Calendar

I have been asked why I go barefoot in church, a practice that began a few years ago. In case you have noticed and been wondering:

I go barefoot because …

     I remember the words from Exodus, “Take off your sandals, for you are standing on holy ground.”

I go barefoot because …

     it reminds me “I am but dust and to dust I shall return.”

I go barefoot because …

     it keeps me grounded.

I go barefoot because …

     it gets me “out of my head” and awake-alert in the Present Moment.

I go barefoot because …

     it actively engages the 29 muscles in each of my feet and keeps me on my toes.

I go barefoot because …

     it makes me take care of my feet in a way I otherwise might not.

I go barefoot because …

     it’s a reminder my DNA carries both the oppressor (Spanish colonists who wore shoes)

     and the oppressed (indigenous peoples who did not).

I go barefoot because …

     it keeps me consciously connected to and one with the earth.

I go barefoot because …

     it reminds me leadership is about servanthood.

I go barefoot because …

     it recalls the night Jesus got on his knees to wash his friends’ feet.

I go barefoot because …

     I can dance at any given moment.

I go barefoot because …

     it feels good.

Take off, take off your shoes.
This place you’re standing, it’s holy ground.
Take off, take off your shoes.
The spot you’re standing, it’s holy ground.

These words I heard in my burning bush.
This place you’re standing, it’s holy ground.
I heard my fiery voice speak to me.
This spot you’re standing, it’s holy ground.

That spot is holy, holy ground.
That place you stand, it’s holy ground.
This place you tread, it’s holy ground.
God made this place his holy ground.

Take off your shoes and pray.
The ground you walk, it’s holy ground.
Take off your shoes and pray.
The ground you walk, it’s holy ground.

Every spot on Earth, I traipse around.
Every spot I walk, it’s holy ground.
Every spot on Earth, I traipse around.
Every spot I walk, it’s holy ground.

Every spot, it’s holy ground.
Every little inch, it’s holy ground.
Every grain of dirt, it’s holy ground.
Every spot I walk, it’s holy ground.

• “Holy Ground,” Woody Guthrie, 1954

Love,

Cristina

Dear members and friends of Redeemer,

I have been thinking a lot about a story that Nikole Hannah-Jones, the Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, shares at the beginning of her seminal journalistic work – The 1619 Project. She recounts how her father flew an American flag in their front yard for as far back as she could remember. It stood mounted high on an aluminum pole at the edge of a corner lot that had been redlined by the federal government, the kind of lot that told you exactly where the color line ran through their Iowa town. Her father had grown up the son of Mississippi sharecroppers, in a state that had offered his family little besides cruelty. As a young man, he went off to serve his country, where he faced many of the same systemic race-based obstacles, until his military career stalled out. And yet, that flag flew. In fact, the moment it showed the slightest wear he replaced it, so that it always stood pristine against a house and yard that carried their own signs of wear.

As a child, Hannah-Jones says she did not understand this. It embarrassed her, if I read her rightly. How could a man who had seen so clearly what his country was capable of doing to people who looked like him return to that country such visible devotion?

But I found myself relating to her father. My own father served in the Coast Guard, and my grandfathers served as well, one in the Marine Corps and the other in the Army. They are all Black men with no illusions about this country’s record with its Black citizens. What I see in her father’s choice – and what Hannah-Jones also came to see – was not evidence that the country had earned his loyalty. It was closer to something the writer of Hebrews describes among the faithful who came before us, people who confessed themselves strangers and exiles on the earth, who never received what had been promised them but kept looking for a better country anyway, a homeland not yet fully theirs. Faith, that same letter tells us, is “the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” Her father was not responding to what his country had shown him. He was responding to what he had decided, contrary to the available record, to believe about it.

That is a harder thing than optimism. Optimism bets that things will probably turn out fine. What I see in that image of the flag is something closer to a fight against despair, a hope and belief that the world as it should be will not lose to the world as it is. Let go of the fight and hope dissipates into sentiment. Let go of the hope and the fight curdles into despair. Her father, somehow, let go of neither.

I find in him something of a mirror and something of a guide. A mirror, because I recognize in myself that same stubborn conviction that this nation remains worth fighting for and worth hoping for, even when the evidence is thin. And a guide, because his example demonstrates what it looks like to hold that conviction without pretending the wounds are not real. That, I think, is also what our Resurrection faith asks of us.

Adam Russell Taylor, president of Sojourners, wrote something recently that lands in this same place. He said that liberty and justice for all is still an ideal worth celebrating. Still. Not yet fully honored, not yet made true for everyone it was promised to, but still worth celebrating, the way a promise not yet kept can still be worth waiting on and working toward.

This week we mark 250 years since this nation’s founding. I do not think the truest way to honor that anniversary is with either uncritical celebration or flat despair. I think it looks more like Hannah-Jones’s father, tending something worn and imperfect so that it could keep standing in the light, because he had decided the thing it pointed to was still worth fighting for.

Blessings,

Keith+

Dear Folks,

I am in the midst of further spiritual direction training, this time taking a deep dive in dream work. And for those who are interested, Thomasina Wharton and I will offer opportunities for your own exploration of dreams in the upcoming program year. Here are a few texts I will be reading this summer:

Dream Language: Self-Understanding Through Imagery and Color by Robert J. Hoss is a self-guided method for dream interpretation. It links dream imagery and color to waking life situations and brain activity and incorporates research on the neurobiology of dreaming. Contributions from 16 dream experts report on psychological and physical evidence that dreams create their own logic—operating not with words, but with visual images and colors.

Families and the Interpretation of Dreams: The intimate web by Edward Bruce Bynum. Dreams reveal and illuminate not only our personal unconscious, but also our shared experiences — especially our family life. Bynum explores the messages of our dreams as they relate to the intimate web connecting our parents and children, our spouses and lovers, our friends and the wider culture. Bynum explains how to identify dreams in which family themes play a role; how to understand their impact on one’s emotions, decisions, and even physical health; and how to discover the cultural images embedded within them.

Jungian Dream Interpretation, edited by James Hall. Dreams, called “God’s forgotten language” by some and “messages from the devil” by others, have long been seen as portents of the future. But the modern belief that dreams are intimately related to the personal psychology, attitudes and behavior patterns of the dreamer owes much to the pioneering work of Carl Jung, who showed that in dreams the unconscious comes vividly to life. This text is a comprehensive and practical guide to an understanding of dreams in light of the basic principles of Jung’s Analytical Psychology.

Belonging: Remembering Ourselves Home by Toko-pa Turner. Most people think of belonging as a mythical place, and they spend a lifetime searching for it in vain. But what if belonging isn’t a place at all? What if it’s a skill that has been lost or forgotten? Turner maps a path to belonging from the inside out. Drawing on myth, stories and dreams, she takes us into the origins of our estrangement, reframing exile as a necessary initiation into authenticity. And she further offers the competencies of belonging: a set of ancestral practices to heal our wounds and restore true belonging to our lives and to the world.

Archetypal Patterns in Fairy Tales by Marie Louise von Franz. This book features in-depth studies by Jungian analysts of six fairy tales—from Spain, Denmark, China, France and Africa, and one from the brothers Grimm—with references to parallel motifs in many others. Helpfully, Von Franz offers insights into cross-cultural motifs and individual psychology.

Saved by a Poem: The transformative power of words by Kim Rosen and Eve Ensler. Ensler and Rosen explore poetry as a vital tool for healing and self-discovery. It guides readers to experience poems not just as literature, but as sacred texts that provide solace, emotional clarity, and connection during difficult times.

If any of these books intrigue you, I’d love to hear about it, as well as your experiences with them.

Love,
David

Yesterday, I spent several hours in Room 320 of the Clarence M. Mitchell, Jr. Courthouse, answering the summons to jury duty. Alongside dozens of other Baltimoreans, I entered a space dedicated to the everyday work of democracy.

As we prepare to observe Juneteenth, I found myself reflecting on the significance of the experience. This holiday reminds us that freedom is both precious and hard-won – not merely something we possess, but something we practice.

What struck me most in the jury assembly room was the positive energy and diversity of neighbors gathered there – people from every walk of life, all saying “yes” to serving our community. Around me, people worked quietly on laptops, read books, shared kindnesses and conversations, and waited attentively for their turn to participate. It was a simple but powerful reminder that justice depends on ordinary people showing up for the common good.

One unexpected gift of the day was discovering an old work colleague in the courthouse line. What began as a chance encounter became a shared journey as we caught up on life’s joys and challenges over lunch. In many ways, the day echoed stories our returning pilgrims have shared about the Camino, where strangers become companions and ordinary moments become sacred encounters. In that courthouse room designed for waiting, I found the same.

Though I was not selected to serve on a jury, I left grateful for the experience. Looking around the room, I saw people gathered by a common purpose: the pursuit of fairness and justice. Our legal system is imperfect, yet it depends on citizens willing to participate. In the attentiveness of prospective jurors, the professionalism of court staff, and the hopes carried by everyone involved, I caught a glimpse of God’s presence.

Justice, after all, is not merely a legal concern; it is a spiritual one. The prophet Micah reminds us that God calls us “to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly” (Micah 6:8). Showing up for our communities is one way we participate in that calling.

As we celebrate Pride Month and Juneteenth, I find myself reflecting on a deeper freedom: the freedom God gives each of us to become who we were created to be. As our Singing Resistance song reminds us, “none of us are free until all of us are free.” Freedom flourishes when we seek justice, extend mercy, walk with our neighbors, and offer our gifts in service to the common good.

That is what I witnessed in the jury room: people from different walks of life participating in freedom together. There was justice in the purpose that brought us there, joy in the unexpected connections we shared, and a journey that reminded me how God meets us in ordinary places.

As we give thanks for the freedoms made possible by those who journeyed before us, where might God be inviting you to participate more fully in freedom?

Much love,

Anna

Two years ago, I had the distinct honor of driving the truck for the Cio’s Playhouse float in Baltimore’s Pride Parade.  Cio’s Playhouse is a nonprofit run by a good friend of mine that provides entertainment and community space for the Latino queer community in Baltimore.  All of their events are a blast, but driving the truck that day takes the torta.  It was amazing.

The truck was completely covered in rainbow flags.  DJ Shyboy, another friend and local DJ in the community, was blasting vibrant Latino beats in the bed of the truck, earphones on, shirt off.  Immediately behind the float was our planning group that had prepared everything for Pride, waving to the crowd that lined both sides of the road and filling the air with bubbles.  Behind them was a group of baile folkorico dancers twirling as their colorful dresses spun in suspense, hovering in mid-air.  Ahead of and behind us were over a hundred community groups representing themselves by putting their identities on full display and living who they are created to be to the fullest.  It felt like all of humanity was there, proud and celebrated for being themselves.

The following year, I walked in the Pride Parade with my Redeemer clergy colleagues, friends from our church community, as well as priests and parishioners from all over the Diocese.  And much like the year before, my eyes were filled with tears and my cheeks hurt from smiling.  It is such a joy to witness hundreds of people embracing who they are, living in the light, and being loved.

Bishop Gene Robinson once said, “I think there’s a terrible price to be paid when your exterior life is not an honest reflection of your interior life.”  My experience of the Pride Parade is that it helps me to avoid ever having to pay that price.  Seeing people who are gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, and every other experience of being queer leaning into their identities, proudly showing forth who they are as if they were glowing with divine love, and graciously being seen, known, loved, and celebrated precisely for being who they are.  Going to the Pride Parade helps me to reflect externally who I am internally.  And I believe that can be true for everyone.

Attending the Pride Parade is also an incredibly meaningful way to support, encourage, and lift up others who may be struggling to accept or reveal who they are.  As people who have lived in the secrecy of the closet, it matters to have people welcome us to the light when we’re ready to come out.  As people who have had to wonder if we would lose friends or relatives if they ever found out the truth about us, it matters to be known and embraced, even by strangers.  As people who have been told and maybe even believed that we have no place in church, or that we are disordered because of who we are attracted to, or that we are not capable of having a relationship with God; it matters to have people who tell us clearly and loudly that they love us.

If you’re free this Saturday, June 13 from 12:00 to 3:00, I want to invite you to join in the Pride Parade.  Unfortunately, I can’t make it, as I’ll be at a conference for Ignatian Spiritual Directors this weekend.  So please go in my stead!  I don’t think you’ll regret it.  Be the light that helps others know that they are loved.  Be the light that assures yourself that you are loved.  Be the light.  Be love.

Love,

Josh