“Are You Sure?”

Mary Lou Kownacki, a Benedictine nun with a gift for holy mischief, tells one of my favorite stories.

A poet-mystic, known for his deep piety, was often asked the secret of his holiness. His answer was always the same:
“I know what is in the Bible.”

One day a new disciple asked the obvious question:
“Well then… what is in the Bible?”

The poet-mystic smiled.
“In the Bible,” he said, “there are two pressed flowers… and a letter from my friend Jonathan.”

I love how this answer gently undoes our grip on certainty. It reminds me that truth is not always found in tidy explanations or well-rehearsed doctrines, but in the tender, ordinary things that carry love across time.

Thich Nhat Hanh once wrote:

“Are you sure? Are you sure of your perceptions? Most of our suffering comes from wrong perceptions.”

Jetsunma Tenzin Palmo puts it another way:

“We see the world not as it is, but as we are.”

So perhaps the next time we are ready to speak with certainty—about immigrants, the poor, Black and brown bodies, or anyone whose truth is different from our own—we might pause.

Breathe.
Ask quietly, Am I sure?

Maybe that question belongs in every Bible—tucked like a pressed flower, a letter from a friend, a reminder that love is always more important than being right.

Guarding the Spirit in Troubled Times

One of the quietest, most effective weapons of oppression is not always brute force—it is exhaustion. Wear people down enough, and they grow too weary to resist. The violent “new normal” becomes ordinary. The moral lines we thought could never be crossed fade into the background.

Today, we see this tactic in plain sight—through a flood of noise, outrage, and distraction. Social media, while sometimes a tool for connection and truth-telling, is also engineered to keep us scrolling, reacting, consuming without pause. And when the platforms themselves are shaped by forces that align with white supremacy and exclusion, the harm multiplies—especially for our most vulnerable neighbors.

Thich Nhat Hanh reminds us, “The most precious gift we can offer others is our presence.” But constant stimulation robs us of that presence. The Dalai Lama says, “Do not let the behavior of others destroy your inner peace.” In moments like these, protecting that peace is not selfish—it is how we keep the fire of compassion alive.

Gandhi taught, “In a gentle way, you can shake the world.” But gentleness is born in rested, grounded hearts. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. said, “Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.” Yes, yes, yes, we must speak—but we must also learn to step back, to breathe, to listen deeply.

This is not disengagement—it is resistance. By tending to our own aliveness, we make it impossible for any regime, any platform, any campaign of fear to kill our spirit.

So, breathe. Step outside. Sit with a friend. Let the sky remind you of its vastness. And return—ready to do the work, steady and unafraid.

Breathing Our Way Into Justice

Take a breath. And another.

This moment, this life—we didn’t earn it. It is a gift.

Howard Thurman once said, “Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive… because what the world needs is people who have come alive.”

Mindfulness may not seem fierce enough for dismantling systemic racism. But in truth, it offers a radical foundation—an inner discipline that sustains outer transformation.

It starts with seeing clearly. Mindfulness reveals our inherited judgments and biases, the filters that shape the way we see the world. As Cheryl A. Giles writes in Black and Buddhist, “The First Noble Truth invites us to welcome our wounds and meet our suffering with courage and compassion.” This inner meeting prepares us to meet the wounds of the world.

It teaches us to respond instead of react. To act from truth, not ego. From presence, not performance. Compassion grows. Thurman reminds us, “Community cannot feed for long on itself; it can only flourish with the coming of others from beyond, their unknown and undiscovered brothers.”

We learn to listen deeply—without defense, without rushing to fix. We discover our deep interconnection. Systemic racism thrives on the illusion of separation, but mindfulness insists: your liberation is bound up with mine. Thurman calls it “an unrecognized kinship” waiting to be embraced.

This work will be uncomfortable. It will stir fear, shame, and confusion. Pamela Ayo Yetunde writes, “When there is space around the difficulty, we have agency.” Mindfulness gives us that space.

It will not dismantle racism alone. But it can keep us awake. It can keep us clear. It can help us love more deeply and act with courage and integrity.

So take another breath. Let it root you. Let it soften you. Let it wake you up.

As Giles reminds us, “We are complex: we are not just filled with pain and rage but with well-being… we attend to both.”

That is where the work begins.

Enemies—fabricated, projected, chosen

The world we inhabit is aching. Violence—once shocking—has become the background hum of our politics, our religious rhetoric, and our entertainment. We see it, hear it, absorb it until it begins to feel normal. But it is not. It has never been.

And more and more, the violence we inflict is turned inward—on our bodies, our spirits, our communities. Still, we cling to what theologians call the myth of redemptive violence—the belief that if someone harms us, the way to set things right is to harm them in return.

They shoot at us, so we bomb them.
They mock our candidate, so we mock theirs.
They hurt our pride, so we strike back—online, in the pulpit, in policy.

But has this ever brought us closer to the world of our dreams?

As Thich Nhat Hanh taught,

“Violence is never the answer. It brings more violence, more hatred, more misunderstanding. Only understanding and compassion can dissolve violence.”

When we answer harm with harm, we keep the wheel of suffering spinning. Like children on a teeter-totter, each side tries to push harder, climb higher, win. But no one ever gets off. No one ever learns. And as the cycle deepens, we start to believe in enemies—fabricated, projected, chosen.

Because that’s the painful truth:
We choose who our enemies are.

Every single day, we make that choice.
And the more enemies we create, the more our hearts shrink.
The scar tissue forms.
We mistake it for strength, but it’s only armor.

But there is another way.

Jesus showed us. So did the Buddha. Lao-Tzu, Dorothy Day, Thomas Merton, and Martin Luther King Jr. all insisted there is a path that does not demand a sacrificial victim. They were ridiculed, dismissed as naive. And yet their teachings have endured because they speak to something eternal in the human spirit.

Loving-kindness.
Compassion.
Generosity.
Solidarity without enmity.

These are not weak responses to violence.
They are revolutionary.
They are courageous.
They are the only way to truly interrupt the cycle.

Martin Luther King Jr. once said,

“Returning hate for hate multiplies hate… Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.”

And Thich Nhat Hanh echoed,

“When you love someone, the best thing you can offer is your presence. How can you love if you are not there?”

We must be present—to our grief, our rage, and our longing for a different kind of world.

So, what if we stopped feeding the machine?
What if we laid down our armor and refused to play the game?
What if we let our wounds teach us tenderness instead of vengeance?

We don’t have to live like this.

Violence—whether in word, policy, action, or silence—has no place in our sacred traditions.
We can step off the wheel.
We can say no to revenge, cruelty, militarism, and bloodshed.
We can break the cycle.

Because there are other forces at work—quieter, yes, but more enduring.

Love.
Compassion.
Kindness.
Presence.

And as Thomas Merton wrote:

“The beginning of love is to let those we love be perfectly themselves… not to twist them to fit our own image. Otherwise, we love only the reflection of ourselves we find in them.”

Let’s begin again—gently, humbly, courageously.

Together, we can imagine a world where no one is made the enemy.
And then we can help bring that world into being.

What beauty are you called to birth?

You may not yet know the name Maria Rosario Jackson—but her work offers a profound invitation to those of us who care deeply about healing, community, and justice. Jackson understands something that many systems overlook: that art is not a luxury—it’s a lifeline.

In communities that have been marginalized, colonized, or displaced, the wounds run deeper than policy. They’re embedded in memory, language, and spirit. When the songs of a people are silenced, when their dances are mocked or forbidden, when their stories are erased from the landscape—it’s not just culture that suffers, it’s the soul of the people.

Jackson helps us remember that art is a form of return. A return to voice. A return to dignity. A return to belonging.

In the contemplative life, we often speak of returning to the breath, returning to the body, returning to presence. But what if part of that return also means coming home to the stories, songs, and symbols that shape our communities? What if justice is not only about reforming laws, but also restoring memory?

It’s tempting, especially in times of crisis, to focus only on the “practical”—to think that budgets and legislation are the only meaningful work. And yes, we need those things. We need fair housing, healthcare, education, immigration policy rooted in compassion. But we also need color, movement, melody, and metaphor. We need sacred symbols and shared space. We need beauty—not as escape, but as resistance.

As Thich Nhat Hanh reminds us:

“The present moment is filled with joy and happiness. If you are attentive, you will see it.”
And it is artists—musicians, dancers, poets, painters, photographers—who help us become attentive to what is already here. They awaken us to what is most human. They remind us of what still pulses beneath the noise.

And in doing so, they challenge the systems that would reduce people to data points or dismiss their cultural expressions as trivial. Art is not extra. Art is essential.

Art slows us down. It makes space for grief. It makes room for joy. It asks us to listen, not just fix. And it teaches us how to see with the heart, which is what contemplative practice is all about.

Dipa Ma once said:

“If you cannot find the truth right where you are, where else do you expect to find it?”
Art does exactly that—it reveals truth, right where we are. It gives shape to our joys and our sorrows, and it does so in ways that words alone often cannot.

In this moment in history, we need more than protest and policy. We need rhythm. We need ritual. We need to pick up brushes and drums and cameras and write the world anew.

We are the artists.
We are the breath-makers and bridge-builders.
We are the ones shaping the story.

So I ask you—not just as an artist, but as a contemplative, as a human being—
What beauty are you called to birth?
What truth are you ready to reveal?
How do you want your art to help mend the world?

Let that be your practice.
Let that be your revolution.

To Love Without Agenda

For most of my adult life, the Christian church wasn’t just my vocation—it was my heartbeat. It shaped my days, cradled my family, and taught me the language of devotion. My children grew up wrapped in its rhythms—Sunday hymns rising like incense, Wednesday night potlucks where laughter and prayer mingled, youth group retreats where faith felt alive and messy and real. We gave ourselves to it, wholly and willingly.

After college, I followed the call to divinity school, then ordination, and over the years, I stepped into many roles: youth minister, associate pastor, chaplain to the grieving and the searching. In each place, well-meaning conversations circled around numbers, strategies, growth—how to fill pews, how to keep the institution thriving. And yes, some of that mattered. But over time, a quiet ache grew in me—a sense that we were missing the sacred forest for the well-pruned trees.

Because here’s the truth I couldn’t unsee: The Divine doesn’t wait for perfect sermons or packed sanctuaries. It meets us in the stillness between breaths, in the pulse of our own unguarded hearts. It’s there in the hospital room where no one quotes scripture but everyone holds silence like a prayer. It’s there in the backyard where sunlight falls through leaves like a blessing no doctrine could contain.

And so, I found myself torn—grateful for the tradition that raised me, yet restless for something deeper than its structures. I longed to point people past the rituals to the Radiance behind them—the love that whispers beneath creeds and committees, the presence that doesn’t need labels to be felt.

Jesus didn’t come to start a religion. The Buddha didn’t either. They came to wake us up—to a love that dissolves borders, a spirit that won’t be boxed. Yet here we are, still building walls with our theologies, still confusing the map for the territory.

What if faith isn’t about defending a tradition but surrendering to wonder? Not about belonging to the right group but becoming a vessel for loving-kindness?

Now, I’m drawn to spaces where hearts are soft and doors are wide—where a shared silence or a cup of tea can be as holy as any hymn. Because Spirit doesn’t need a stained-glass window to shine through. It only asks for our attention. Our courage to be still. Our willingness to love without agenda.

That’s the invitation, always:
Just breathe.
Just open.
Just love.
The rest was never the point.

Ladder-Climbers

At a very young age, I learned how to climb ladders. Not the kind you find leaning against a barn or tucked away in a garage—but the invisible kind. The ladders we’re told will take us somewhere important. Ladders that, in truth, were never mine to begin with.

They were handed to me—passed down like heirlooms from well-meaning parents, scoutmasters, Sunday school teachers, each pointing skyward and saying, “This is the way.” And so I climbed. We all did.

With each new season of life came another ladder: professors, advisors, mentors, therapists—all offering their own version of “success” or “healing” or “meaning.” And I got good at it. Really good. Drop me into any room, any institution, and I could spot the ladder. I knew how to climb—how to meet expectations, hit the marks, collect the badges.

Sometimes the ladder looked like pleasing a boss. Other times it meant collecting credentials, working late nights, neglecting time with those I loved. Sometimes it was about productivity—serving on the right committees, presenting at the right conferences. Other times it meant aligning with an institution’s mission, showing up to the events, playing the part. The ladders changed shape, but the climb never stopped.

Until one day, I started asking a question no one had ever asked me: Are these ladders leaning against the right buildings?

That question unraveled something in me.

And then, like whispers from some deeper place, the real questions began to surface. The secret ones I had tucked away for decades:

What really motivates me?
Do my words and my actions reflect the deeper wisdom I sense just beneath the surface?
Am I the person I pretend to be in public?
What parts of myself am I ashamed of, and why?
What do I truly believe—and am I willing to say it aloud?
And maybe the hardest one:
What would it mean to stop climbing altogether?

What if I simply stood still, both feet on the ground?
What if I didn’t flinch when asked, Who do you want to be with the time you have left?

Just writing these words feels like a release. A kind of healing.

Because the truth is, I’ve carried more than a few chains—unspoken expectations, self-imposed pressures, old beliefs about who I need to be in order to be loved, accepted, successful. But what if those chains could finally be unlocked?

What if, on the other side of all that striving, there is a place of radical belonging? A place without barriers or fences. A place where the truth of our shared humanity dismantles every “us vs. them.” A place where strangers are welcomed as kin, where all voices are honored—not just the Christian ones—and where creativity, compassion, and curiosity flourish.

This world is aching for that kind of presence.

It doesn’t need more ladder-climbers. It needs grounded, authentic people. People who’ve made peace with their shadows, who know how to listen, who dare to live from their center.

It’s time. Time to climb down.

Time to write the book.
Paint the painting.
Show up with your whole heart.
Expand your circle.
Sit in silence.
Love without conditions.
And treat each moment—and each person—as if they are the most important in your life.

Because maybe, just maybe—they are.

And when we live like that… who knows what could happen?

A Simple Blessing

Friends, dear ones—welcome.
As we begin this time together,
I invite us into a blessing.

Not a request,
Not a wish or a plea,
But a quiet honoring—
a sacred acknowledgment
of what already is,
and perhaps has always been.

No matter your spiritual identity,
your religious roots—or none at all,
your politics, your past, or your present—
you are welcome here.
You belong here.
And you are already, deeply, blessed.

With each breath—inhale, exhale—
Life moves gently through us.
The pulse of being continues.
Blessing is not something distant. It is here.

In every kind word,
in every moment of shared silence,
in every warm embrace,
in every story that softens the heart—
blessing finds its way.

With the steady rhythm of your heart—
faithful, unearned, and freely given—
you are being blessed.

In the mystery of your being—
your questions and longings,
your glimpses of clarity and your doubts,
your unfolding, your becoming—
you are being blessed.

And so, as we gather—
in this hour, in this space, with these companions—
may we not only receive blessing,
but remember that we carry it,
and can extend it
to friend and stranger,
to the weary and the hopeful,
to those who feel at home,
and those still searching for a place to belong.

May you know peace.
May your body be at ease,
your mind spacious and clear,
your spirit nourished and alive.

May you and your beloveds be safe—
in your coming and going,
your resting and your rising.

May joy find you
in the small and ordinary moments.
May wonder greet you
when you least expect it.
May love meet you—again and again.

And may you awaken often
to the sacred truth of who you are:
not what you produce,
not the burdens you carry,
not what the world demands—
but the luminous, blessed presence
you already are.

Blessing is your birthright.
It goes with you wherever you go.

So until we meet again—
We are blessed.
We are blessed.
We are blessed.
Amen.

You Deserve Something Better

There are times when I feel an ache in my chest—a kind of quiet sorrow—and with it, a sense that I owe the next generation an apology.

To those emerging into adulthood today, trying to make sense of a world filled with contradiction, beauty, injustice, and mystery, I want to say: You deserve something better than the religion many of us inherited. You deserve a spiritual path that is wise, courageous, and tender—a path rooted not in fear or control, but in wonder, love, and liberation.

You deserve a spiritual path that reveres the earth as holy, sees the body as a blessing, and trusts the quiet wisdom that lives within each of us.  A faith that embraces mysticism, celebrates embodiment, and calls forth radical compassion. A way of being that doesn't shrink from the hard work of justice but sees it as sacred. You deserve a spiritual community that knows how to gather for ritual, for joy, for lament, for silence, and for celebration—without needing to be certain of all the answers.

You deserve a religion that is both simpler and more expansive—stripped of dogma, yet spacious enough to receive wisdom from many wells: Christian, Buddhist, Indigenous, Sufi, Jewish, Hindu, Taoist, Earth-centered, and beyond. Our very survival as a species, I believe, depends on recovering this kind of spiritual depth—what the mystics have always known. Practices of stillness. Reverence for mystery. Attunement to the pulse of the planet. Love made visible through action.

The next generation of spiritual leaders—whether they gather in churches or forests, online circles or kitchen tables—will need to carry this embodied wisdom. They'll need practices that ground them in the sacredness of the earth, in the ever-present Divinity that flows through all things. They'll need to be rooted in compassion, in creative ritual, in the contemplative arts, in justice-making, in mindfulness, and in holy silence.

I was raised in a tradition that began the human story with the idea of "original sin”—that we are, at our core, flawed and fallen. But I've come to believe that this was a tragic misreading of our beginnings. Jesus did not teach that. Nor did the Buddha, who gently reminds us that we are fundamentally good—luminous by nature—but we forget. Through trauma, through conditioning, through generations of suffering and disconnection, we fall asleep to our true nature.

But this truth still pulses beneath the surface: We were loved from the beginning. We were born, not in shame or sin, but in Infinite Love. And this love—this innate, luminous goodness—includes the whole of creation. The soil, the oceans, the bees, the forests, the sky. All born of the same sacred breath.

What if we started each day from that place? What if our spiritual communities, our teachings, our gatherings—all began not with a problem to solve or a doctrine to defend, but with a deep remembering of this love?

I still believe in religion—not as an institution to be defended, but as a living, breathing practice of presence, connection, and transformation. And I believe the next generation has what it takes to reimagine it—to recover its soul.

And so, to those who come after us: Forgive us where we’ve failed. Bless us where we’ve tried. And please, lead us forward—into something truer, kinder, and more alive.

Let love be the first word on your lips each morning. It is, after all, where we began.

Tired of the Noise?

We’re often told that to make a difference, we need to grab people’s attention—step into the spotlight, speak boldly, and convince others that our cause is right. We’re encouraged to fight fire with fire, to push back against harmful messages with persuasive arguments of our own. The world teaches us to promote our beliefs like a product—loud, emotional, polished, and persuasive.

But I’ve grown tired of all that noise.

Tired of the constant pressure to prove something. Tired of trying to convince people, as if truth were a contest. Tired of the way performance often replaces presence, and slogans take the place of real connection.

I used to think that with the right words or strategies, we could change minds. But now I see that the endless shouting and persuading is part of the problem. It pulls us away from our hearts. It dulls our awareness. It feeds the ego’s need to be right, to be seen, to win.

Real strength, I believe, lies somewhere else—quiet, steady, rooted in love. It doesn’t need to shine. It doesn’t need applause. It just needs to be real. When we let go of the need to control the outcome, we discover something deeper: the power of presence, of simply showing up with honesty and care.

As the Buddha taught, suffering often comes from craving and resistance. And propaganda feeds both—it creates fear, feeds division, and thrives on our desire to be right and make others wrong. But even a small moment of awakening—a glimpse of our shared humanity, of the deep interconnection of all things—can open our eyes.

In that space, we realize: we don’t need to force anyone to care. We don’t need clever words to prove that love, justice, and compassion matter. As Thich Nhat Hanh said, “The most powerful way to communicate is through your presence.” When we’re at peace, we stop shouting. When we’re grounded, we begin to truly listen.

There are times when we must take bold and risky action. But just as often, we’re called to a quieter courage: to sit still in the midst of discomfort, to watch our anger rise and fall without clinging to it, to respond with mindfulness instead of reacting from fear or pride.

I don’t think we’re quite wise enough yet to create the world we dream of. But I do believe we can grow into that wisdom—together. Through presence. Through humility. Through compassion and non-harming. Not by overpowering others, but by embodying love and justice in our daily lives.

So let’s not fight illusion with more illusion. Let’s meet this world—not with fear, but with clear eyes and open hearts. Let’s remember who we are, and how deeply we belong to one another.

A World Without Enemies

There’s no real place for “us” and “them” in the world I want to help build. I know that may sound idealistic, but after a lifetime of listening, stumbling, showing up, and learning to see more clearly—I’ve come to believe it’s the only path that leads to healing.

Of course, there will be those who, out of fear or pain, see us as the problem. They may call us deluded, dangerous, even evil. But Thich Nhat Hanh reminds us that “When you begin to see that your enemy is suffering, that is the beginning of insight.” He saw clearly that labeling others as the enemy is the beginning of violence—not just outwardly, but within ourselves. And that kind of thinking narrows what is possible. It stifles the deep creativity and spacious compassion this world so desperately needs.

But what if we chose another way? What if we rooted our revolution in love?

I can hear the pushback. Don’t we need someone to oppose? Some evildoer to resist?

Maybe not. Maybe the real struggle isn’t against people, but against the systems, delusions, and unconscious patterns that keep us separated. As Thầy taught, “Peace in the world starts with peace in ourselves.” We can stand firm against injustice without needing to make enemies of those who perpetuate it. That’s a spiritual discipline. A fierce kind of love.

Someone once said, “A person is not your enemy unless you make them so.” That rings true. Carrying around a list of enemies—real or imagined—just doesn’t feel life-giving anymore. Not for me. Not for the world I want to inhabit.

The path ahead is uncertain. There will be days of confusion and sorrow, days when we feel lost or discouraged. We’ll do our best to do good—but both harm and healing will happen along the way. It’s part of the mystery of being human.

That’s why we’ll need to be quiet, patient, and present—to every feeling, every sensation, every heartbreak. We’ll need to keep showing up in mindfulness, not to escape the pain of the world but to engage it fully, tenderly. As Thầy said, “The present moment is filled with joy and happiness. If you are attentive, you will see it.”

We will encounter the awakened and the asleep. We’ll meet kindness in unlikely places and cruelty where we least expect it. But if we stay grounded in love, we need not turn anyone into an enemy.

And this revolution? It won’t look like the movies. No grand finale, no flags waving in triumph. Just a quiet accumulation of small, sacred victories: a conversation that doesn’t turn defensive, a breath taken before speaking in anger, a hand extended instead of a fist.

Defeats will come, too. But each step—each failure and each grace—will help weave a net of freedom, compassion, and understanding wide enough to catch us all.

As Thầy said, “We are here to awaken from the illusion of our separateness.”

And that awakening, slow and imperfect though it may be, is the revolution.

It is a path of nonviolence—not just in action, but in thought and word. It asks much of us: humility, discipline, courage, and the willingness to be wrong. But make no mistake—this is sacred work.

And those who choose presence over power, compassion over contempt, and justice rooted in love over righteousness rooted in ego—they are the true revolutionaries.

May I have the courage to walk that path.

“Lucky me, too.”

Most mornings, before the noise of the world has a chance to settle in, I sit with a warm cup in hand and have quiet conversations with a circle of old companions—Thich Nhat Hanh, Ryōkan, Lao Tzu, the psalmist, Thomas Merton, Hanshan, Danna Faulds, and other poets and mystics who have become like soul-friends over the years.

They don’t seem to mind if my mind is restless or my heart heavy. They meet me exactly where I am—patient, faithful, kind.

When my despair for the world grows—and lately, it grows more often than I’d like—when headlines overwhelm and the din of the world feels relentless, I grumble to anyone nearby or pour myself a glass of Shiraz and sit for a long while on the front porch.

Now and then, I remember to set my meditation timer for 20 minutes and just sit. Not to achieve anything—not enlightenment or transcendence—but simply to stop. To breathe. To re-center.

There are days I long to disappear into the quiet, to slip away and join Ryōkan in his humble mountain hut. He once wrote, “My life is like an old run-down hermitage—poor, simple, quiet.”

Yes, Ryōkan. That’s the kind of life I’ve reached for again and again—sometimes clumsily, sometimes with clarity. I’ve left one world in search of another, a quieter world, where “the only conversation is the wind blowing through the pines.”

That longing has never quite left me. I’ve carried it most of my life—a deep yearning for stillness, for the gentle hush of presence, for a simpler, slower way of being. And when I touch it, even briefly, I find I’m more grounded, more tender, more whole. I become a better partner, a more patient father, a truer friend.

Wendell Berry speaks to this sacred return when he writes:

“I come into the peace of wild things…
I come into the presence of still water…
For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.”

Oh Ryōkan, show me again how to find that still water—that quiet life tucked beneath the rush.
And Wendell, thank you for the reminder that it’s never too far away.

Even in this imperfect life—this cluttered house, this aching world—I catch glimpses.
And when I do, I whisper, “Lucky you.”
And then, with a smile and a full heart, I add, “Lucky me, too.”

You Are Enough

Over the course of my 67 years, I’ve poured so much of my life energy into the pursuit of love—trying, in every way I knew how, to earn it.

As a boy, I was the quintessential “good kid.” I became an Eagle Scout, my sash lined with merit badges like medals of honor, proof that I was trying hard to be the kind of son who made his parents proud. I studied diligently, got into the “right” schools, and sat dutifully in a church pew every Sunday morning—unless I was running a fever and couldn’t get out of bed. I played by the rules. I did what was expected. And I took great pride in being the boy who never caused trouble.

“You’re such a good boy, Tim,” my mom and dad would say, their voices filled with affection and hope. “Just apply yourself, and there’s no limit to what you can achieve.” At the time, I clung to those words like a lifeline. I believed them. I needed to believe them. But over time, I started to notice the hidden cost of such praise—the way it implied that love might be conditional. That being loved meant always performing. That the minute I made a mistake or slipped up, I might lose that approval.

Praise, as kind as it often sounds, can carry a shadow. And I began to understand that beneath every “good boy” was the fear of being seen as bad, of disappointing the very people I loved most.

So I played it safe.

I put my childhood dream of becoming an artist on a high shelf and left it there to gather dust. Instead, I went to divinity school. It was a respectable path. Noble. Sacred. It felt like something God—and my parents—could get behind. I was ordained as a Christian minister and spent the next few decades trying to embody that calling. And while there was great beauty in that journey—the joy of serving others, the sacred rituals, the moments of connection—there was also a quiet, aching loss that I didn’t fully recognize at the time. Somewhere along the way, amidst all the roles and responsibilities, I lost touch with something deeper… something older than creeds and doctrines, older even than words. A kind of primordial, ancient wisdom that once whispered to me in childhood moments of wonder—in the rustle of leaves, the silence of snowfall, the way light streamed through the kitchen window or flickered across the surface of a lake.

I’ve made my share of mistakes. Some of them were painful — wounding me, and at times, those I love. And all the while, I was haunted by that old inner voice: “Don’t mess up. Don’t let them down. Be good.”

But slowly—sometimes painfully slowly—I’ve begun to learn something far more liberating than anything I was ever taught in Sunday School: I am not “good” or “bad.” I am simply… me. Tim. A human being, beloved not because I followed the rules or made the grade, but simply because I exist. That’s enough.

I think we all know how blame can wound us. But I’ve come to see that praise—especially when it’s tethered to performance—can hurt just as much. It teaches us to measure our worth by how well we meet others’ expectations. It teaches us to stay small. To play it safe. To avoid risk. To hide the messy parts of ourselves for fear of losing affection.

These days, I find myself less interested in being “good” and far more interested in being real.

I no longer want to live under the weight of evaluation—whether it’s from others or my own inner critic. I don’t need gold stars, titles, applause, or divine approval. What I crave now is presence. Honesty. Wholeness. I want to show up fully, unguarded, even when I’m uncertain or afraid. I want to risk being seen—truly seen—without the armor of perfection.

At the end of the day, I try to let go of it all: the striving, the self-judgment, the stories I once believed about who I had to be. I rest in the quiet. I breathe into mystery. And I allow myself to welcome the grace of this moment—not because I’ve earned it, but because life is a gift. A breathtaking, fleeting, fragile gift.

And maybe that’s the invitation for all of us:

To shed the labels and the roles.
To take the risk of being real.
To breathe each breath as if it were sacred.
To remember—gently, fiercely, imperfectly—that we are already enough.
Already loved.
Already home.

Soul Friendship

Ananda, the beloved attendant and cousin of the Buddha, once asked his teacher a question that has echoed through the centuries. “Master,” he said, “is friendship half of the spiritual life?” And the Buddha replied, without hesitation, “No, Ananda. Friendship is the whole of the spiritual life.”

I didn’t fully understand the depth of that teaching when I was younger. Back then, I chased other things—approval, achievement, a sense of purpose tethered to doing rather than being. I played the roles, wore the masks. I tried to get it all “right,” whether in ministry, in family life, or in some polished version of spirituality. I don’t regret the journey—each part of it shaped me—but I’m so grateful those days are over.

These days, I find myself letting go. Letting go of the need for recognition, the craving for certainty, the grip of performance. Even theological systems—however well-meaning—have less hold on me. I’ve grown less interested in proving or defending belief and more interested in presence, in kindness, in soul-to-soul connection.

At this stage of life, what matters most—aside from my extraordinary family—are the friendships that sustain and surprise me. The real ones. The quiet coffee conversations, the walks that wander into silence, the friends who’ve stayed through the storms and celebrated the dawns. The people who didn’t try to fix me or convert me or explain me to myself—but simply loved me.

It’s only when someone truly loved me that I began to believe I was lovable. That simple, brave love broke something open in me. It helped me trust that maybe—just maybe—God’s love could be that spacious, that kind. And once you’ve tasted that kind of love, fear starts to lose its grip.

I no longer believe that the spiritual life is about climbing some ladder or acquiring secret knowledge. It’s about showing up—honestly, imperfectly—with and for one another. The sacred is found in the companionship of those who see us clearly and still choose to stay.

So yes, Ananda, I understand the Buddha’s words more clearly now. From where I sit—older, hopefully a little wiser, and more tenderhearted—I see it plainly. Soul friendship isn’t part of the spiritual life. It is the spiritual life.

And from this retired university chaplain, you’ll get no argument.

“From Fanaticism to Barbarism”

How is it that some Christian ministers—and many faithful followers—can support disinformation that is steeped in racism and xenophobia, distorting the very essence of the gospel? How do they promote an anti-Black and anti-immigrant vision of America while claiming divine approval for their actions?

It genuinely breaks my heart. Yet, I cannot say I am surprised.

History is littered with instances where faith has been wielded as a weapon instead of a source of healing. We have witnessed the Crusades, the Inquisitions, the justification of slavery from pulpits, and colonization draped in the guise of a divine mission. Time and again, acts of violence and exclusion have been cloaked in sacred language and adorned in holy garb—all in the name of a God who embodies pure Love.

I share these thoughts not out of judgment, but from a place of deep concern and profound sorrow that stems from seeing sacred truths distorted. As someone who has been shaped by the Christian tradition, I feel an even greater weight of responsibility to speak truthfully. If we, who are part of this faith community, do not confront its darker aspects, then who will?

I am continually reminded of the need for vigilance—guarding against fanaticism, whatever form it may take: be it a white collar, a priestly stole, a cardinal’s hat, or even a uniform or a politician's flag pin. Sometimes, this fanaticism masquerades behind selectively chosen scripture passages, twisted and manipulated to target those whom Jesus instructed us to love.

Be cautious of those who assert they possess “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” as if it were a trophy to be claimed rather than a profound, mysterious journey to be engaged with humility.

There’s a poignant quote that resonates deeply within me, a somber reminder inscribed at the site of a tragedy in Paris. An anonymous mourner left a bouquet of roses accompanied by words from the philosopher Diderot: “There is only one step from fanaticism to barbarism.”

Each time I reflect on that quote, it halts me in my tracks. It serves as a stark reminder that our convictions—no matter how spiritual they may appear—can lead us down a path to cruelty if they are not tempered by compassion, curiosity, and humility.

I continuously return to the essential question: Does this path lead to love? Does it honor the sacredness of others, especially those who are vulnerable and marginalized?

Because if it does not, then it cannot possibly be of God.

House Calls

As kids, we were lucky. When we were sick or cranky, our moms were there with cool cloths and warm soup. And sometimes, the family doctor came to the house. That phrase—“house call”—feels like a relic now, but it wasn’t back then. My father was that kind of doctor.

He carried a black leather bag and a quiet, steady presence. If my mother had a conflict, he’d take me along. We’d show up at someone’s home, and he’d sit—always at the kitchen table—open his bag, and listen. To hearts, lungs, and stories. He didn’t rush. He didn’t fix. He simply showed up, fully present. And often left with a slice of pie.

I was just a kid, but I noticed. His presence calmed the room. He didn’t chase after answers or explanations. He simply stayed—with grief, with pain, with uncertainty. And somehow, that was healing.

Maybe that’s why I’ve never been drawn to the “why” questions: Why did this happen? Why do good people suffer? Life just is. And when my brother Ed died of pancreatic cancer, that truth struck hard. No reasons, no tidy answers—just the ache of absence.

What matters more to me now is the “what now?”
What will be born of this grief?
What can love still do?

Watching my father taught me: love sits at the kitchen table. It listens. It stays. It shows up without needing to fix the unfixable. And there, in those quiet visits, I began to believe that whatever God is, it must be personal—found not in theories, but in presence.

Looking back, it’s clear: my life was shaped in those sacred, ordinary moments—my dad tending to the hurting, me nibbling on pie crust, both of us unknowingly seated at the altar of what really matters.

Love in a Bottle

Each July, like clockwork, it comes—
A small glass bottle,
sealed with care,
and filled with something more than cherries.

They call it cherry bounce,
a cordial from centuries past,
once sipped by Washington himself,
now passed quietly
from one friend to another,
like a secret,
like a blessing.

I picture Larry in his kitchen,
red-stained fingers working through
quart after quart of sun-warmed cherries,
their flesh soft with summer.
He pits them by hand—
slowly, patiently—
then stirs in sugar,
pours in bourbon,
and lets it all steep
in stillness.

But what he's really steeping
is time.
Memory.
Friendship.

Most of it he gives away,
a gift that tastes
like laughter and porch swings,
like music floating from a back room,
like years of knowing and being known.

And when I hold that bottle in my hands—
amber liquid catching the light—
I don’t just taste cherries.
I taste presence.
Sacrifice.
Care.

Aged to smoothness,
sweet with story,
warm with love.

That’s what it really is—
not just a drink,
but love in a bottle.

And every July,
it finds its way home
to me.

Imposter Syndrome

 I’ve come to understand the ego not as something bad or broken, but as a collection of masks—personas I’ve developed over time to help me navigate the world. These masks shape how I show up: as a visual artist, a mindfulness educator, a caregiver, a progressive. Each one has its purpose. Each one has served me in some way. But the trouble begins when I start to believe those roles are who I am. When I forget that they are just parts of the story, not the whole truth.

Sometimes I pause and wonder: are all these roles necessary? Can I set them down, even for a little while, especially when I’m with someone I love and trust? Can I do it when I’m alone—can I stop performing even for myself? And underneath all that, the real question lingers: If I’m not these masks, then who am I?

It’s such an astonishing thing, this life I’ve found myself in. A mystery, really.

And yet, despite all my training, my years of practice, and the many ways I try to live a meaningful life, I still find myself facing doubt. Sometimes I feel like a fraud, like I’ve somehow tricked people into believing I’m more capable or wise than I am. That’s what we often call imposter syndrome—that voice inside that says, You’re not enough, or You don’t really belong here.

But I’m learning to recognize that voice for what it is: the inner critic, not my true self. It may sound familiar, even convincing at times, but it’s not rooted in reality. And it certainly doesn’t speak with the voice of compassion or truth.

The truth is, I do have something to offer. We all do. My gifts are unique, not because they’re perfect, but because they’re mine. And so are yours. I try to remind myself often: think beyond the roles, beyond the titles. What do I offer just by being who I am? In quiet moments, I’ll make a list—not of achievements, but of ways I’ve shown up for others, for the world, for myself.

It helps. It helps to remember that everyone I admire has probably felt this same way at some point. That we’re not alone in this strange dance of self-doubt and longing.

With practice, with mindfulness, I’ve found that imposter syndrome doesn’t have to run the show. It might still show up from time to time, but it no longer gets to steer the ship. Instead, it becomes a kind of signpost—an invitation to remember who I really am beneath the masks. A reminder that I do, in fact, belong. That you do too.

We’re not here to be perfect. We’re here to be real. And that, in itself, is more than enough.

Radical Welcome

I grew up in a family that never missed church. We sat in the same pew every Sunday at 11 a.m., attended Sunday school, Wednesday night dinners, and youth group. A lot of it felt routine, even uninspiring—but the stories about Jesus stayed with me.

What moved me were the moments when something sacred showed up in the middle of ordinary life: feet washed, bread broken, wine poured, seeds planted. These weren’t grand miracles—they were gestures of welcome, care, and presence. The stories taught me that the divine isn’t found in perfection, but in how we show up for one another. Especially in the mess—the doubt, the crowds, the fear, the loneliness.

Even as a kid, I sensed that these stories weren’t just about belief; they were about belonging.

In a world that often felt rigid and closed, these moments cracked open a different way of being. Our youth minister helped translate them in a way that made room—room for questions, room for people who didn’t fit, room for the ones on the edges. That’s what felt holy to me: the radical welcome.

Thomas Merton once stood on a street corner and saw strangers all around him “walking around shining like the sun.” He wrote that if we could really see each other like that, “the big problem would be that we would fall down and worship one another.”

These days, many of my friends identify as Buddhist. One of my favorite practices is all the bowing. Hands together in gassho, we offer a deep, intentional bow to another person. It’s simple, humble, freely given. And it reminds me: this is what matters. That we truly see each other. That we honor one another’s presence. That we create space—for the stranger, the wounded, the overlooked.

I think that’s what those Jesus stories were always about.

And I hope, in time, I’ll greet every person, every moment, with that same posture of a deep, wholehearted bow.

“Well…maybe”

Oh, I could talk for hours about all things spiritual—books, practices, retreats, you name it. I light up at the thought of a quiet weekend away, tucked into a retreat center nestled among tall pines or beside a still lake. I love holding space in small groups, listening deeply, sharing stories, sometimes in silence, sometimes in tears. There’s something sacred in those early morning hours too—when the world is hushed and I can sit, breathe, and touch into something larger than myself. It’s almost as if I believe there’s a hidden equation: spirituality equals self-sacrifice plus just the right number of incense sticks.

And yes, I still get an undeniable buzz walking into a good spiritual bookstore—the kind that smells faintly of sandalwood, with Tibetan singing bowls on one shelf and Rumi poems on another. A little chant playing in the background, maybe a gong sounding now and then—it’s a whole sensory experience, like walking into an ancient temple tucked into the middle of a strip mall.

At home, I’ve carved out a space just for stillness. There’s an antique Buddhist temple bell that sits near the window, and my shelves are lined with sacred texts from every corner of the world—Zen koans, Psalms, Sufi poetry, bits of the Bhagavad Gita. These things mean something to me. They’re part of the path I walk.

And still—if I’m honest—I don’t know if I’ve ever truly touched what the mystics call pure presence. In fact, the deeper I get into the rituals and the readings and the morning meditations, the less certain I become. I start to wonder if I’m just dressing up my ego in spiritual robes. Am I truly waking up? Or am I just getting better at playing the part?

Ask me if any of this has brought me closer to the Source, and I’ll probably give you a sheepish grin, a little wink, and say, “Well… maybe.”

But here’s the thing: I keep showing up. I keep practicing. I keep searching—not always with clarity, but always with longing. Maybe that’s what faith really is.

Because sometimes, just sometimes, I catch a glimpse. A moment so small it almost slips by unnoticed. The way the morning light hits the steam rising from my coffee cup. The quiet kindness in a stranger’s eyes at Trader Joe’s. The sudden swell of gratitude that makes my breath catch for no apparent reason. And in those rare moments, I remember: this is it. This is the sacred. Right here. Right now.

Maybe the real miracle is learning how to see—really see—the ordinary world in front of me. Maybe contemplation is just that: taking a long, loving look at the real, as it is. No incense required.

And maybe one day, if I keep looking—if I stay soft, open, curious—I’ll fall to my knees before the beauty of a coffee cup or the holiness of a passing smile. Not because I’ve found the ultimate spiritual secret, but because I’ve finally stopped trying so hard to find anything at all.