There are so many bills moving through the Idaho State Legislature right now that it’s honestly hard to keep up. To date, there have been a total of 465 legislative bills and resolutions introduced this session. In just 7 weeks.

With a budget crisis, astronomical housing costs, and chronically low educational funding, you might expect the bulk of those bills to focus on the immense challenges we face.

You would be wrong.

There are moments in congregational life when something small reveals something much bigger.

During our Sabbath worship service at Southminster last weekend, the sanctuary went completely dark. Windows covered. Lights off. A holy hush. And then, under blacklight, the gospel began to glow.

What most of us saw was beauty and creativity. What many of us didn’t see were the hours (LOTS of hours!) spent beforehand: taping, draping, adjusting, re-taping, lighting, and rehearsing. The kind of quiet labor that makes it all possible.
​
It occurs to me that the Puppet Proclamation that night is a parable of what it is to be church together.

I woke up yesterday morning to heartbreaking messages out of Immokalee, Florida—eyewitness accounts and urgent posts from people I knew during my years there. Before the sun was up, immigration officers and state agencies were sweeping through farmworker neighborhoods. Mothers were taken. Fathers were taken. Kids were getting ready for school and didn’t know why their parents suddenly weren’t there.

Here's one of the early news reports, for broader context.

I’ve been reflecting a lot this week on how we respond, as people of faith, to yet another act of gun violence. It feels like these moments are never far from our headlines.

​Over the years, I’ve grown cautious about reshaping worship every time tragedy strikes. If I did, we’d find ourselves changing the liturgy nearly every week. Gun violence has become that frequent. That routine. That expected. And yet, even when I don’t rewrite the bulletin or throw out the sermon draft, I still carry the grief.

It always sneaks up on me.

I can go weeks without thinking about that time—those months a few years ago when life unraveled in ways I still struggle to put into words. Days pass with routine and normalcy. But suddenly, my chest tightens, my heart races, and panic sets in. Nightmares resurface. Old fears return like they’ve just been waiting for a quiet moment to pounce.

​Dear panic attack: hello, ol’ friend. I can’t say that I’ve missed you.

Over the weekend, we bought our sixth “half flat” of fresh berries at the farmers market. You know the kind—overflowing pints of strawberries, raspberries, blackberries, marionberries, boysenberries, and blueberries, each one practically glowing in the morning sun like they’d been hand-polished by angels on berry duty.

As soon as I bit into the first one, I said it out loud without even thinking: “Berries are proof that God exists.”

It was a joke. Sort of.

I keep a “to-done” list. That's not a typo. It’s a real thing, kept near my desk as a reminder of what really matters. It’s not the list of tasks I meant to get done. It's an example of the sorts of interruptions that likely happened instead.

The person who dropped by the church office just to talk for a few minutes. The book recommendation that arrived in my inbox when I didn’t have time for a new book. The task I hadn’t planned to do, but that suddenly presented itself and wouldn’t let go. The extra five minutes it took to stop and listen—or to laugh.

My to-do list is full of intention. My to-done list is full of grace. And more often than not, it’s that second list that turns out to matter more.

You've probably seen them around the Treasure Valley: the little signs in yards and windows that simply say, "Everyone is Welcome Here." They're about the size of a campaign sign, but they're not campaigning for anything. Not a candidate, not a ballot initiative, not a political party. They're not a protest sign or a piece of propaganda.

They're just a promise. A simple statement of shared human values: decency, hospitality, dignity. And although it's not intended to be a religious message, it is nevertheless a modern-day echo of spiritual teachings in the scriptures of almost every world religion. Welcome the stranger. Love our neighbor. Seek the image of the divine in every human being.

​Apparently, that's too much for some people.

There will be no comfort in saying “this isn’t who we are.”

We’ve said it too many times.

After every tragedy. After every policy that robs the poor to enrich the powerful. After every cruelty justified in the name of security or prosperity. After every moment our elected leaders make a mockery of the gospel – calling good what is evil, and evil what is good.

​We need to get comfortable with this fact: this is who we are. This is who we've always been.

We've reached the midpoint of the year. Perhaps you're as surprised as I am. Some days I find myself thinking that 2025 is painfully slow. Other days, I grieve at the quickening pace of anger, injustice, and outright change.

​Today, on the last day of the first half of this year, I found myself wanting to offer a simple blessing. Maybe you need it. I know I do.