A New Chapter: Art, Adventure, and Invitation

The back yard at our new home in Ann Arbor, MI.

Greetings from Ann Arbor. Yes, you read it correctly. Emily and I have moved from Ohio to Michigan. As lifelong Buckeyes, it’s a big transition, but we were both ready for a big change.

After years of living with uncertainty and adapting to cognitive changes, we find ourselves in a season of renewal. What began as a journey of healing has evolved into something more — a new chapter filled with gratitude, creativity, and the opportunity to start anew. Together, we’ve embraced this unexpected gift and are stepping into it with open hearts.

Emily and I have been given the opportunity to enjoy retirement and have at least one more adventure. This past winter, we sat on the balcony of our rental apartment in Luquillo, Puerto Rico and talked about where we wanted to spend our next chapter. We actually made a matrix of what we wanted in a place to live and a list of potential cities and towns.

Ann Arbor came out on top of our list. This city of 125,000 has a major university, outstanding medical care, 162 parks, a great network of bike lanes and paths, a vibrant and walkable downtown, lots of independent restaurants, retailers and bookstores, fabulous art and music venues, progressive politics, inclusive faith communities, good public transportation (free to seniors), and easy proximity to an international airport, the Great Lakes, and three major cities (Detroit, Chicago and Cleveland).

After some exploration and input from friends, we discovered Newport West, a neighborhood of 100 homes surrounded by Bird Hills Nature Area, a 146-acre city-owned nature preserve and wild-life sanctuary.

Over the course of four weeks, we sold our Cleveland Heights house and purchased a condominium in Newport West. We moved in early June, placed the furniture, unpacked the essentials, and then for our 11th summer season at the Chapel of St. James the Fisherman in Wellfleet, MA. We will return to Ann Arbor in September and settle into our new home and new life. Emily and I are both feeling very grateful for the opportunity to have this new chapter. It’s a gift we weren’t expecting.

And to top it off, I have a photo exhibit at the Beck Center for the Arts (17801 Detroit Avenue, Lakewood, Ohio) running from August 30 to October 31. It will be a two-person show with Dante Rodriguez. There will be an artist reception and gallery talk on Friday, October 3, 6–7:30 pm.

My offering will feature Intersections, an interactive, multi-media altar, and Holy Ground, a 2005 composite reflection on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, as well as some new and not-so-new framed photos. If you’re in Cleveland, I hope you have the chance to see it, and I look forward to greeting you at the reception on October 3.

Till then, be well and stay strong.

No Place Like Home

Outer Cape Voices
August 31, 2025
First Congregational Church, Wellfleet, MA

It was the summer of 1976.  I was 22 years old; my father had just died; I was about to start a new job; my family was a mess; and I was angry, grief-stricken, and confused.  I only had a few days to get it together.  So, I got in my car—a Chevy Vega—with a sleeping bag, a Gulf Oil credit card, and $30 in my pocket.  At sunrise, I turned on the ignition, blasted the radio, backed out of my driveway in Columbus, Ohio, turned right onto the freeway, and drove east for 830 miles till I reached Land’s End, stopping only for gas, bathrooms, and bottles of Coke.  Like Maria, the main character in Joan Didion's 1970 novel, Play It as It Lays, I kept hard-boiled eggs on the passenger seat, which I could shell and eat while driving at seventy miles an hour.

I didn’t know anything about Cape Cod, except that the Pilgrims landed here.  I had never eaten a lobster, much less a clam, a scallop, a mussel, or an oyster.  Our fish came from a can or the frozen food section of the grocery store.  

I’ll never forget, after 14 hours on the road, driving along Rt. 6 with Pilgrim Lake, the Provincelands and the Atlantic ocean on my right and the bay with its seaside cottages on my left.  To this day, that view takes my breath away.  When I arrived at Race Point, I got out of my car, walked onto the beach and stood for a moment in awe, and then screamed at the blue sky, the rough sea and the gulfs flying above me.  Afterwards, I sat on a log and cried.  

A very kind man walked up and asked if I was all right.  I poured my heart out to this stranger.  He asked where I was planning to stay for the night.  I told him I had no idea.  He suggested that I could camp in the backyard of his family home in Wellfleet.   “Where’s Wellfleet?” I asked.  “You passed it on your way here,” he responded.  

What did I have to lose?  So I followed him back up Rt. 6 and we turned left onto Cahoon Hollow Road and then right onto a sand road that I can no longer find.  I parked in his driveway.  After introducing me to his wife, he showed me how to use the outdoor shower and led me to his backyard. 

I spent my first night on the Outer Cape sleeping under the stars.  The next morning, I got up and drove back to Ohio to start my new job, promising myself that one day I would return.

The following summer, I returned to the Cape for a week in Provincetown.  Perhaps I forgot to mention that part of my confusion was that I was coming out.  Like other lesbians and gay men of my generation, I had joined a minority group overnight, and now I had to figure out how I was going to manage this new identity.   

So, of course, I headed to Ptown, the Mecca of the LGBTQ community.   As a young, newly minted lesbian feminist, I was in heaven.  For one glorious week, I walked up and down Commercial Street, sunbathed topless at Herring Cove, ate at Spiritus Pizza and the Old Reliable Fishhouse, danced at the Pied Piper, and listened to live music at the Crown and Anchor.  And of course, I shopped at Womencrafts, purchasing the obligatory t-shirt, along with a Rita Mae Brown novel and a Meg Christian album.  I was now ready to face my midwestern world with my newfound status.

I returned to Provincetown year after year, staying in various places until I found my shack on the harbor, which I rented from an old Portuguese woman for a couple of summers for the extraordinary sum of $500 a month.  I read that it was rented last summer for $13,500 a month.

A lot of important things happened in PTown: I gave my heart away, I discerned my vocation, I discovered women’s music, and I became a photographer.  For many summers, I didn’t feel the need to venture beyond Herring Cove and Commercial Street.  

But then, during the summer of 1982, my dear friend Annamarie Pluhar invited me to her grandmother’s house off of Black Pond Road.  I can still recall driving my low-to-the-ground Chevy Vega up her long driveway, going as fast as I could so as not to get stuck in the sand.  I’ll never forget the look and smell of that beautiful gingerbread house in the woods — a living room lined with shelves overflowing with books, interesting art on the walls, and a simple kitchen with a big wooden table.  Then we walked a path lined by poison ivy to the road by Horse Leech Pond and climbed the dune to her beach.  And I knew that I had come home.  This place is where my soul was born.

I’ve never been able to buy a house on the Outer Cape.  It’s always been beyond my reach.  But, I’ve been here the majority of summers of my adult life, visiting, renting, or working in exchange for housing in various locations.  I sheltered from Hurricane Bob in an apartment on the west end of Commercial Street. Over the years, I’ve stayed in a beautiful cape on Old Chequesset Neck Road, a rooftop retreat near Lt. Island, a cabin close to Gull Pond, a cottage on Drummer’s Cove, a sea captain’s house on Holbrook, and now in the lovely home of former parishioners near Duck Pond. These houses — and others whose locations I can’t remember — are regularly featured in my dreamscapes. 

I’ve hiked many trails and biked many back roads.  I’ve swum in most of the ponds.  I’ve kayaked and sailed in the harbor.  I’ve caught strippers and bluefish in the bay.  I’ve body surfed in the ocean.  I’ve dug for clams and hunted for oysters.  I’ve watched sunrises, sunsets and meteor showers on the beach.  

Driving across the bridge every June, I sing “Old Cape Cod,” an earworm that stays with me until we depart in the fall.  Though I’ve always been a summer resident, when I pack up and leave in September, my soul remains.  

Twelve years ago, I was invited to become the priest at St. James the Fisherman, an Episcopal summer church, located on the hill above the Post Office and WHAT.  For over a decade, my wife, Emily, and I have been “official” summer residents of Wellfleet, complete with our beach/dump sticker.  

I preach, teach, lead worship, and serve as a pastor in exchange for a place to live.  My friends call me “The Vicar of All Wellfleet” with an emphasis on ”all.”  

It’s been a dream come true.  Can I really call pastoral conversations work when they’re done over morning coffee, a golf game, or a walk on the beach?  I never tire of climbing the beautiful path to church on Sunday mornings, or standing in the pulpit or at the altar in my flip-flops.  And, I get to invite colleagues to spend the weekend and be guest preachers.  Most of the time, it doesn’t feel like work; instead, it’s like a gift that makes me pinch myself in delight.

The Chapel of St. James the Fisherman is an icon of the Cape Modern House movement.  Designed by the late Olaf Hammerstrom, nothing inside has changed since its construction in 1956.  It’s holy ground, a thin place - a simple building with a simple table on a beautiful hillside on a spit of land sticking out into the sea.  

For nearly seventy years, people have worshiped in this space.  We convene in June, gather throughout the summer, and then disperse in September.   We worship in shorts and sandals.  We have meaningful conversations on the patio.  We sing accompanied by a piano that, although it lives in an unheated building during the winter, miraculously holds its tune during the summer.  We enjoy Oreos and fruit punch at coffee hour, except for once a year — on the Feast of St. James — when we have oysters and champagne.  And on that feast day, we read a necrology of all the people who have worshiped in this chapel since its beginning.  The names are a map of Wellfleet: Melville, Marshall, Thaler, Mayo, Holbrook, Newcomb, Arnold, Oliver, and Hatch, and a history of summer and winter people: Ketchum, Walters, Glowacki, Douglass, Gatch, Porteus, Pike, Smith and Coburn; along a multitude of those who now reside on a distant shore.

The St. James' congregation (like the rest of Wellfleet) is a mix of Fleetians, wash-a-shores, summer residents, seasonal workers, vacationers, and day-trippers.  None of us claims ownership of the Chapel; all of us, no matter how long we’ve worshiped here, are merely guests and stewards of this simple structure built on a fragile hillside.

Perhaps, that’s the truth of our theme tonight - “No place like home.”  None of us can claim ownership of the Outer Cape. Regardless of how long we’ve lived here, we are all guests and stewards of this place.“This land belongs to the creatures of sea and sky — the fish, the sharks, the birds, the flies, ticks, and bees — and to the commons we call creation.”

I’m a summer resident, and that's what I’ll be until I’m not.  But this I know.  When my body is elsewhere, my soul remains here.  And, as Thoreau once wrote: “We are not all wreckers contriving that some treasure may be washed up on our beach, that we may secure it . . . ” Some of us, like me, will always be the ones who arrive in June and leave in September so that those of you who live here year-round may enjoy the quiet without us.  Just remember, that it’s still a place that we — summer people — call home.

Whatever Happened to Tracey?

In the fall of 2022, I began to feel like my brain was starting to heal. I still had some cognitive limitations, including memory, language, balance, and executive function issues. However, I was clearly doing better. I knew and understood my limitations, and I had developed strategies and coping mechanisms. I had become mindful about sleep, diet, exercise, and stress management. I was intentional about trying to learn new things and get enough social interaction. I was reading again and had let go of my need to remember what I had read. I was still curious, open, and honest about my disease. In short, I had come to understand how I had to live, and if I stayed in my lane, I could manage a life interrupted by dementia.

While I was thriving and flourishing, I was confused. Did I still have Frontotemporal Degeneration? Had I been misdiagnosed? Had I arrested and reversed my disease? I needed to know.

My neurologist was retiring from clinical practice and referred me to his successor. I made an appointment to see him. He was gracious and receptive. For nearly one and a half hours, he listened as Emily and I shared our journey of the last six years. After asking thoughtful questions and doing some basic neuro-psych tests, he suggested a new brain scan. I agreed. The doctor reviewed the scan with us and said that my disease had apparently stopped progressing. He had compared earlier scans with the new ones and could see very little difference. He said there was deterioration, but it hadn’t continued as FTD generally does.

He then asked about what happened just before I started noticing my cognitive decline. Had I been sick or hit my head in a fall or accident? I told him that I had, in fact, been very ill in the winter of 2016. I had an extremely high fever, a severe headache, and neck pain for several days. Finally, I called my internist, who said, “Tracey, I think you might have meningitis. You need to get to the hospital right away.” I went to the hospital and was tested for meningitis. It was negative, but my symptoms persisted, so I was admitted and treated for what they thought was “community-acquired viral pneumonia.”

Upon hearing this story, the neurologist paused and said something like, “Thanks to Covid, we’ve learned a lot about viral infection and brain health. Here’s what I think might have happened. While we can’t be certain, you might have had an ‘acute, prolonged, post-infectious encephalitis’ caused by the virus and fever you acquired in the winter of 2016. It had all of the characteristics and symptoms of FTD. Thus, the doctors diagnosed it to the best of their ability. However, FTD is progressive, and since you are no longer progressing, but in fact, are now getting better, you might not have FTD.” He continued. “There is clearly damage to your brain, which has resulted in some cognitive decline, but you’re doing really well. Furthermore, you’ve done everything that we recommend and more to slow and reverse the progress of dementia. Maybe it’s working.”

I think it is working. Two years later, I’m convinced that my brain is even better. And others have seen the change. Call it a remission, a healing, or a misdiagnosis – I don’t really care. I’m profoundly grateful for this new chapter and intend to fully claim its blessings.

The Altar of Intersections

The Altar of Intersections will open March 17, click for details.
Above: Rev. Tracey Lind at Foothills Gallery exhibit, Sept. 2020

As an Episcopal priest, I have lived at the center of an established church and a privileged society.  Yet in my very being, as a child of an interfaith marriage, a lesbian, and one who has spent a great deal of time with the homeless, I belong to the edge, to the fringe, to the people who are never certain if, when or where they fit into the great scheme of things. Staying close to the edge, I see all kinds of things that I couldn’t see if I only lived in the center of safety and privilege.

A journalist once asked me what it is like to live with what she called “double vision.”  Living in the center but being drawn to the borderlands and boundary waters of the margins, I have come to see the truth of life in various shades of gray.  There is no black and white.  Nothing is absolute, and there is always an opportunity for something new to emerge in the darkness and the light.  As a person of faith, I have searched for the truth, beauty, possibility, and good news within these paradoxes.

I carry my double vision into my photography.  Photography is a way to distance myself enough to see what is happening.  When I examine life through the eye of a camera, I am forced to step back, slow down, focus, and become deeply attentive to the situation.  Looking through my viewfinder, I can’t allow myself to focus on simply what lies in the middle of the frame; I must explore the circumference, the corners, and the edges, to really see the entire situation.

Intersections is a collection of photos from 1992 to 2022 that explores some of these paradoxes.  They reflect the intersection of urban violence and decay, conflict in the Holy Land, the immigrant crisis in America, the worldwide COVID-19 pandemic, institutional racism, homophobia, and anti-semitism — issues that have been at the heart of my vocation for the past fifty years.  

I pondered and prayed over these particular images, knowing I needed to share them as a group, but I didn’t know how.  Recently, I realized that, together, they comprise the altar of my heart and soul, so I decided to present them as an altarpiece.

What is an altar?  

It’s where we experience the sacred and the holy, often in community, but sometimes in solitude.  Altars are places of ritual, sacrifice, and even violence. Altars are traditionally found in houses of worship, but they can also be discovered in the middle of cities and towns, on the beach, in the woods, along a lonely path or a well-traveled highway.  Often we don’t even notice them.

An altarpiece is a decorative art object — a painting, sculpture, or carving representing a religious subject placed on or behind an altar. 

These double-sided images form an interactive altarpiece. Each image is printed on inkjet paper, then sealed onto roughly painted wood blocks, mounted on metal stands, and separated by plumbing hardware. Thank you to my friend and fellow artist Maryann Breisch, who created the altar frontal and backdrop made of muslin and erosion cloth to set the stage for my collection.

Please rotate the images and see how they connect and communicate.  And, if you are so moved, say a prayer for the world while you’re at it. 

The Places You Will Go in Your Discipleship

Photo by Tracey Lind, Cleveland, June 2013

In this morning’s gospel reading, we encounter Jesus and his disciples as they enter an inhospitable village on the road to Jerusalem. Our patron James and his brother John, affectionately known as the Sons of Thunder, asked Jesus: “Lord, do you want us to command fire to come down from heaven and consume them?” Jesus answered: “No, you idiots – Just kick off the dust and keep walking.”

How many times did Jesus have to explain to his disciples that violence and retribution were not his way? Jesus’ approach was both counter-cultural and demanding, especially for his disciples. That’s why Dietrich Bonhoeffer spoke of the Christian faith as “costly grace.”

Think about his response to three people whom he met on the road that day. To the one who said, “I will follow you wherever you go,” Jesus reminded him that he would face a life of homelessness and insecurity. To the two who wanted to follow him but first had to take care of family obligations, Jesus expressed the urgency of carpe diem, insisting that there was no time for looking back.

To all who wanted to follow Jesus on his earthly mission, he demanded total commitment. This was not the sort of “family values'' we often hear proclaimed in the name of Jesus. He was creating a different configuration of family, community and society. Scripture tells us that some followed and others declined his invitation; some fell away and others were left behind.

As our friend and chapel member Peter Olsen wrote in this past week’s post on his blog entitled Peter’s Outer Cape Portico, Jesus’ words to these “would be followers” wasn’t intended to be a rejection or a reflection on their character; nor was he suggesting that they would be excluded from God’s commonwealth of love. Jesus was just telling them that they were not ready to be his disciples; they weren’t prepared to make the sacrifices required to proclaim in word and action the good news of God’s reign on earth, or in Peter’s words, “to begin living into that reign in the midst of a world hostile to it.”

Radical discipleship and costly grace didn’t begin with Jesus. In the Hebrew Scriptures, the prophets Elijah and Elisha demonstrated the kind of discipleship loyalty of which Jesus spoke. Last Sunday, we read how Elijah was willing to die for the cause, and this week we read about how his disciple Elisha burned his plow, slaughtered his oxen, fed his family, and then followed Elijah a nonsensical journey of danger and sacrifice. When Elijah was on his deathbed, his disciple Elisha asked for a “double portion” of his teacher’s spirit.

But then, after performing his first miracle (purifying water for a thirsty community), Elisha blew it. A group of little boys called him baldie, and he commanded fire to come down from heaven and consume them. Obviously, this new prophet had a lot to learn - just like James and John. But in the end, Elijah, Elisha, Jesus and the Sons of Thunder set their faces toward Jerusalem.

As I reflected on this morning’s lectionary, I am reminded of the book, Oh, The Places You’ll Go. Despite the cultural controversy over Dr. Seuss’ outdated and sometimes insensitive caricatures and stereotypes of racial, ethnic, cultural and gender differences, and despite current opinion that there are far better books to give highschool graduates, I still think Dr. Seuss has some value on the shelves of our lexicon. For, with the wisdom of the ages, in his last book, Dr. Seuss talks about what happens when we turn our faces towards Jerusalem. He writes:

We’ll come to places where the road is not marked
to places where the road becomes very dark
And when we do, we’ll get confused and we might get stuck
And then we’ll wait until we can make our great escape
Sometimes we’ll find ourselves leading the band
as the drum major and other times,
We’ll be a lone drummer
Some places we go will be very scary
and problems very big
But eventually,
we’ll get where we’re supposed to.

One of the things upon which Holy Scripture and Dr. Seuss agree is that it’s never a straight line from point A to point B. The road to Jerusalem is full of dangerous curves and sharp turns.

Photo by Tracey Lind, The Camino de Santiago, 2009

As I learned walking the Camino de Santiago, when we’re in the middle of a tough part of the road - when we seem like we’ve lost our way and we’re roaming about in the wilderness of a detour - we tend to forget that this is still part of the journey.

For better or worse, the Bible is compressed and succinct. We don’t get a lot of descriptive details about the lives and experiences of our biblical ancestors. We don’t hear much about the detours on the road. We don’t read a lot about Moses’ time living in exile with Jethro, or David’s youth as a shepherd boy; and we are not told much about the first thirty years of Jesus’ life, James and John’s work as commercial fisherman, or Paul’s vocation as a tentmaker.

I always wonder what those hidden years were like. What were their struggles, questions, and failures? What were their curves and obstacles on the road? What were their detours and stuck places?

Paulo Coelho, one of Latin America’s most popular writers, imagines the struggles of Elijah’s untold journey in his book The Fifth Mountain. It is the story of the prophet’s time with the widow of Zarephath.

According to The Fifth Mountain, a lot happens in three years. Elijah took up carpentry. He fell in love with the widow and helped to raise her son. The leaders of the city tried to kill him. The Assyrians sacked the city. Elijah helped to rebuild the city and its people. And then, setting his face toward Jerusalem, he returned to Israel. Just before departing, Elijah - who had, after the siege of Zarephath claimed a new name, Liberation - took the widow’s son alone into the wilderness. And, on the top of what was known as the Fifth Mountain, he spoke these words:

I cannot forget my name [Liberation]. I must continue with my task. That was why [our city] was rebuilt, to teach us that it is necessary to go onward, however difficult it may appear…

Tomorrow, when I depart for Jerusalem, my sadness [in leaving] will not have the strength it had before, and little by little it will disappear. Sadness does not last forever when we walk in the direction of that which we always desired.

“Is it always necessary to leave?” asked the boy.

It’s always necessary to know when a stage of one’s life has ended. If you stubbornly cling to it after the need has passed, you lose the joy and meaning of the rest. And you risk being shaken to your senses by God.

”The Lord is stern,” said the boy.

”Only with those God has chosen,” replied the prophet.

Image by Tracey Lind, Wellfleet, August 2017

Jesus said, “Many are called; few are chosen.” Accepting the call to discipleship isn’t easy. When we hear the inner voice and answer the call of our heart, we often leave behind the comforts of home, bid farewell to family and friends, forfeit one’s own freedom for what Paul calls “Christ-freedom.”

Think for a moment about how you’ve followed such a call in your life. Who and what have you left behind? What comfortable habits have you forfeited? What familiar roads have you turned off? What detours have you taken? How have you traded your freedom for a higher calling? For most of my active ministry, I was a witness for peace, justice and inclusion, and at times, it was painful and costly. After visiting Nicaragua and El Salvador during the 1980’s Contra War, I preached about the gospel at work in that revolution, and I was called naive. During the Episcopal Church’s 1995 heresy trial, I spoke up as an openly gay priest, and I received a lot of push back and hate, including a couple of death threats. I even got kicked out of the local clergy association and was condemned by “colleagues” with whom I had worked side-by-side for many years. After 911, I invited a local imam to read from the Koran during Sunday worship, and some parishioners got upset and withdrew their pledges. As a nominee during more than one bishop’s election, I spoke up for open communion, and it didn’t go over very well. And a few years before retiring, I joined with other ecumenical leaders in blessing an abortion clinic and was publicly reprimanded by my bishop. In all of those instances, I was disheartened. I once shared my frustration and loneliness with a colleague who responded: “What do you expect? You follow and serve in the name of a guy who was crucified.” In a strange way, that remark gave me some comfort and reassurance.

Walking the way of Jesus in what is an increasingly polarized society is complicated. And it’s at the heart of so many political debates. For instance,

Should local school boards arm teachers and fund complex and expensive security systems to “harden” our schools, or should our government enact legislation that will actually reduce gun violence?

Should state legislatures seek to reverse gay marriage or deny the right of LGBTQ+ youth to be themselves, or should they affirm loving relationships and protect all of God’s children, even at the discomfort of those who don’t understand sexual identity and gender difference?

Should our country build bigger and better walls at our borders, or should Congress hammer out an immigration policy that welcomes the stranger at our gates and receives their gifts and talents?

Should our nation abolish women’s reproductive choice, or should we honor a woman’s stewardship of her own body and figure out how to live with the ambiguity about when human life begins?

How is a follower of Jesus called to respond to these provocative and divisive issues at the forefront of our national debate? Do we keep silent in order to maintain the status quo; do we trust that it will all work out; do we give in to the myth that we can’t affect change; or do we speak up at the risk of anger, rejection, and possibly harm? In short, will we be bystanders or upstanders?

In the last few days, the public tension over the social issues of our day has increased ten-fold and the stakes have gotten more serious. Within hours of the Supreme Court decision on Roe v. Wade, my home state of Ohio enacted the heartbeat bill, which outlaws abortion (with no exceptions) at six weeks - often before a woman even knows she is pregnant. Two weeks ago, our state legislature passed a bill to allow open carry without a permit or background check. Legislation has been introduced that would ban teaching about sexual orientation, gender identity and critical race theory in public schools. And, as we speak, there is now a bill in the state legislature that in an effort to block transgender girls from playing on female sports teams, says if a participant’s sex is disputed, she must verify her sex with a physician by an examination of her reproductive anatomy, a test of her testosterone levels, and an analysis of her genetic makeup. Ohio was once a moderate, bell-weather state that is now turning well to the right, and it’s not alone.

The public debate is very heated on a number of different fronts, and it’s frightening for many of us as we fear the reversal of civil liberties, environmental rights and economic justice. But, what if this dark place is a detour in our country’s journey as a land of welcome, freedom and liberty for all? What if you and I are being called by God to help get us back on the path towards justice, inclusion and equity?

As you ponder your response to my questions, I encourage you to recall your baptismal vow to “strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being.” In doing so, you might just have to be an upstander.

Just remember, Jesus never promised his followers that discipleship would be without cost. After all, we follow a leader who was rejected, arrested and executed. But he did rise again!

Photo by Tracey Lind, February 22, 2020