear the still, small voice. As Mary did at the Annunciation, absorbing the angel’s impossible words, ‘The baby in you will be called the Son of God,’ and pondering, contemplating them in her heart.

The work of contemplation includes three key dimensions:

1. We see the world as it is.

2. We see God present in the world as it is.

3. We remain open to what God is up to in this world, and then offer our own, genuine, God-given response.

As Anglican priest and author, Rachel Mann says, we turn our face toward the horror of a world on fire…while simultaneously seeking to respond to the situation in the love of God.”[1]

Desmond Tutu, the South African Anglican bishop and theologian known for his work as an anti-apartheid and human rights activist, said: ‘There is still much work to be done to fulfill God’s dream and bring about the transfiguration of the suffering that exists in our world.

‘But before we can address this suffering from a place: of love and not hate, of forgiveness and not revenge, of humility and not arrogance, of generosity and not guilt, of courage and not fear—we must learn to see with the eyes of the heart.”

FBC family, may God make it so in your life…and mine…and in this nation and world we love.

Peace,

Pastor Julie

PS: I recommend as more soul food for today this article Beyond a Fetal Position — Church Anew posted by Walter Brueggemann a day or two after last week’s election.

[1] Rachel Mann, Facing a world on fire, The Christian Century, June 2024, p. 31.

On Election Day

FBC Family, I am holding you in prayer today. These are tumultuous days! I took great comfort in the candlelight vigil and prayer service last night. I brought the little worship guide home with me. The responsive prayer on page 3 is now affixed our refrigerator and I’ve found myself returning to it repeatedly today, whispering the words in my kitchen.

I shared the story in worship on Sunday of how, in 1952, at the threshold of the Cold War, Harry Emerson Fosdick, a Baptist minister and founding pastor of the Riverside Church in New York City, spoke to students and faculty at the Pacific School of Religion in Berkeley, California. After acknowledging the uncertainty and chaos in the world at that time, he spoke these now-famous words: “The highest use of a shaken time is to discover the unshakable.”

This is the Church’s task in tumultuous times: we return to the unshakable. We come back to the Source that does not move. We listen to our spiritual ancestors who, amidst cataclysm and uncertainty, raised their voices to sing:

God is our refuge and strength...
And though the whole earth should change,
we will not fear. 
Though the mountains themselves should tremble
   and fall into the seas…
   we will not be afraid.
For God, our God, is with us,
   a refuge and strength." (Psalm 46)

As the political, social and religious structures roll and quake beneath our feet, may we return again and again to that which cannot be shaken.

What remains constant following the election? The love of God. The calling of Christ. The empowerment of the Spirit.

Come Wednesday…and Thursday…and Friday—what will the community of Christ do, regardless of the outcome?

We will love and worship God.
We will love and serve our neighbors.
We will pray.
We will act.
We’ll speak up for the voiceless.
We’ll stand with the powerless.
We’ll come alongside the hopeless.
We’ll plant seeds and paint pictures.
We’ll sing songs and hug our children.
We’ll do justice and love kindness and walk humbly with our Maker.
We’ll break bread with friends and strangers.
We’ll invite people to take a chance on God.
And maybe we’ll even take some fresh chances ourselves.

In other words, some things remain the same after Election Day. All the best things.

Peace and every good…

Pastor Julie

The Good Help of Silence

“Silence is God’s first language.”

~ John of the Cross (1542-1591)

I am writing to you today from the beautiful Bon Secours Retreat Center in Marriottsville, Maryland, where I am immersed in a four-day contemplative prayer retreat with the Shalem Institute. Bon Secours means “good help,” and good help is just what my soul receives whenever I’m here.

 The cherished heart of the retreat is the “Great Silence. ” For 40 hours—from Monday evening to Wednesday at noon—we eat in silence, journal in silence, walk the labyrinth and the wooded paths in silence, circle the pond in silence, and bow in silence as we pass one another in the hallways.

 And in the silence, of course, we pray. We hold in deep, focused prayer the troubles and sufferings—as well as the hopes—of the world, our families, and our communities.

 In her book, Psalms for Praying: An Invitation to Wholeness, Nan Merrill offers this paraphrase of Psalm 132:

Enter into the Silence, into the
Heart of Truth;
For herein lies the Great Mystery
where life is ever unfolding.
Herein the Divine Plan is made known,
the Plan all are invited to serve.
Listen for the Music of the Spheres
in the resounding Silence of the universe…
Enter into the Sacred Altar within;
converse with the Beloved in sweet communion.
Blessings of the Great Silence be with you
as you help to rebuild the heart of the world with love.

 I have prayed for you this week, FBC family. As the Great Silence began, I tucked this week’s prayer list in my heart: Frank. Jay. Dinh. Pat. Andy. Paul. Sadye. Violet. Chris. Maya. Jeannette. Amareo. Tony. Elise. Daniel. Mary…

 Working my way through twelve months of birthdays, I’ve prayed for just about every person who calls First Baptist home. And of course, I have prayed for our fractured country and world.

 If you’ve not experienced an intentional, extended period of silence lately (or ever), I highly recommend giving it a try. Start with an hour, then two. Before you know it, as you “enter into the Sacred Altar within” and “converse with the Beloved in sweet communion,” you’ll find your spirit spreading its wings…your heart opening like a flower.

In the Great Love,

Pastor Julie

The Church of Bear Spray and Binoculars

Dear FBC Family,
 
This moment feels to me like a jumping-off place. A fresh season awaits First Baptist Church—not only the promise of cooler days ahead, but also a Spirit-breathed invitation to embrace some new expressions of our mission and ministry, including new leadership teams, new governance structures, new nomenclature—even a brand-new building!

Sometimes churches that have been around for as long as ours find themselves fixed in familiar patterns that have become rote and predictable. Congregational life begins to resemble running around the same track in the same stadium, again and again and again.

This season feels to me like an invitation to trade the stadium track for a hike with Jesus in the deep woods. These days I imagine First Baptist Church wearing backpacks and headlamps, carrying bear spray and binoculars.  I imagine us traipsing over fallen logs and sometimes taking a holy tumble into the stream below, laughing as we climb up the bank and try again.
 
This new season isn’t about reaching a destination. It’s about embracing the adventure of the journey as we allow God to surprise us, delight us, and lead us deeper into relationship with each other, our community, and the Christ who goes before us.
 
So, let's lace up our boots, grab our binoculars, and set out together with curiosity and wonder.
 
Here we go…

Pastor Julie

Halló from Iceland!

Dear FBC family, Halló from Iceland! All of you have been very much in my heart these past few weeks. I have carried you with me in prayer.

“Thank you” doesn’t begin to convey my gratitude for this time away. This sabbatical so far has been characterized by the image of earth as a “cathedral of earth, sea and sky.”

Time spent on the ancient, sacred Isle of Iona was food for my soul. And now, experiencing the midnight sun in Iceland has brought metaphors of light and new life to the surface of my mind and heart.

Much love, friends. See you in August. In the meantime,

Guð blessi ykkur öll (God bless you all)…

Shalem pilgrims in the Iona Abbey.

We arrived on a gloriously sunny day.

St. Columba began building the abbey in the year 563. It now is cared for in partnership with the National Trust of Scotland.

The home where Leslie Mason and I are staying in Iceland. (Photo taken at 10:00 pm.)

Breathing in peace with every step.

From Pastor Julie: Stepping Away

Dear First Baptist Family:

The time has come to step away for my sabbatical—a time made possible by your kindness and generosity.

The 20th century author Brenda Ueland gave some advice to writers that really is for everyone. She said, “The imagination needs moodling—long, inefficient happy idling, dawdling and puttering.”

Our souls need “moodling” time, too, and I am deeply grateful to you for investing in my soul through the gift of a renewal leave.

Enormous thanks to Pastor Eric and the rest of our talented staff—Dave Ryder, Sarah Hodges-Austin, Tim P-R, Sean Burns, Carolyn Roebuck, Julia Bradley, Mia Owens, Lynwood Coles and Ray Jules—for all the extra ways they are leading and serving during my absence.

Sabbatical Intentions

A handful of sabbatical intentions have emerged from my prayers and “moodlings” over the past several months, as I’ve prepared for this renewal leave. I ask you to hold these in your prayers while I’m away:

1. Savor spacious time away with Tim.

2. Cherish spontaneous outings with Taylor and Lucy.

3. Enjoy time with my mother in Orlando.

4. Encounter God’s presence in the beauty of nature—the Scottish Isle of Iona, the wild landscape of Iceland, the tropics of Florida, the high desert of New Mexico, the Sierra Nevadas, the Willamette Valley of Oregon, and our beloved San Francisco Bay Area.

5. Practice “beginner’s mind” as I travel, approaching new experiences with curiosity, playfulness, and wonder.

6. Remember daily that I am not defined by what I produce or accomplish.

7. Reconnect with my love of creative writing.

8. Pray this summer for every person in the FBC community by name.

I will miss you, FBC family.

I will miss worshiping with you, laughing with you, serving alongside you.

I will miss joining you for Rise Against Hunger and Capital Pride.

I will miss hugs from FBC’s children and teenagers.

I will miss your insightful questions and reflections.

I will miss the sound of you singing in the sanctuary.

I will miss being part of the congregational farewell to Eric at the end of July.

Your support means the world to me, and I look forward to returning in August refreshed and renewed.

With love and gratitude,

P. S. For your information, I’d like to share with you the general itinerary of my sabbatical travels (click on the images for a larger view):

May-June: Scotland, Iceland, Florida

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Pilgrimage to the Isle of Iona

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Rental home by the sea in Iceland

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Time with my mom, Barbara Pennington, in Orlando

July: New Mexico, California

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Time with Tim at Monastery of Christ in the Desert

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Time with family and friends in San Francisco

August: Oregon

Mother-Daughter time with Lucy at the University of Oregon in Eugene

Beginnings

Dear First Baptist Family:

I am still marveling at last Sunday and the giant step we took together into a new season of life and ministry for this congregation we love.

Deepest of thanks to our Moderator of the past seven years, Rod Coates. During Rod’s tenure, FBC affirmed full inclusion of LGBTQ+ siblings; began the process of renovating the sanctuary building, tearing down the old office and education building and replacing it with a new, fully accessible community building; launched a capital campaign; and hired Ministry Architects to help FBC reimagine congregational life in the 21st century.

Rod, as you lay your gavel down, we say thank you, Mr. Moderator, for your many labors of love in service of Christ and First Baptist Church.

An Invitation to “Beginner’s Mind”

Now, as we move forward together, I invite you to the same practice as last summer, as we were beginning our journey with Ministry Architects. As First Baptist Church learns new rhythms of congregational life, please let yourself adopt a posture of “beginner’s mind.”

Whenever you and I are beginners at something—whether gardening, or parenting, or Pickleball—we come at the experience with a sense of curiosity, humility, and even wonder. We have no idea what the outcome will be. There’s an innocence to our approach, a little like the way children engage the world.

By the time we’re deep into adulthood, a lot of us find ourselves trapped in what we might call “expert mind.”

Especially if we’ve done something before, our familiarity can hinder us from imagining new possibilities and different outcomes. Navigating the day in expert mind is a little like running around the track in a stadium. We see where we’re going. We’ve measured every step. We know what the finish line looks like. No surprises.

On the other hand, navigating the day with a beginner’s mind is more like exploring the deep woods with our flashlight and binoculars and compass.  We leave room for curiosity and surprise and wonder.

When we come at things with a beginner’s mind, we get to experience the enthusiasm, curiosity, and joy of doing something as if for the first time:

• Baking a cake.

• Writing a poem.

• Arguing a case.

• Leading a Bible study.

• Joining a small group.

• Attending a meeting.

• Reading the Bible.

There is a prayer I love by John Philip Newell that essentially asks for a beginner’s mind:

Open us to visions we have never known;
Strengthen us for self-givings we have never made;
Delight us with a oneness we could never have imagined…

May it be so.

In the Great Love,