family life

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Concerning that Ash Wednesday exit interview by former Sen. Ben Sasse

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Concerning that Ash Wednesday exit interview by former Sen. Ben Sasse

On his 54th birthday, former U.S. Senator Ben Sasse of Nebraska was given a cake that proclaimed, "Happy last Birthday Ben!"

"I have the best friends," the senator wrote on February 22, his smiling face weary from chemotherapy as he held the cake in a social media post.

Two days before Christmas, Sasse released a letter stating, "Last week I was diagnosed with metastasized, stage-four pancreatic cancer, and am gonna die." He recently offered an update in a Hoover Institution interview timed for Ash Wednesday, when millions of Christians are marked with an ash cross on their foreheads, while hearing: "Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return."

In December, doctors said he may have 90 days to live, which means he may not make it through Lent to Easter, which falls on April 5 this year, in Western churches.

Peter Robinson, host of the "Uncommon Knowledge" interview series, asked: "Instead of withdrawing from the world, you are throwing all that you have left into it. How come?"

"I'm with Paul when he says, 'To live is Christ, to die is gain,' " said Sasse, quoting the Epistle to the Philippians. "Obviously, death is a wicked thief. I don't want it to happen, but we're mortals. …

"We don't build any storehouses that last. The things that matter and endure are human souls. … We should be neither triumphalists nor despairing. Nothing we build is going to last, but that doesn't mean nothing matters. The chance to love your neighbor and serve is a blessing."

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Gov. Bill Lee of Tennessee offers a testimony on grief and renewal (with no politics)

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Gov. Bill Lee of Tennessee offers a testimony on grief and renewal (with no politics)

There was nothing unusual about Tennessee Gov. Bill Lee meeting with Jelly Roll before pardoning him for the felony robbery and drug-related crimes in his past.

What the governor didn't realize was that they had met years earlier, when Lee offered a prison testimony about the impact of grief on his family. That audience included the future country-music superstar.

At the recent National Prayer Breakfast, Lee said the man previously known as Jason DeFord told him: "You don't remember me, but we met in 2008. …You were not the governor, and I was not Jelly Roll. And here we are, 17 years later."

Lee said his Jelly Roll reunion reminded him of truths he learned after his wife's fatal horse-riding accident in 2000.

"There are very few things in life that matter and we should be about them," he said. "I have a belief that within every human being, there's this innate sense that we all need a pardon. And there is only one who can grant that pardon, and He has to be asked. … His name is Jesus."

The governor was asked to be the keynoter on one day's notice. His testimony contrasted sharply with the politically charged atmosphere in recent prayer breakfasts. In fact, there are now two competing events, with many lawmakers attending a smaller U.S. Capitol event.

News after the larger Washington Hilton rite focused on President Donald Trump's claim that, "I've done more for religion than any other president," referring to his actions on religious-freedom issues at home and abroad.

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Philip Yancey is, once again, counting on the mercy and grace of God

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Philip Yancey is, once again, counting on the mercy and grace of God

Asked to judge a woman "caught in the act of adultery," the Gospel of John says Jesus stooped, wrote something in the dust, then told her accusers: "Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her."

Then he wrote again. The silent religious leaders drifted away. What happened next sums up Christian teachings on sin, grace and forgiveness, according to Philip Yancey, long one of America's most popular evangelical writers.

Jesus asked the woman: "Didn't even one of them condemn you?" She said, "No, Lord," to which he replied, "Neither do I. Go and sin no more."

Fundamentalist preachers often portray God as a "cosmic policeman, someone who was just waiting to smash somebody who does something wrong," said Yancey, during a podcast with the Rev. Russell Moore, editor-at-large of Christianity Today.

That's wrong, said Yancey. Instead, church leaders should, "Start with Jesus and end with Jesus. … Jesus wasn't a pushover, by any means, but he was always full of compassion. … He never turned someone away who had an attitude of repentance."

Yancey has repeatedly delivered this message during a half century of addressing Christian denominations, colleges and myriad other gatherings. His books, such as "The Scandal of Forgiveness," have sold 20 million copies in 49 languages.

But the Moore podcast, on "The Problem of Pain and Suffering," was posted only four months before Yancey, 76, announced his retirement -- due to an eight-year sexual relationship with a married woman.

"My conduct defied everything that I believe about marriage. It was also totally inconsistent with my faith and my writings and caused deep pain for her husband and both of our families," wrote Yancey, to Christianity Today, where he was a columnist for decades.

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"Why, oh God, why?" The question former Sen. Ben Sasse could have asked

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"Why, oh God, why?" The question former Sen. Ben Sasse could have asked

It's the question believers have asked for centuries when wars threaten nations, storms ravage cities and diseases strike loved ones: "Why, oh God, why?"

Former U.S. Senator Ben Sasse of Nebraska, 53, elected not to ask that question in an X post just before Christmas that said: "I'll cut to the chase: Last week I was diagnosed with metastasized, stage-four pancreatic cancer, and am gonna die.

"Advanced pancreatic is nasty stuff; it's a death sentence. But I already had a death sentence before last week too -- we all do. I'm blessed with amazing siblings and half-a-dozen buddies that are genuinely brothers. As one of them put it, 'Sure, you're on the clock, but we're all on the clock.' Death is a wicked thief, and the bastard pursues us all."

Sasse served as a Republican senator from 2015 until his resignation in 2023, when he became president of the University of Florida. He left that job in July 2024, after his wife, Melissa, was diagnosed with epilepsy, while also wrestling with memory issues.

Before reaching the Senate, Sasse taught at the University of Texas, served in the Department of Health and Human Services for President George W. Bush and was president of Midland University in Fremont, Nebraska. Sasse has a Yale University doctorate in history and has written bestsellers such as "The Vanishing American Adult."

The timing of the Sasse announcement was more than symbolic, said Daniel Darling, director of the Land Center for Cultural Engagement at Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary. Sasse noted that he was writing at the end of the Advent season, with its message of Christmas hope for this life and the next.

"To many, this may come across as pie-in-the-sky, a comforting myth that helps you get away from the cold, hard reality of death," wrote Darling, in The Dispatch. "But Christians really believe there is another world coming, that this broken reality will give way to a world made right by the one who made it."

Thus, Sasse's letter is important in an age in which "tech entrepreneurs publicly muse about transhumanist utopias" and some politicos embrace "the advancing Orwellian horror of 'death with dignity.'"

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Looking back at "Old Christmas" traditions in the mountains of southern Appalachia

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Looking back at "Old Christmas" traditions in the mountains of southern Appalachia

Candles in farmhouse windows can shine a long way on dark nights in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

That light was especially symbolic at Christmas, when settlers in frontier Appalachia -- many of them Scot-Irish -- faced hard journeys on rough roads and trails through terrain crisscrossed with mountain ridges and valleys cut by rivers and creeks.

"There was a real sense of community building that occurred during the Christmas celebration across Appalachia," said historian Ted Olson of the Appalachian Studies department at East Tennessee State University in Johnson City. "Before automobiles, travel would be on foot or horseback or in wagons. It was difficult to travel through winter conditions, with snow and ice and whatnot to visit kith and kin. …

"The candles would invite people in, suggesting that the flame of spiritual renewal is alive in this house. They said, 'Please join us! … You are welcome. We are all fellow Christians celebrating these sacred days together.'"

On the High Plains and in many frontier regions, farmers often lived great distances from one another. The distances were shorter in the "Southern Highlands" of Virginia, Kentucky, Tennessee and North Carolina, but the terrain was treacherous. It might take two or three days to visit extended family or a nearby town with stores, a doctor and other necessities.

Many frontier churches welcomed occasional visits by circuit-riding preachers, and an Irish Catholic family would almost certainly be living far from a priest. Travelers on mountain roads, especially in winter storms, needed safe shelter. During the 12 days the Appalachian people called "Old Christmas," having relatives, neighbors and travelers at the door singing carols captured the essence of the season, noted Olson, author of the book "Blue Ridge Folklife," and a poet, musician and photographer.

Visitors could shout "Christmas gift," since the hosts would be prepared to offer them small gifts to show they were welcome, perhaps an orange, some candy, a decorated pinecone or something else gathered from nature.

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The convert era: What will Orthodox America look like in 2040 (Part II)

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The convert era: What will Orthodox America look like in 2040 (Part II)

The Orthodox baptism rite includes a three-stage exorcism that is extremely detailed about the spiritual warfare that surrounds new Christians.

Finally, there is this appeal to God: "Redeeming this Your creature from the yoke of the Enemy, receive him (her) into Your heavenly Kingdom. … Yoke unto his (her) life a shining Angel to deliver him (her) from every plot directed against him (her) by the Adversary, from encounter with evil, from the noon-day demon, and from evil dreams. Drive out from him (her) every evil and unclean spirit, hiding and lurking in his (her) heart."

The "Enemy" is Satan. Catechumens are asked, three times: "Do you renounce Satan, and all his works, and all his worship, and all his angels, and all his pomp?" They respond: "I do renounce him."

After several years of conversations while travelling nationwide, Father Andrew Stephen Damick is convinced these ancient prayers are painfully relevant to many converts surging into the small, but now growing, "Eastern Church" in America. It is no longer unusual to meet converts who have worshipped other gods and spirits.

"There's a sense of disenchantment, both in the sense of people feeling disillusioned and sort of bummed by the culture in general, but also disenchantment in the sense of a disconnection from the unseen spiritual world," said Damick, of the online Ancient Faith Ministries.

The converts want stability and guidance. Damick, via Zoom, stressed that many have "experienced the darkness of the unseen spiritual world and want to know what to do about that."

During a recent online forum -- "American Orthodoxy in 2040" -- Seraphim Rohlin, a data scientist who is also a deacon in the Orthodox Church in America, described a survey of converts in the Dallas area. As expected, 50% were former evangelicals, but 25% were former Catholics and 25% were truly "unchurched," including some neopagans. After a surge of young male converts, Orthodox leaders are now tracking a larger wave of young families.

As with many faith groups, some Orthodox parishes declined during the coronavirus pandemic. Other parishes stalled. Still, there have been pockets of Orthodox growth across the nation, even in areas with plateaued or declining population numbers. The biggest surge is in the Sun Belt and West, with numerous parishes doubling and tripling in size.

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Ancient churches of Orthodoxy are being flooded with American converts (Part I)

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Ancient churches of Orthodoxy are being flooded with American converts (Part I)

For Orthodox Christians in America, the 20th century was shaped by waves of believers fleeing wars, revolutions and persecution in lands such as Greece, Syria, Russia and Romania.

The Orthodox did everything they could to preserve their faith and cultural traditions. When bishops visited these small flocks, it was rare to see converts.

Then, in the late 1980s, flocks of evangelical Protestants swept into the Antiochian Orthodox church and then the Orthodox Church in America, which has Slavic roots. These converts began reaching out to others. Then came the seeker-friendly Internet. Then came COVID. Suddenly, streams of young families began exploring what was often called the mysterious, ancient "Eastern Church."

"Some observers liken this influx to a flood, and the comparison is accurate. I do not visit a parish without meeting catechumens there. In some parishes, they number more than 100," said Metropolitan Saba, leader of the Antiochian Orthodox Christian Archdiocese of North America, in a recent Denver address.

"While many long-standing believers see in the converts a source of renewal and vitality -- and a spur to discover their own Orthodoxy personally and deeply, not merely as a social religious tradition -- many also feel somewhat threatened by the cultural changes occurring in their parish."

In a survey of his priests, Saba said, one wrote: "The century of the 'church of immigrants' has ended; the century of evangelization has begun. Orthodoxy's mission is no longer primarily geographical … but existential."

Orthodox Christianity remains a small flock in America, with 2-3 million believers in 2,000 parishes. The Pew Research Center has estimated that, globally, there are 260 million Orthodox Christians, the next largest communion after the Catholic Church with 1.4 billion.

The bottom line: The catechumenate class numbers are staggering.

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What is "success" for modern pastors working in a stressful ministry marketplace?

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What is "success" for modern pastors working in a stressful ministry marketplace?

Every decade or so, perhaps during a global pandemic, it's common to see news reports about pastors leaving pulpits in search of less stressful work.

Consider the 2024 Hartford Institute for Religion Research poll in which more than half of pastors said they have, at some point, seriously considered quitting, with 10% admitting this often crossed their minds. According to 2022 polling by the Barna Institute, the main causes for anxiety were strong job stress (56%), feeling isolated (43%) and current political tensions (38%).

These reports are sobering, but complex, noted Ryan Burge of the Center on Religion and Politics at Washington University in St. Louis. But it's important to note the other side of the equation, when studying how clergy view their work. Five years ago, the National Survey of Religious leaders found that, when asked if "in most ways" their lives were ideal, 21% of pastors "completely" agreed, 50% said "moderately" and 16% “slightly." Only 1% "completely" disagreed and 2% said "moderately."

"The long and short of it was this -- I can't find another population group that scores higher on this metric than clergy," noted Burge, on his Graphs about Religion website. In fact, "I'm pretty confident in saying that clergy seemed pretty content with their station in life (or at least this was the case before the pandemic)."

No one doubts that pastors face significant stress, said Scott McConnell, executive director of Lifeway Research. The key is whether clergy and laity have clear understandings about what is expected from pastors and their families.

For example, what does the word "success" mean? Is that defined by growth in the congregation's size, as well as its facilities, staff and budget?

Lifeway has done a number of surveys on topics related to the life of pastors and, for most, "success" means "they are seeing lives changed, people following Christ more closely, troubling sins being avoided, people serving the Lord in ways that they have not done before," said McConnell, reached by telephone. "I think most pastors see some of that every year, but they always want to see more."

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Will Leanne Morgan's faith make the cut in her new sitcom on Netflix?

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Will Leanne Morgan's faith make the cut in her new sitcom on Netflix?

It's hard to take Jello salad to the after-church brunch a few hours after your husband of 33 years runs off with a younger woman.

But the old-fashioned church Leanne Morgan attends in her summer Netflix sitcom does have a Philippians 4:13 poster in the fellowship hall proclaiming: "I can do all things through Him who gives me strength."

Alas, the faithful are walking stereotypes. Asked how she's doing, a widow offers a pasted-on smile and says she is "basking in the sunshine of our Savior." Leanne remains silent about her marriage disaster, until she cracks and dashes, shouting, out the door.

"You've been a good Christian your whole life," her twice-divorced sister quips. "You're intitled to a small psychotic break in fellowship."

The writers' room for "Leanne" did some Southern-church research, but the faith content is nowhere near as smart and on-target as Morgan's stand-up comedy, said Randall King, who teaches classes in video storytelling at North Greenville (S.C.) University.

"It's not anti-Christian. … But some of the people behind this show are totally tone-deaf when it comes to the Christian faith. And we know that isn't the case with Leanne," he said, reached by telephone. "You can be smart and funny and moral. Leanne Morgan is all of that. … That's what we want, if you're going to take her comedy up a level" into a sitcom.

After binging "Leanne," King said "it's obvious that the character Leanne is playing is a believer. But it's like she's all alone, surrounded by hypocrites making jokes. … Is it realistic that no one close to her shares her faith and can help?"

King admits that his interest in the Netflix series is linked to his "darling fanboy" appreciation of Morgan's stand-up skills. Plus, the comedienne, and her real-life husband, live in the booming "new south" city of Knoxville, Tennessee. She has a University of Tennessee degree in child and family studies. King earned his communications doctorate there, while continuing his work as a reporter, producer and anchor in broadcast journalism.

Truth is, YouTube clips turned Morgan into an "overnight sensation" after two decades of stand-up comedy, mostly in women's groups, church events and small comedy clubs.