I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be an ally. It’s easy to say “I support inclusion,” but living it out takes more than good intentions. It takes listening, learning, and opening our hearts to stories that challenge and inspire us.

These are some of the books that have helped me on this path. They’re not just theology texts or social commentaries—they’re stories of courage, faith, and hope that invite us to see God’s love more clearly.

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Books That Changed How I See the World

“UnClobber” by Colby Martin
This book opened my eyes to how the Bible’s so-called “clobber passages” have been misused to hurt LGBTQIA2S+ people. Martin writes with such care and humility, and his honesty about his own journey makes this book feel like a conversation with a wise friend.

“Transforming” by Austen Hartke
I’d never read anything that lifted up trans voices with such tenderness and scriptural faithfulness. Hartke’s words reminded me that God’s image is so much bigger and more diverse than we sometimes imagine.

“God and the Gay Christian” by Matthew Vines
Vines takes the questions that so many of us wrestle with—about scripture, sexuality, and faith—and answers them with clarity and compassion. This book gave me hope that we can find a faithful path forward together.

“Outside the Lines” by Mihee Kim-Kort
Kim-Kort invites us to see queerness not as a problem to fix, but as a gift that can deepen our faith and widen our hearts. Her writing is like a breath of fresh air.

“Walking the Bridgeless Canyon” by Kathy Baldock
This book was a revelation. It showed me the history behind so many of our assumptions about sexuality, and it helped me understand why real reconciliation requires knowing where we’ve been.

“Our Lives Matter” by Pamela R. Lightsey
Lightsey’s writing is fierce and gentle at the same time. She speaks from the intersection of race, gender, and faith in ways that are deeply moving.

“Queer Virtue” by Elizabeth M. Edman
Edman’s insights about how queerness and faith can enrich each other made me see that allyship isn’t just about welcome—it’s about transformation.

“A Bigger Table” by John Pavlovitz
Pavlovitz writes with such kindness and hope. His book reminds me that God’s table is wide enough for all of us, and that’s what makes the church beautiful.

“Rainbow Theology” by Patrick S. Cheng
This book weaves together race, sexuality, and spirituality in a way that is both challenging and comforting. Cheng’s voice is prophetic and pastoral.

“The Gospel of Inclusion” by Bishop Carlton Pearson
Pearson’s journey of faith and love is a reminder that no one is beyond God’s embrace—and neither is the church.

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Why These Books Matter to Me

Reading these books has been more than an intellectual exercise—it’s been a spiritual practice. They’ve shown me that God’s love is bigger than any of our fears or prejudices. They’ve challenged me to see inclusion not as an option, but as a core part of the gospel.

If you’ve ever wondered how to be a better ally, how to make your faith a place of refuge for others, or how to find God in the margins—these books are for you. They’re stories of hope and transformation, and they’ve been a blessing in my life.

If you’ve read any of these books, or have others you’d recommend, I’d love to hear about them. Let’s keep this holy conversation going.

There’s a lot of talk in ministry circles about crisis, trauma, burnout, and decline.

All of it matters.
All of it needs attention.
But if we’re not careful, we forget something essential:

Joy is part of the Gospel, too.

Not surface-level cheeriness.
Not toxic positivity.
But deep, rooted, radiant joy—the kind that bubbles up from aliveness, from connection, from Spirit.

That’s the kind of joy my dear singing teacher, Dr. David Falk, used to call me back to.

He taught from a simple but profound place:

“Always ask—‘What’s News?’”

Not “What’s broken?”
Not “What’s wrong with you?”
But—“What’s good? What’s changing? What’s unfolding in you today?”

It sounds simple, but it shifts everything.

Because in a world trained to scan for danger, a ministry that scans for joy becomes revolutionary.

When we lead from “What’s News?”—
We open space for the new thing God is doing.
We remind people that they are growing, even when it feels slow.
We tune our attention to the moments of music, beauty, clarity, kindness, courage, and care.

We become ministers of hopeful noticing.

It’s not naive.
It’s deeply spiritual.

Joy doesn’t erase the pain.
It balances it.
It keeps us from turning into walking triage units.
It reconnects us to the sacred reason we’re here in the first place.

After all—Jesus didn’t just come to bind up the brokenhearted.
He came to turn water into wine.
To gather friends around tables.
To marvel at lilies.
To laugh, to rest, to celebrate the return of the lost.

He came that our joy might be full. (John 15:11)

What would change if we asked that of ourselves and each other, every day?

• What’s news in your soul?
• What’s rising?
• What beauty are you holding?
• What tiny victory are you quietly proud of?

As leaders, we must learn to preach the joy as surely as we preach the need.
To name resilience, not just pain.
To call forward what is flourishing, not only what is fragile.

Joy is contagious.
It’s a resistance practice.
And it’s a holy one.

So today, before you brace for the next fire,
Pause.
Look someone in the eye.
And say:

“Tell me what’s news.”

Then hold it like sacrament.

There is a quiet grief many in ministry carry.
It’s not always named, but it lives in the body.
It shows up in burnout, in boundarylessness, in inherited guilt, in a subtle sense of unworthiness.

Sometimes, we think it’s ours alone.

But as I’ve sat with the work of Daniel Foor in Ancestral Medicine, I’ve come to see that not all wounds begin with us.
Some are ancestral.
Passed down silently, through gesture and culture, theology and fear.
Passed down through systems we didn’t create—but often find ourselves holding.

And those of us in leadership—spiritual, pastoral, or communal—often carry not just our own pain,
but the echo of those who came before us.

We are shaped by lineages of harm, yes.
But also by lineages of hope.

Foor writes that healing is not only individual—it is lineage work.
When we attend to our ancestors, we don’t glorify the past—we ask it to participate in transformation.
We say: “What you could not heal in your time, I will begin to heal in mine.”

This is deeply resonant with the ministry of Christ.
Jesus doesn’t erase ancestry—he redeems it.
He places himself in a genealogical line.
He honours those who came before—warts and all.
And then he invites the Spirit to make something new.

In a similar way, Lama Tsultrim Allione, in Wisdom Rising, teaches that the wounds we carry—especially collective and gendered ones—are not failures of faith.
They are doorways into deeper power.

She invites us not to silence rage, grief, or ancestral sorrow—
but to transform it through embodied presence, ritual, and sacred practice.
To feed our demons, not to worship them,
but to listen, learn, and liberate.

In many ways, that is the work of spiritual leadership in this time.
Not to rush toward light,
but to hold the darkness until it reveals its wisdom.
Not to abandon the broken line,
but to become a point of renewal within it.

What if ministry wasn’t just about visioning forward—
but also healing backward?

What if the Church understood that ancestral trauma, colonisation, generational shame, and spiritual bypassing are not peripheral concerns—
but central to the work of reconciliation and Gospel embodiment?

What if tending to our lineages was not indulgent—but responsible?
A sacred task, done not only for ourselves,
but for those who come after?

Because healing is not linear.
It is ancestral.
And resurrection is not just what happens after death.
It’s what happens when we choose to bring the bones of the past
into conversation with the Spirit of the present.

We do this work—
with prayer, with compassion, with discernment—
not to fix our families or rewrite history,
but to say:

“The harm stops here. The healing begins here.”
“This body, this ministry, this altar—will be different.”

There’s a moment in every Christian journey where the question shifts.

It’s no longer, “Do I believe?”
It becomes, “What will I do because I believe?”

Reading Ibram X. Kendi’s How to Be an Antiracist brought that question into sharper focus.

Kendi doesn’t offer easy answers. He doesn’t give us a checklist or a way to feel good about ourselves. Instead, he offers something far more Gospel-shaped:

The truth that racism is not just about hate.
It’s about power.
It’s about policies.
It’s about the choices we make, again and again, consciously or not.

And perhaps most strikingly, Kendi reminds us that being “not racist” is not enough.
Neutrality is not righteousness.
Silence is not holiness.
Intentions are not liberation.

He writes, “The opposite of racist isn’t ‘not racist.’ It is antiracist.”

That hit me like a Gospel call.

Because if our faith is not actively working to dismantle what harms our neighbour—
is it really faith at all?

Kendi’s framing of racism as something we do or undo, moment by moment,
feels like the spiritual practice of confession and repentance—
not once, but daily.
Not with shame, but with clarity.
Not to feel bad, but to do better.

And isn’t that what discipleship is?

Not mastering goodness, but apprenticing ourselves to grace.
Being teachable.
Being changed.
Letting Christ unsettle the parts of us that have made peace with power.

In this way, Kendi’s work calls us back to the Gospel—
not the comfortable one that keeps us in control,
but the one that lifts the lowly, tears down unjust systems, and starts everything over in love.

It asks us:

• Who are we centring in our communities?
• Whose voices are we silencing in our discomfort?
• Whose safety are we trading for stability?
• What theology have we baptised that still smells of empire?

To be antiracist, in the Christian life, is to repent in real time.
It’s to choose the Jesus road over the Roman road.
It’s to hear, again, the call:

“Let the oppressed go free.”
“Break every yoke.” (Isaiah 58)

This isn’t political. It’s spiritual.
It’s not partisan. It’s pastoral.

And if we’re not learning to live this way—
to listen, to change, to act—
then we’re not really following Christ.

We’re just following comfort.

So I read Kendi’s book not as a challenge to my faith—
but as a call deeper into it.

Because real faith doesn’t just believe in resurrection.
It helps make it possible—
in policies, in communities, and in hearts willing to be changed.

There is a longing that lives in many of us—especially those called to ministry—to encounter Christ in unmistakable ways.

In powerful worship.
In thin places.
In sacramental moments.

And yes, Christ is there.

But over time, and especially through seasons of weariness, I’ve come to realize something deeper:

Christ is also in the ordinary.

In chipped coffee mugs and messy kitchens.
In slow walks with someone who needs to talk.
In the ache of intercession that never makes it into the Sunday prayers.
In the quiet tenacity of someone who shows up, even when no one thanks them.
In the tired hands of those who clean the sanctuary long after the candles burn out.

These are not lesser places.
These are holy ground.

When we imagine the face of Christ only on mountaintops or behind stained glass,
we miss him in the cracked sidewalk.
In the grocery line.
In the grieving stranger.
In the child who asks, “Can I help?” and means it.

Incarnation didn’t happen once. It happens every day.

It happens when we meet someone’s gaze with kindness instead of judgment.
When we stop to listen, even if it’s inconvenient.
When we carry out ordinary tasks with extraordinary love.

This is not a lesser faith.
It is the faith.
Because it’s what Jesus himself modeled.

Born not in a palace but in a barn.
Teaching not from thrones but from hillsides.
Walking dusty roads.
Eating with outcasts.
Touching the overlooked.
Showing up—not in power, but in presence.

And that’s what we’re called to do, too.
To stop waiting for the big sign,
and instead notice the small sacrament of now.

To open our eyes and say:

“Surely Christ is in this place—and I did not know it.”

Every day is an altar.
Every interaction is an invitation.
And every moment holds the possibility of encountering the Holy.

All we need is a heart willing to look again.

Somewhere along the way, many of us were taught that to be in ministry means to always say yes.

Yes to the extra meeting.
Yes to the midnight crisis.
Yes to stretching a little further, staying a little longer, offering a little more.

And yes, ministry is a calling of deep generosity.
But boundless giving is not the same as faithful service.

Over time, that kind of ministry—ministry without boundaries—becomes a slow erosion.
Not just of time.
Not just of energy.
But of soul.

When we give without limits, we begin to disappear.

But here’s the truth, held tenderly in the Gospel:
Saying “no” can be an act of holy love.

Jesus said no.
No to the crowds when he needed solitude.
No to the demands of the powerful.
No to the expectations of those who wanted him to be something he wasn’t.

Jesus didn’t shape his ministry around people-pleasing.
He shaped it around truth.

And truth requires space.

Space to breathe.
Space to rest.
Space to listen to God.
Space to honor your own limits without shame.

Boundaries are not walls of selfishness.
They are borders of clarity and care—where we define what is ours to carry, and what is not.

For those in ministry, setting boundaries can feel disloyal.
Like we’re letting someone down.
But in reality, boundaries are what allow us to show up fully present and truly free.

They protect our time, yes.
But more importantly, they protect the sacredness of our “yes”.

Because when we learn to say “no” from a place of love,
our “yes” carries more weight, more grace, more truth.

Boundaries don’t make us less loving.
They make our love more sustainable.

And in a Church that often confuses exhaustion with holiness,
this is a lesson worth learning again and again:

You are not God. And you don’t have to be.

There’s a quiet crisis in the Church that doesn’t get talked about enough.

It’s not just declining attendance.
It’s not just budgets.
It’s not just cultural change.

It’s this:
Too many people called to hold others forget how to hold themselves.
Too many ministers offer grace to everyone but themselves.
Too many feel guilty for resting.
Ashamed of having limits.
Afraid that boundaries might look like weakness.

But Christ never asked anyone to burn out for the Kingdom.

When we look closely at Jesus—
not as an unreachable ideal,
but as a breathing, embodied presence—
we see a model not only of radical love for others,
but of gentle, grounded love for self.

Jesus withdrew to rest.
He napped during storms.
He rose early to pray—alone.
He surrounded himself with people,
and then stepped away when he needed to.
He nourished his body.
He wept openly.
He received love from friends—
oil on his feet, tears on his skin, food on his plate.

And then he said,

“Love your neighbor as yourself.”

Not more than.
Not instead of.
As.

You cannot pour from an empty vessel.
You cannot lead others to still waters when your own soul is parched.

Self-love is not self-indulgence.
It is spiritual discipline.
It is the ongoing recognition that you are a beloved child of God—
not just a channel for others’ healing.

It’s easy, especially in ministry, to mistake exhaustion for devotion.
To confuse depletion with faithfulness.
But there is no Gospel in quiet martyrdom for appearance’s sake.
There is only grace—
and the invitation to live in the same love we proclaim.

So let this be a word to all who serve:

• You are allowed to rest.
• You are allowed to say no.
• You are allowed to feel joy.
• You are allowed to tend to your own pain, your own body, your own belovedness.

The Christ we follow was not a machine.
Christ was fully human.

And did not only give love—
Christ also received it,
held it,
knew it.

And so must we.

Let the Church become a place where self-love is not questioned—
but honoured as sacred.
Because the leader who knows they are loved
is the one who leads not from survival,
but from wholeness.

As the candles of Advent are lit one by one, we enter a season of profound anticipation and reflection. In the Gospel, we encounter the enigmatic figure of John the Baptist, a voice crying in the wilderness, preparing the way for the Light. This Advent, let’s dig into this passage to glean insights that illuminate our hearts as we journey toward the celebration of Christ’s birth.

John’s role as a witness to the Light is central to this passage. He comes as a witness, not the Light itself, sent to testify about the true Light that is coming into the world. In Advent, we, too, are called to be witnesses—bearing the light of Christ in our lives and testifying to His presence in a world often shrouded in darkness.

The imagery of John crying out in the wilderness holds profound significance. The wilderness represents the barrenness of the human soul, the emptiness without the presence of Christ. Advent beckons us to recognize the wilderness within and prepare a way for the One who brings life and vitality to our spiritual landscape.

John’s humility is noteworthy. When questioned about his identity, he denies being the Messiah, Elijah, or the Prophet. Instead, he identifies himself as the voice calling in the wilderness, making straight the way of the Lord. Advent invites us to embrace humility, acknowledging that we are not the Light but bear witness to it.

The call to “make straight the way of the Lord” is a resonant theme in Advent. It’s a call to clear the clutter of our hearts, removing obstacles that hinder the light of Christ from illuminating our lives. As we prepare for Christmas, let us consider what needs straightening in our lives to make room for the Light.

The religious authorities inquire about John’s identity, asking if he is Elijah, the Prophet, or the Messiah. John’s responses offer clarity about his role as the precursor. In our Advent journey, it’s essential to reflect on our own questions and confessions. What do we seek? Who do we confess Jesus to be in our lives?

Advent is a season of waiting, but it is also a season of witness. Like John, we wait for the Light, and in our waiting, we declare the hope that resides in the promise of Christ’s coming. Our lives become Advent candles, gradually dispelling the darkness as we wait for the dawn.

As we immerse ourselves in the Advent season, let us embody the spirit of John the Baptist. May we be witnesses to the Light, voices crying in the wilderness of our world. Let us prepare the way in our hearts, making space for the transformative presence of Christ. In our waiting and witnessing, may we draw others toward the true Light that shines in the darkness, bringing hope, joy, and salvation to all who receive Him. Advent, after all, is not just a season of waiting but a season of active anticipation, where our lives become testimonies to the Light that has come and is coming again.

I. The King Who Serves:

Unlike earthly kings adorned in splendor and surrounded by opulence, Christ, our King, reveals His divine authority through acts of humble service. In the parable, He identifies Himself with the hungry, the thirsty, the stranger, the naked, the sick, and the imprisoned. This is the paradoxical nature of Christ’s kingship — it’s a kingship of service and love.

II. Recognizing Christ in the Least:

The parable challenges us to recognize the presence of Christ in the marginalized and vulnerable. When we extend compassion to those in need, we are, in essence, serving the King Himself. It’s a profound revelation that calls us to see beyond the surface and embrace the divine in every human encounter.

III. The Kingdom of Love:

Christ’s kingship inaugurates a kingdom characterized by love, justice, and mercy. It’s a kingdom where the values of the world are inverted, and the last are first. As we celebrate Christ the King Sunday, we are invited to ponder the radical and transformative nature of this kingdom and how we can actively participate in its establishment on earth.

IV. The Challenge of Love in Action:

This passage challenges us not merely to acknowledge Christ as King with our words but to enthrone Him in our hearts through tangible acts of love. It compels us to confront the hungry, the stranger, and the hurting with genuine care and concern. In doing so, we participate in the unfolding of Christ’s kingdom on earth.

V. The Enduring Impact of Compassion:

The parable reminds us that our acts of love have a lasting impact. In caring for the least, we contribute to the transformation of lives and communities. Each gesture of compassion echoes in eternity, reflecting the enduring nature of Christ’s reign in the lives touched by love.

VI. Embracing Christ’s Kingship in Daily Life:

As we celebrate Christ the King Sunday, let us commit to embracing Christ’s kingship in our daily lives. This means not only acknowledging His lordship but allowing His love to permeate our thoughts, words, and actions. It’s about living as citizens of a kingdom where love reigns supreme.

Christ the King Sunday beckons us to reevaluate our understanding of kingship. It invites us to embrace a sovereign who, in His majesty, stoops down to serve the least among us. As we celebrate the reign of Christ, may we be inspired to manifest His love in tangible ways, recognizing the divine in the faces of those often overlooked. In doing so, we actively participate in the establishment of a kingdom where Christ’s love is not just acknowledged but profoundly lived out.