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It’s true. God doesn’t have anything to do with winning a football game. On Sunday, Russell Wilson, quarterback for the Seattle Seahawks, became the latest professional athlete to draw the ire of progressive Christians for expressing gratitude to God for winning a football game.

A church not too far from where I live and work has closed. Its last worship service was held at the end of December. Everyone worried that the large, stately building in the middle of town would be left to languish, perhaps even torn down. But, then, rescuers showed up, purchasing the building with the intent of repurposing it, for weddings and events. The few members that were left are happy that the church “will be preserved,” according to the local newspaper. But, I’m wondering: What’s being preserved, exactly?

I was in a museum not long ago gazing at a painting of Jesus washing Peter’s feet, a familiar scene to most of us, and wondering why it seemed very wrong. What was wrong was that Jesus was pictured as a mature but young man while Peter was very old and gray. We forget that, if Jesus was in his early thirties, it is likely that his disciples were no older and probably younger by several years. Page down Facebook until you come to the inevitable shot of a group of young adults in their mid-to-late twenties having a good time, and that’s more like it.

Recently I visited a nearby country church with a tumultuous history. Built in a berg called Klondike, it was originally a Catholic church. In the ’90s, the building was hit by lightning. The volunteer fire department bravely climbed up into the attic and put the fire out, at some risk to their own lives. Repairs were made and the church went on. But a few years later, in 2005, the diocese closed the church, and its members migrated to another nearby parish.

A few weeks ago a child at church came into worship near tears. Her feelings had been hurt because she perceived that a couple of other kids had purposely excluded her from something. Normally I would probably not have been aware of any of this, but the sad child was my own. She sat down in the front pew and curled herself up into a little ball. It was one of those moments when I decided to be mom and not pastor. I sat with her and cuddled her and tried very hard not to give the other children the stink-eye. By the time the first hymn started she was okay and life went on. Kids will be kids and I know that when two kids are gathered, fun ensues, and when three kids are gathered, one of them usually ends up feeling left out.

The competing voices in my head each sound reasonable. That’s the problem. One voice is the keep-track-of-it voice. The one who wants to capture the precise moment with a picture or by writing down that perfectly turned phrase.

Visitors to worship at the congregation I serve, Old South, will generally find a warm and friendly group. Most Old South folk are eager to greet new people, to invite them to coffee, and to talk to them about the church. There are a few people in the congregation who are attentive to newcomers during worship as well, making sure they have a bulletin, know which hymnal is which, and to deliver children’s materials to any kids. It’s nice to see. If you manage to get into the building, you’ll find a nice welcome.

Branding is all about claiming distinctiveness. What can your product do that others can’t? What looks or feels better than the others? What tastes stand out? Sometimes we treat faith communities the same way.

Maybe it’s because I’m a pastor and my social media is flooded with churchy headlines and hashtags, but I’ve grown weary of the Christmas tradition of bemoaning the commercialization of the season and criticizing others (usually referring to non-Christians) for being so materialistic about Christmas. I mean, I’ve got my own gripes with Black Friday and Xmas music in late September but is there anything more cliché than surveying the wrapping paper debris on the curb and the pine needles on the floor and lamenting that we’ve missed the meaning of Christmas?

I was part of a conference call recently with a number of young-ish pastors in our denomination where we were talking about Jesus’ prayer in John 17 that the his followers would be “one.” Anyone with even the most cursory understanding of church history will know that, well, we haven’t exactly done so well with this little ideal. Indeed, we might be forgiven for laughing out loud at the idea that there could be such a thing as a unified church.

When someone inquires how I am, I often reply, “Good. Life is full.” I say that intentionally because I have grown weary of the excuse of being too busy. There’s an implication that in my busyness I have shut out people I love. 

I’m a regular reader of Runner's World. Like most special-interest magazines, there’s a lot of repetition of ideas if you read long enough, but it’s excellent monthly motivation and entertainment for this unexpected hobby and lifestyle of mine. At times the magazine is downright inspirational.

Full-time employment, as we well know now in our duct-tape kludged economy, ain't an easy thing to come by. It's particularly, brutishly so for 20 and 30-somethings, who often cobble together their lives with part-time employment here and there. Which is why an article in The Washington Post struck me.

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I held a five-month-old Iraqi child in my lap for almost a half hour last week. Any long-distance grandma knows how we ache to hold our own grandchildren, and leap at any opportunity to snuggle another woman’s child or grandchild. The clothes closet our church runs was busier than ever, since it was the last time we’d be open before Christmas.