Tag: spirituality

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Abiding in God: Navigating Trauma with Faith

Published on by The Rev. Jason A BurnsLeave a comment

As with the entire lectionary, the gospel passage for today is taken out of context. One might think that it comes after the resurrection since it is the 7th Sunday after Easter, but chronologically Jesus is still seated at the table with his disciples the night before he died. He is preparing them for his departure, yet he speaks as if it has already happened. The language of this passage switches back and forth between future and past tense as if time has no meaning—and truthfully, it doesn’t. In this moment, Jesus is standing firmly in the room with them, yet talking as though he has already left the world.

The primary theme of this passage is eternal life, but we need to let go of our definition of that term. We almost always think of eternal life within the context of death and resurrection, which is linear thinking. We treat it as something we experience far in the future, stretching out after we die, like a prize we win after we cross the finish line of death. But it isn’t in the future, and it also isn’t in the past; it is always. Eternal life is not a reference to what will be, it is a reference to what is. God is eternal, creation is eternal, and we are eternal; not in the sense that our physical bodies will live forever, but that our existence is not limited or defined by the short time we exist on earth. When Jesus says, “This is eternal life: that they may know you,” he is using the present tense. It is an immediate reality, a current state of being that we are invited into right now, right in the middle of our messy lives.

Throughout the gospel of John, we hear terms like “abiding” and “dwelling.” In the original language, both of these words denote patiently waiting, living permanently within a space, and thinking about something at length rather than rushing past it. It means refusing to run away when things get uncomfortable. All of these definitions combined still do not fully capture what it means to live eternally with God, but it is as close as we can come with our limited human understanding. These terms aren’t meant to be theological puzzles; they are meant to convey a tangible sense of calm, comfort, connectedness, and most importantly, inclusion. To abide means to rest in the certainty that you belong permanently and safely in the heart of God, no matter how chaotic the external world becomes.

Yesterday, some of us attended a seminar on trauma and the church’s role in addressing it, and the concepts there fit beautifully with this idea of abiding. We learned about a concept called the “window of tolerance.” This is a psychological state of being in which we are able to experience joy, compassion, connection, and curiosity, precisely because our nervous system is not overly taxed or triggered by trauma. When we are in this window, we are mentally, emotionally, and physically present. In a very real way, being inside this window is the real-world equivalent of what John calls abiding.

This is, of course, a state that is fluid. We can very easily slip out of this window into an altered state where it becomes difficult for us to function. On one side, when we are overwhelmed, we might shoot up into the “fight or flight” response where we become overly agitated, anxious, or angry. On the other side, we might drop down into the “freeze” response where we shut down, numb out, dissociate, and feel completely exhausted or disconnected.

When the trauma and stress of the world pull us out of our window of tolerance, we lose our capacity for connection and curiosity. We can’t “abide” because our bodies are stuck in survival mode, convinced we are under attack. Jesus knew the trauma his disciples were about to endure the very next day, which is exactly why he prayed so deeply for their protection and their unity. He knew they would need each other to stay grounded.

This is where the church’s role becomes so vital, when the church stops being just a social club or a lecture hall and becomes a sanctuary for holy regulation. When Jesus invites us to abide in him, he is inviting us back into that safe, regulated space. And when the church understands trauma, we can become a community that helps widen each other’s windows of tolerance. By offering a space that mimics God’s character—one of calm, predictability, safety, and unconditional inclusion—we help soothe each other’s overtaxed nervous systems. We pull people out of the isolation of shutdown, and we calm the panic of hyper-arousal. In doing so, we create a sanctuary where people can step out of the chaos of linear time, drop their defenses, and return to the quiet, grounding truth that they are already safely held in the eternal life of God.

Long story short, our liturgy is the thing that provides the predictability. It helps us provide a sense of calm, it is in this space that we need to leg go of the things from the outside world. We need to let go of the anger, we need to let go of things like bulletins not being printed correctly. We need to let go of other people’s opinions or what we think about them. And we just need to be present for each other and abide in God’s love, which is why we are here. Amen

Finding God in a Troubled World: Lessons from Micah and the Beatitudes

Published on by The Rev. Jason A BurnsLeave a comment

In the past few weeks, I have found it increasingly difficult to balance my emotions with my hopes for the world. As a history teacher I am acutely aware of the barbarity humanity has inflicted and continues to inflict on itself. Time and time again one group of humans has sought to declare themselves superior to others; we have created norms and laws that cement those beliefs, but over time those values bend, and ultimately break due to the strain placed on them by the people who resist the barbarity. I am not going to take us down the path of remembering what we have all learned in history class, instead I draw our attention to the words of Micah.

Micah was a prophet, his job was not to predict the future, but to point out where the Israelites had strayed from the path God has set before them. He begins by invoking creation, “Rise, plead your case before the mountains, and let the hills hear your voice” this is to remind us that creation has witnessed it all. It has witnessed the entirety of human history; it has witnessed our rejection of God’s call to love; it has witnessed our moments of tenderness and inclusion; it has witnessed the things God has done for their creation. Micah then reminds his readers of those very things, the release from Egyptian bondage, the sending of Moses, Aaron, and Miriam to help us understand the kind of society God desires for us. He protected us from the curses of enemies, by turning them into blessings. This heritage defines us as people of God; it tells us that from the beginning God has been and is present among their people. Micah ends by telling us something that would have been harder to hear in his time, he says that God doesn’t want us to bow before them; make burnt-offerings; pour out rivers of oil; or give up our first born for our sins. God has said, through Moses, through Aaran, through Miriam, and now through Micah that they want nothing more than for us to do justice, to be kind, and to walk with God in humility. The only sacrifice God requires is the sacrifice of sin because it is sin that stands in the way of justice and kindness and humility.

 Matthew is echoing the message of Micah in his recounting of the beatitudes. There are many ways to interpret these famous lines, but the one I like the most is that the first four remind us of the different and most common ways that humanity suffers. We endure sadness, we, at times, feel abandoned by God, we, at times, adopt a sense of helplessness in the face of apparent authority, all the while hoping it could be different, but not believing it could be. The last five lines point us to the very things Micah pointed to as things that God does and desires for us, mercy, humility, and justice. Collectively the beatitudes are a reminder that God is with us through it all and if we can hold on to that then the glory of God’s kingdom in heaven will be revealed, we will find comfort, our thirst for justice will be filled, and we will see God among us.

It is difficult to see God in the world right now. It is difficult to see them among us as children are traumatized by the arrest of their parents or even themselves; it is difficult to see God among us as faithful people are gunned down while seeking the very justice God asks us to pursue. It is difficult to see God among us as we fight over government spending, or policies designed to ensure that all people are treated justly and humanely. It is difficult to see God among us as our neighbors freeze to death because communities ‘can’t afford’ to provide a warm space. It is difficult to see God among us when every day there are multiple news story about the lack of Justus, the want of kindness, and absence of mercy, which is why I know I have been finding it difficult to balance my emotions with my hopes for the world; but hope is not lost.

Hope is not lost because history tells us that God’s love always wins over the sins of humanity. God’s people were freed from slavery, they were comforted, they received mercy, and their desire for justice was fulfilled and the same will be true again, but how does knowing this help us now?

A key and unspoken component of Micah’s message and the beatitudes is that we must believe that God’s vision and hope for creation is possible and we must accept that we as individuals are not the solution, but we are a part of it. Jesus called us to be the church, to be his body in the world. A body that is imbued with the power of the Holy Spirit and empowered by God to act in their name as we seek justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with them. Walking with God, means that we are walking with each other, it means that we are aware of each other’s plights and even if we can’t help each other solve our problems, we can at least make sure we don’t make things worse. Walking with God means seeking to comfort and protect the oppressed in the ways the oppressed ask us to; it means speaking out when our fellow human beings are putting their beliefs about the world ahead of the humanity of their neighbors; it means respecting the dignity of every human being by putting their humanity before our political, cultural, and economic motivated views of them as “the other”; it means stepping back from the fray and asking where God is and accepting that if we can’t answer that question then perhaps we are the problem because as followers of Christ Jesus where we go, God goes.

Clinging to God’s vision for creation, as best as we can perceive it; gathering as a community of faith to remind ourselves of God’s vision and command to love; and engaging in spiritual practices that remind us that God walks with us; and trusting that despite humanities best efforts to interfere with God’s plans, God always finds a way to work through us to bring an end to injustice. This was true in the time of Moses, in the time of Micah, in the time of Jesus, and it is true today. We need only believe that it is true and do our best to help or at least not get in the way. Amen.

How Faith and Mental Health Intersect

Published on by The Rev. Jason A BurnsLeave a comment

The human condition is fraught with struggle, though the nature of that struggle varies greatly. Some wrestle with basic necessities like food and shelter; others face what we call “first-world problems,” such as the cost of gas or reliable internet service. We are all aware of the many struggles people face—or are we? Perhaps we are only aware of the struggles we see, or the ones we choose to pay attention to. We notice the visible and the public, the hardships our neighbors share or that society measures and tracks. But there are other struggles—hidden ones—that remain unseen because they are quietly endured or purposefully concealed.

Did you know that over 102.5 million Americans—more than 30% of the population—struggle with mental illness each year, and only half of them seek treatment? “Mental illness” is a broad term encompassing mental, behavioral, or emotional disorders. It does not mean that 30% of the population live with severe conditions such as schizophrenia; very few do. Most experience some form of depression or anxiety, often without recognizing it or knowing what to do about it.

If you have never experienced depression or anxiety, allow me a moment to describe what it can feel like. When I was in my late twenties and early thirties, I was tired all the time. I didn’t want to attend events, see friends, or even play Legos with my kids. I wanted to curl up on the couch, get lost in television or books, and be left alone—yet I also longed for emotional connection. I couldn’t explain why I felt this way because I didn’t understand it myself. On top of the depression, I was living with undiagnosed anxiety. A simple note from my boss asking to see her could trigger a three-day, nonstop internal conversation ranging from “I’m about to be fired” to “It’s probably nothing,” and every possibility in between. My chest would tighten as if in a vise, or I’d have heartburn so severe I wondered if it was possible to replace my esophagus.

Through it all, I kept going to church, though even that began to feel empty. I struggled to understand why I no longer sensed the presence of God. At the same time, I was devouring every book I could find about God—and becoming increasingly angry. How could the Creator of the universe allow creation to destroy itself? Why did God seem so silent?

That struggle—to understand why I felt alone despite being surrounded by love, despite knowing that God loved me—was both painful and life-giving. As I sought medical treatment for my depression and anxiety, I also realized I was walking through a spiritual crisis—a dark night of the soul. Slowly, I began to see that my turmoil was not evidence of God’s absence but part of a process. God was using my pain to shape me, to call me, to show me that divine healing often happens through human hands. God calls doctors and researchers to develop medicines that ease mental suffering. God calls social workers, counselors, and pastors to walk beside those who suffer. God heals the world through the people God calls to serve.

Mental illness is prevalent among us, yet we rarely recognize it because those who live with it often become experts at hiding it. Only in recent decades has our culture begun to speak openly about it—and even then, much of that openness comes from those who do not experience it. Hiding our pain behind a façade is exhausting. It denies others the chance to love us as we are, and it can make it nearly impossible to believe that God loves us. If you cannot believe that your friends, family, or partner love you, how can you trust that God’s love is real?

In this way, the struggle with mental illness mirrors the struggle of faith. Jacob, too, was a deeply flawed man—he deceived his brother, cheated his father-in-law, to gain wealth and power. Yet Scripture tells us he was loved and blessed by God. His greatest struggle was spiritual, revealed in the mysterious night when he wrestled with God and received a new name. Israel—which in Hebrew means “one who struggles with God”—became not just Jacob’s name but the name of God’s people. The biblical nation of Israel is, at its heart, a community defined not by perfection, but by struggle.

This story reminds us that struggle is not the opposite of faith; it is often the birthplace of faith. When we wrestle with God, we are held in the tension between our weakness and God’s strength. That tension is not punishment—it is grace. It is through wrestling that we discover who we are and who God is. Jacob walked away from his encounter wounded yet blessed, forever changed. So too, our own wounds—emotional, mental, or spiritual—can become signs of encounter with the divine.

Depression, anxiety, grief, or despair are not signs of divine abandonment but invitations into deeper relationship. When we face the darkness within and refuse to let go until God blesses us, we participate in that same sacred struggle. God meets us not in our masks of composure but in our honesty, exhaustion, and raw humanity.

The incarnation itself reveals that our pain is not foreign to God. In Jesus, God wrestles with what it means to be human—even unto death—and transforms our suffering into resurrection hope. To live as Israel is to live as those who wrestle with God and yet cling to God. It is to trust that even in the depths of depression or anxiety, the wrestling itself can become holy ground. For it is there—in the night, in the uncertainty—that we find God not as the one who removes our struggle, but as the one who blesses us through it. What we do with that blessing is up to us, and it is my profound hope that the church continue on the path of making our communal spaces sanctuaries in the truest sense, spaces that truly welcome and protect all, including our siblings who hide their pain.