A Church for Starving Artists

Many years ago, I was having dinner with three Millennials in a Brooklyn restaurant. One was our TBC who grew up in the Church although her attendance in Brooklyn was occasional. One was her friend who grew up in a different congregation and her church attendance might have been less than occasional. The third Millennial one was a friend visiting from the U.K.

U.K. guy said that he’d heard that I was a Christian pastor and he was fascinated by this. “So you lead a church?” “What do you wear?” It was not the first time I was a curiosity in social circles.

Dinner arrived and the U.K. guy – who mentioned that his family had never been to church – said, “You know that thing that people do before they eat if they believe in God?” And I said, “Do you mean the blessing? It’s also called grace.”

“Yes!” he said. “Would you do that?”

We held hands while I thanked God for our food and the hands that prepared it. “That was nice,” U.K. guy said. “I can see why people would like that.”

For decades now, we Christians who still participate in a Church Community, have crafted our vocabulary, our church liturgies, and our newsletters for a “seeker” population, for people who might have a rudimentary understanding about the Christian Faith or the Organized Church. We used words like “lobby” instead of “narthex.” We refrained from preaching about the Doctrine of Soteriology and spoke about the things of this worldly life that holds us captive. I know churches that exchanged “Vacation Bible School” for “Summer Camp” (which happens to be sponsored by a church.)

A couple weeks ago, I was talking with my Lyft driver about what I do/did for work. He was literally taking me to church for Sunday morning worship. He actually had a Bible on the passenger seat of the car and he told me that he hadn’t grown up Christian or in a church, but he was in trouble and he was trying to figure out what to do.

[Note: This is not the first Lyft driver I’ve prayed with in my life. I never make the suggestion myself, but every once in a while, the Lyft driver would respond to the news that I was a pastor by asking if I’d be willing to pray with them before leaving the car. Coptics from Ethiopia. Sufi Muslims from Senegal. Lapsed Catholics from the South Side of Chicago. I’ve prayed with all kinds of people and consider it an enormous privilege.]

But this particular Lyft driver with a Bible in the passenger seat and burdens on his mind didn’t even have the words to ask me to pray with him.

Would you ever say words around me?” he asked?

Now this could mean several things, but it was clear that he was talking about something like prayer. And so I prayed for him words of hope and healing. He thanked me and asked if he could email me sometime to do that again over the phone. (Yes, he could have been a killer/stalker/scammer.) But I said I’d be happy to share my email with him. He has never contacted me but maybe he will one day. Or maybe he won’t.

It occurs to me that we are at least two generations (or in some places four generations) away from The Churched Generation who might not know the details of”The Good Samaritan” or “The Ten Commandments” but at least they’ve heard of those stories. They might have gone to Sunday School long ago. Maybe they’d played an angel in the annual Christmas pageant.

But we are now neighbors with thousands and thousands of people who don’t know what prayer is, much less know why/how/when to do it. In the last 24 hours, two Millennials have shared that they are “looking for a spiritual community.” They don’t know where to start.

Before we invite them to church, it feels holier to listen to what’s going on in their lives. Maybe we never invite them to church at all (unless they ask.) Maybe they need for us to simply say words around them that offer comfort and peace. The Holy doesn’t need all the stuff we’ve created for the purpose of bolstering The Institutional Church.

Don’t misunderstand me. The Institutional Church has fed God’s children – both spiritually and physically – for thousands of years. The Church has built hospitals and schools, camps and affordable housing. The Church has provided community in a million ways.

Some of us need to step away in a stained glass sanctuary to feel reverence for God. Some of us need chanting. Some of us need Country-Western songs. Some of us need fresh flowers. But God doesn’t need any of those things.

God doesn’t even need for us to say words around people that sound like a prayer. But it’s a good idea to plan for that possibility because so many people are broken and feeling alone. We who know that God Is With Us have been given the privilege to share that Truth with others – not as a weapon but as a holy moment.

While my denominational siblings are in Milwaukee for the PCUSA General Assembly, I spent last weekend at a family reunion to see my blood siblings and cousins and a favorite 97 year old aunt. Since I don’t live in NC anymore, this meant a hotel stay with bad coffee and not many independent coffee shops near the hotel, so I went to Starbucks on Sunday morning.

While waiting for my better-than-hotel-but-not-as-good-as-my neighborhood-coffee-shop coffee, I heard this conversation:

Two Young Adult Women Were Waiting for their Drinks:

YAW#1: So I’m on Klonopin now for my anxiety. What are you on?

YAW#2: I’m scared to tell you.

YAW#1: Don’t be scared. Everybody’s on meds.

YAW#2: I’m not on meds. But I worry about things.

YAW#1: I tried Cymbalta my freshman year but it made me all Comic Sans. (Waving her arms all around.)

Barista: Vodka!

YAW#1 grabs the pink drink.

YAW#2: You told them your name was Vodka?

YAW#1: Of course! I would never give them my REAL name.

I can’t stop thinking about this conversation because it reminds me that

• Jonathan Haidt is right
• People would rather spend a day on the lake than be in church
• Young people can drink pink drinks without worrying about the calories
• Instagram has ruined the culture (the two YAW instagrammed their drinks on their way out.)
• The state motto of North Carolina is Esse Quam Videri (“to be rather than to seem.”)

Successful managers, executives, and – of course – pastors have long been advised to be “authentic” which involves knowing the truth about ourselves and loving ourselves enough to be who we were created to be. Jesus reminds us about the value of worshipping God in spirit and in truth. And after overhearing that conversation in Starbucks, I heard a remarkable sermon comparing the leadership skills of Saul and the leadership skills of David (thank you WG) that reminded me that authenticity is all about knowing who we are and who God is. Saul was all about himself, leading with vengeance, jealousy, abuse of power, and fear while David – although quite imperfect – nevertheless was about the heart of God, leading with truth, humility, and appreciation.

We are anxious when we forget who we really are: people created in God’s image. The transgender woman, the Haitian refugee, the Israeli mother grieving her son murdered on 10-7-23, the Palestinian mother grieving her son murdered in Gaza, the child whose family has died in the Venezuelan earthquakes. You. Me. The young women with the pink drinks.

If we have a clear understanding of ourselves and each other as part of the extraordinarily diverse people created by all that is Holy and thoroughly Real, then we are free. We are free to disagree with each other without hate. We are free to tell the truth without fear. We are free to have the capacity to care for others as we care for ourselves. We are free to be more curious than judgmental.

There are conversations happening at the General Assembly this week about how we treat people with whom we disagree. If we take seriously the teachings of Jesus, we do not mock them or slander them or hate them. We love them into relationship. It’s exceedingly brave and Christlike to love our “enemies” even when they hurt us. Yes, we hold each other accountable and seek what last Sunday’s preacher called “authentic repentance.” (We don’t breezily say “I’m sorry” and then continue the same behavior that hurt people in the first place.)

This is hard work. And it’s also joyful work when the point of life is to seek the heart of God (rather than worry about how we look out there with our pink drinks.)

PS – For the record I have nothing against pink drinks as a beverage choice nor am I anti anxiety meds. Both have their place in this wonderful world.

This is both a belated post about Fathers’ Day as well as a post about sin. I am well acquainted with sin and not only because I’ve seen things after 40+ years of professional ministry. Mostly I’m well acquainted with sin because I myself am a miserable sinner. I could do better every day and yet I don’t.

Last weekend I was thinking about friends of mine for whom Fathers’ Day is rough and not because their beloved fathers have passed away. (Note: many embrace the image of God as Father for the reasons the author Diane Tennis spells out in this book.) So many of my friends and colleagues have had relationships with their fathers that involved cruelty and coldness. They sought the love of their dads only to be ignored if not betrayed. Those dads could have done better but they didn’t.

This is an excellent podcast in which the writer Tom Junod talks about his father who was both a David Niven-esque charmer and an unrepentant adulterer. He was a wonderful father who also brought pain to quite a few people including Junod’s mother.

I was also thinking about a woman named Gudrun Burwitz who adored her own father in spite of his shortcomings. Yes, he was also a womanizer but he also read her stories and wrote her lovely letters and phoned her every day when his work required being away from home. Also her father happened to be the architect of the Holocaust who asked his daughter to call his boss “Uncle Hitler.” After her father died by suicide (although she was certain he’d been murdered) until her own death in 2018, she maintained that he’d been a good father.

Ms. Burwitz’s situation is obviously an extreme one, but I’m cognizant of the fact that all of us fall short of God’s glory whether we are Nazis or unexceptional liars and cheaters. My concern is for those who never acknowledge that they are responsible for the pain of other human beings.

I am a Reformed Christian/follower of Jesus and so – all my life – I’ve been taught that God is God and we are not. It’s not that human beings are imperfect. Of course we are imperfect.

It’s about the fact that in the midst of life’s joys and successes, we could all do better. We all have some weaknesses/mistakes/gravely poor choices to confess. I’m frankly concerned that as autocrats and billionaires (and at least one trillionaire) continue to gain control and more power in this world, there are fewer calls to acknowledge our basic sinfulness.

Can a good father be a bad man? Of course. Can a good mom be a bad woman? Of course.

I remember a church member who was so cruel to his friends. He took advantage of another church leader’s dementia. He used the church to benefit himself. He verbally abused other church people behind closed doors. But his family lauded his integrity and gentleness when he passed away. Their experience had not been the same as the experience of others.

And this is life. It’s rare when there is no one who can offer a kind word about someone’s life (although I’ve done those funerals too.) My hope is that we can become – as they say – the people our dogs think we are. God is gracious. And we can all do better.

“Right hand of God. Right hand of God” Karl-Anthony Towns describing his Knicks teammate OG Anunoby’s game-winning tip into the basket to finalize a 29-point comeback and win for the Knicks in Game Four of the NBA Finals against the San Antonio Spurs

I’m more of a college basketball fan, specifically ACC basketball, and more specifically ACC basketball when all the teams were actually on the Atlantic Coast. But last night’s Game Four of the NBA Finals felt a little bit holy. (I’m so sorry Spurs fans but that game was a spiritual experience for so many people.)

I don’t believe that God cares who wins sporting events, but I do believe that the exhilarating feeling of an unexpected victory or the success of an underdog or the miracle of three point shots from the next county feels like a God Moment. I’ve experienced this personally – my favorite holy sports moment being this one. I was a senior in high school sitting with my brother several rows up under the home basket. To this day, when I watch replays of those last 17 seconds with 8 points down, my heart feels like it’s going to explode again. This is surely what it feels like to experience the Holy Spirit, albeit trivial by comparison.

This is the feeling I felt when I prayed in a courtroom for an innocent defendant who was found not guilty. This is the feeling that I felt when I witnessed immigrants graduating from a church-sponsored computer training program knowing that they’d found employment with dental benefits. This is the feeling I felt when I prayed for my children only to find – with time – that God provided something better than I had imagined for them.

Prayer is not magic. God’s hands are not on basketballs or golf clubs or tennis rackets (or steering wheels or gun triggers.) And yet God is with us through life’s everyday and extraordinary moments. God weeps when we weep and rejoices when we rejoice.

God was with every Spurs fan whose heart broke last night. And God was with everybody who – like me and HH – screamed with joyful disbelief with 1.2 seconds left on the clock. God is with us. That doesn’t mean that God finds us parking spaces or keeps us from making bad choices. But God is surely with us in the aftermath of whatever happens – whether we acknowledge it or not.

Go Knicks.

I have a friend – a tad older than I am – who intentionally never mentions things like the meds she’s on, the joints she’s replaced, or the wrinkles she’s noticed. She never mentions her age in conversation. She never makes “senior moment” jokes. This is her choice and I respect her for it.

I am now 70 years old, retired, on a couple of meds, and have two new knees. I have no problem with sharing this information and I consider it all a joy, frankly. I’m privileged to have lived this long – longer than either of my parents or a couple of my closest friends, all of whom died of cancer. I have not died of cancer – yet. Maybe I never will.

Maybe I’ll get bonked on the head by a falling gargoyle or accidently step into a manhole. I’ve known it to happen.

HH and I moved two weeks ago today to Northern Virginia and now we live in what could be our last move, depending on how often we break our respective hips.

I think of myself as a “young retiree” and yet, as I was walking home from Harris-Teeter (two blocks away) with my cute cart, three different people offered to help me. I wasn’t struggling. I wasn’t trying to lug that cart up a flight of stairs. I was just walking and – apparently – I looked like I needed assistance.

At first, I was annoyed. Do I look like I need help? And then I reconsidered.

Who doesn’t need assistance? All of us spend our days in some form of Assisted Living.

From the rehab patient who needs help getting dressed to the lady with a folding grocery cart to the child who can’t reach the library book, we not only need other humans but it’s really good for our souls to need each other. When we acknowledge that we cannot thrive alone, we are telling the truth about ourselves.

Scripture says “If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us.” (1 John 1:8)

I would add: “If we say that we don’t need other people, we deceive ourselves …”

Welcoming assistance from strangers – even if we don’t think we need it – builds community. Instead of being annoyed, I’m trying to feel grateful that someone even noticed me. So – thank you Smoker holding the George Will book, Woman who looked older than I do, and Young Mom with the wagon and a puppy. Thanks for offering to help the lady with the folding shopping cart.

But here’s my pitch: what if we were more intentional about noticing people? I’m not suggesting we try to Super Hero ourselves into a situation that someone else has under control. I’m not saying we should be creepy. I just saying that we could notice each other out there with intention and appreciation. Hold a door open. Carry a bag. Say ‘hi.’

Everybody needs a little help.

A fire on an Amtrak train early this morning resulted in the cancellation of my trip home to DC which was supposed to leave around 9:30 am.

I got to spend the day in an urban train station with nothing to do but hang out and watch people.  And it occurred to me that Donald Trump would hate it here.

[Note: These are pastoral observances, not political ones.]

The president has told us numerous times about the kind of humans he likes and the kind of humans he doesn’t like.  And so I’m glad he wasn’t here with me today.

In my eight hours waiting at Newark Penn, this is what I saw:

Mostly people with darker skin than mine wearing a variety of fashions from buttoned down collars to every kind of t-shirt (Knicks, NASA, a picture of Santa above the words “Believe.”) Torn jeans and hot pants. At least one bikini top. 

Travelers with all kinds of challenges like wheelchair riders and folks with mobility canes and seniors pushing walkers with stuffed carryalls attached and little kids with too much energy to sit around and wait for a train.

People with psychological situations like the young man who randomly yelled every couple of hours about a bear, to the folks who were definitely talking to themselves rather than talking into ear pods.

People who were very short and very tall, emaciated and heavyset, bearded and clean shaven, gray haired and lime green haired. 

What I heard were recognizable and unrecognizable accents.  I’m confident that most continents were represented.

Towards the end of my day, I phoned a friend after learning that her sweet dog had passed away.  I had no qualms about weeping in a train station because I lived there now – and when the call ended, I noticed that the woman next to me was also weeping. 

 “I’m so sorry about your friend’s dog,” she said.  And then she told me that her own dog had passed away suddenly last summer and she was still upset about it.  Bella had been her best friend’s dog and that friend had died of cancer at the age of 35 so when Bella died, it was like losing her last connection to her friend.  $@%# cancer.

I showed her photos of Zuzu and photos of a different dog named Zuri who graced the presence of our Presbytery office. Zuri passed away suddenly on Tuesday.  And I showed her pictures of our Spense who died in 2025 and she showed me pictures of her new dog Luna wearing a little sombrero.

And then she left to catch her train.  We didn’t know each other’s names but we knew all the dog’s names. 

And when my train finally arrived for boarding, I thought about Donald Trump who never had a dog or a cat according to biographers.  And he has said he doesn’t like immigrants or disabled people but he says he does love handsome men and beautiful women.

I was blessed to observe America in an urban train station today. And as the trained pulled out of the station, my σπλαγχνίζομαι (splagchnizomai) was on overload. And I I felt really sad for the powerful man who has no idea what he’s missing. 

I recently read about a group of church ladies who have weekly “crafternoons” (cute) when they create original wreaths for front doors. Flower wreaths for the spring. Evergreen wreaths for the winter.

What threw me was that this is a mission for unhoused neighbors. To be clear: they are making front door wreaths for people who don’t have front doors.

Q: What happens when we give people what they don’t need?

A: Lots of things, including people leaving organizations in which they once participated regularly.

Church would be one of those organizations. HH and I will be looking for a new church in the coming months and our hope is that we will connect with a church that gives us the spiritual nurture we need so that we (and the rest of the congregation) can offer what our neighbors need.

What we will not need:

• Homiletical explanations on why Jesus could have been crucified on a Thursday instead of a Friday. (We don’t care.)
• Social justice conversation groups that make us smarter but don’t change things that need to be changed.
• Bible studies without any practical spiritual inspiration.
• People who bicker, especially about things Jesus didn’t die for.
• Of course: Congregations that don’t address what breaks God’s heart in the neighborhood.

We love all kinds of music, all kinds of people, all kinds of architecture. We hope to find people with whom we can be messy and imperfect. We particularly love people who are easy to laugh and cry with.

I share this not as a request for identifying potential congregations in Our Nation’s Capital (where we are moving in a few days) but to remind so many congregations I love that nobody needs what many of our churches are offering.

• Nobody needs a congregation of people who gossip or slam each other behind their backs.
• Nobody needs a Bible study that never challenges what we have always believed/teaches us anything new.
• Nobody needs a gorgeous sanctuary with beautiful people who are ashamed to share their real lives with each other.
• Nobody needs another bake sale or car wash to “help the needy” when we won’t even offer a ride to a neighbor who needs a lift to the hospital.
• Nobody needs a wreath when they have no door, especially when we have the opportunity to help them find a home with a door.

Just as we regularly evaluate our church staffs (preferably both paid and volunteer) it’s helpful – also – to evaluate the impact of our congregations in terms of the congregation and community’s spiritual health. Is our congregation offering what anybody needs? Things like authentic community, security, inspiration, moments of awe, opportunities for life-changing service? In this wild and often infuriating world, this is what people need – whether we admit it or not. One day most of us will look for these things.

HH and I watched – back to back – two excellent funeral episodes of our favorite shows last weekend. And I’ve attended two funerals on as many Saturdays – the first for one of my favorite people who passed away much too soon and the second for a Charlotte institution in the arts world.

I love a good funeral.

It’s not about the choreography or the music or the refreshments. It’s always about the person and the way that person is remembered – preferably within the context of God’s grace. I’ve known followers of Jesus whose funerals were weirdly impersonal – about both the deceased and the Creator. And I’ve known atheists whose funerals were surprisingly holy.

The funeral of Rebecca’s father on Ted Lasso was one of the best ever and not because her father was a great guy. It was perfect because her people who didn’t just show up; they were with her in a way that only deep affection can muster. The funeral of Coop’s father on Your Friends and Neighbors was inspiring to watch if only because it illustrates what not to do when a loved one dies. Coop is surrounded by his “friends and neighbors” but they are all fake.

All this is related to a podcast I heard recently with Bill Burnett, the author of Designing Your Life. I’m in a privileged stage in life in that – so far – I’ve had a great life and if I died tomorrow, it would have been much more than enough. And yet I’m beginning a totally new stage of life in a new city, with new opportunities, and new adventures. Everybody should get this: a fresh chapter.

A good funeral can kick start a fresh chapter. To hear about someone’s authentic bravery and sacrifice or someone’s tireless creativity prompts us to do better – even if what we do is not all that sacrificial or creative. A good funeral makes me want to be a better human. What about you?

The only reason I’ve read any novels over the past year was because of my Brewery Book Group (whom I’ll miss when we move from Charlotte. Anybody want to start one in Our Nation’s Capital this summer?) While the novels we read could be bleak (The Emperor of Gladness) they were usually uplifting, if dark (Vigil.)

When I read over this (gifted to you) NYT article about the 2026 Pulitzer Prize Books, I was especially drawn to the Nonfiction Winners and Finalists – as always. This doesn’t mean I’m more scholarly or serious than people who prefer fiction. It’s probably because I’m still in constant-search-of-sermon-illustrations mode. There’s nothing like a quote from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek or Life Together to close out a traditional Presbyterian sermon. Sermon illustrations can also be found in novels, of course, but it was often so long since I read a novel that I didn’t want to date myself. (“In that new novel The Brothers Karamazov . . .“)

Note: Preachers who quote from the most recently published novels are perhaps the most well-read pastors. They are reading what they want to read rather than what they have to read.

In regards to that article about the 2026 Pulitzer Prize Winners, I was drawn to the nonfiction list and especially to:

• We the People by Jill Lepore about the history of the U.S. Constitution which sounds interesting and also possibly disturbing.
• There Is No Place for Us: Working and Homeless in America by Brian Goldstone which has got “sermon illustrations” written all over it.
• A Flower Traveled in My Blood: The Incredible True Story of the Grandmothers Who Fought to Find a Stolen Generation of Children by Haley Cohen Gilliland. Whatever happened to disappeared people and their children in Argentina doesn’t sound inspiring, but I’m a sucker for Mom Stories. I wouldn’t give this book to your Mom or Grandmother on Mothers’ Day however.

While I take occasional breaks from the difficult news of the day, my Current Events Sabbatical never lasts more than a couple days and I have to confess before you and the LORD, that I am a little judgmental about it when people tell me they “don’t read the news anymore” much less nonfiction tomes about homelessness or human torture. Reading only feel-good novels or the Style Section of the newspaper is like living in a gated community. If we don’t see homelessness or human torture, it doesn’t exist.

Clearly, I’m a fun date.

My hope for all of us is that we have some proximity to human suffering for the sake of our souls. I’ve occasionally asked in this blog “Who is the poorest person you know?” The answer reveals how gated our lives have become. If the poorest person we know has to make daily choices involving food versus medicine, we have more opportunities to follow Jesus than if the poorest person we know can only travel to Europe every other year.

Yes, Jesus died for rich people and rich people experience their own version of torture in many cases. But it’s easy to forget that not everybody can afford to meet for coffee dates or drive a car with AC when we don’t blink over buying a $5 latte or an e-car.

Gated communities, in my opinion, are a spiritual problem (unless you are the King of England.) Gated life experiences are a spiritual problem for everyone. Reading about the difficult life situations of our neighbors is part of the continuing education each of us need. If we know that human suffering exists – whether we read about it or witness it up close and personal – we are more likely to address it in some way in the name of Jesus.

Balancing the joyful and the terrible is part of life. And it’s a good indicator of our spiritual health.

This is a post about Baby Boomers who have ruined everything and I am among the guilty. Idrees Kahloon wrote this thoughtful article about issues with my generation, especially in terms of hoarding wealth, staying too long in our careers and overstaying our welcome in several of life’s other arenas.

I’m a big fan of my generation stepping aside when younger people and fresher ideas are needed and this has sometimes resulted in accusations of ageism. The truth is that I hope people (in any generation) will retire when they no longer find joy and fulfillment in their vocations. Maybe that happens when you’re 80 or maybe when you’re 55. I can’t begin to count the number of clergy colleagues who stayed too long in their churches to the point that those congregations could no longer afford a full-time pastor. (I know. Ouch.)

It would be optimal, of course, for all of us to find energy and deep satisfaction in what we do for our life’s work. But some people “can’t retire” even when they’d like to because they can’t afford to retire. They are raising their grandchildren or their own children from a late-in-life marriage. They are helping elderly parents afford home health care. They still have debts to pay off. Or they can’t stand the thought of losing the identity they’ve known for the past 40 years.

How can generations work together to make the world more equitable? (Note: these ideas are founded on spiritual values rather than political ones. Wealthy Boomers: I’m looking at you in hopes we will forego some of our own comforts to support those coming after us . . . because Jesus.)

What can we do as disciples of Jesus?

• When unused church property can be made available for housing that Millennials can afford – even though those new more modest homes border older neighborhoods – do we support those efforts? Where I live in North Carolina, many churches were established on farmland with many acres of unused property around their buildings. Jesus said something about hoarding. Believe me, those churches do not need to save that acreage for future Christian Education buildings or parking lots.
• Just as term limits are good for politicians, they are good for church leaders. In my denomination, officers are limited to serving only two consecutive three-year terms as elders or deacons. And after a year “off” they can be elected for one or two additional three-year terms. Instead of saying that “nobody else is willing to serve” as the excuse for electing the same people over and over again, ask why that’s the case. Maybe you have too many people on your boards. Maybe you refuse to consider younger members (whether “younger” in your congregation means teenagers or fifty-somethings.)
• Apart from officers, have the same people been in their volunteer positions for more than ten years? Have we enjoyed the leadership of the same person to be the Vacation Bible School Director or the Lady in charge of Coffee Hour, or the Confirmation Teacher for as long as anyone can remember because “nobody else will do it” or “it would break their heart to take that job away from them” even though (respectively) they no longer like children or they grumble about baking cookies or they complain about “young people today” while fulfilling those duties? In healthy congregations, there are also term limits for volunteer positions.

Apart from what church people can do, I like Samuel Moyn’s idea (again, read the Kahloon article):

The wealthiest Social Security recipients, for instance, could forgo some of their scheduled benefits, which could instead be contributed annually to “baby bond” accounts for America’s children, a source of capital to be used in adulthood.

Love this idea. I, for one, am wealthy in spite of the fact that in the first 27 of 42 years of professional ministry I earned the minimal pastoral salary and it shows if you knew my net worth. Nevertheless, compared to the rest of the world, even those of us who made financial sacrifices in order to serve in the non-profit sector are rich. Sharing is not “socialism.” It’s the way of Jesus.

I’m guessing that many of you, Readers, will take issue with this post. But we have a great opportunity to crack open the old ways of being leaders, investors, and disciples. Let’s do it.