Unlikely Altars

To my LGBTQ+ siblings and neighbors, whose courage humbles me— Happy Pride Month. I want to say something that should’ve been said a long time ago, and said more often: You are loved. Fully. No exceptions. Not in spite of who you are, not as a “God-loves-you-but…” kind of thing. Just… loved. Period. And while I say this with my whole heart, I’m also carrying sorrow—and yes, heartbreak—again this year. Because in Texas, where I live, lawmakers have passed Senate Bill 12, a law passed earlier this year, set to take effect September 1, 2025. It bans school-sponsored LGBTQ+ clubs—stripping away vital spaces where queer students could gather, be seen, be safe, and know they belong. My heart is broken. Again. As an ally. As a person of faith. As someone who believes school should be a place for growth, not shame. Let’s be clear: this isn’t about protecting children. It’s about erasing the ones who don’t fit someone else’s definition of “acceptable.” And as someone who follows Jesus—the Jesus who welcomed the outcast, who defended the excluded, who never once asked someone to shrink to be loved—I can’t stay quiet. I won’t. We were called to be people of love and instead, far too often, we’ve chosen fear dressed up in religion. We’ve preached inclusion and practiced exclusion. We’ve claimed grace for ourselves and forgotten to offer it freely. There are so many ways we’ve gotten it wrong. And if you’ve been hurt—by a church, by a Christian, by a culture shaped by both—I just want you to hear: you did not deserve that. You are not a mistake. You are not a disruption. You are not someone God is disappointed in. You are a gift. Pride is about joy. About presence. About refusing to apologize for being beautifully, wonderfully, unapologetically you. It’s about surviving when the world said you shouldn’t. It’s about taking up your space in the world—and in the pews, and at the communion table, and under the stars where God saw you and said, “This is very good.” If the Church or the state has made you feel like there’s no room for you—I want you to know: that wasn’t Jesus. That was us, missing the mark. Again. Pride Month gives me a chance to say what I should say all year: You are beloved. You are sacred. You belong. And if no one’s ever said it to you from a pulpit or a pew or a prayer—hear it here, now, from me: I see the holy in you. And I’m standing with you. Maybe this is the Unlikely Altar: a broken heart that refuses to give up on love. So, to every LGBTQ+ person— To those in Texas and beyond… To those who’ve been made to feel like your existence is “too controversial” To the ones who wonder if it’s safer not to be yourself at all, To the ones who’ve lost a safe space but haven’t lost your spirit— Here is my prayer for you: May you find allies in unexpected places. May you never believe the lie that your life is less than sacred. May your identity never be a source of shame—only of strength. May you be met with fierce kindness, quiet solidarity, and loud joy. And may you never, ever forget: There’s nothing wrong with you. There’s so much right with you. With love, An ally, A Christian, And a work in progress

I never had a catch with my dad. Not once. Not even close. He chose to leave pretty much, long before I knew what to do with a ball or how to spell “mitt.” One day he was there, the next—he wasn’t. No goodbye. No warning. Just gone, like a foul ball that disappears into the stands and doesn’t come back. I didn’t even know what I was missing at the time. You can’t grieve what you don’t understand. But as I got older and saw other dads playing catch with their kids—heard the thump of leather in the air, saw the high-fives and the laughter—I started to understand exactly what I didn’t get. Then one day, years later, I was digging through an old box when I found it. Inside among papers, certificates and other stuff, was a baseball glove. His glove. It was worn and dusty, creased like it had lived a life. I slipped my hand inside. It didn’t fit quite right. No way it could fit, he was left-handed. He was a southpaw. And I never knew. It hit me, standing with his glove, that I didn’t even know what hand my father threw with. That glove had never been mine and never would be. It wasn’t a gift. It was just… something he left behind. I kept it. Tucked it back into the box. Closed the box and returned it to the shelf. Funny enough, there’s another box in the same closet. That one holds his ashes. So now I’ve got a box with his body, and a box with his glove. One for the man who left, one for the game he never played with me. Now, if you know me, you know I love baseball. For me it is the metaphor for life, The long season. The rhythm. The fact that you can fail seven times out of ten and still be considered great. That’s probably why Field of Dreams always hits me like a fastball to the chest. Especially the end—Costner turning to his dad, voice a little shaky, asking, “Hey Dad… wanna have a catch?” Every single time, I lose it. Doesn’t matter how many times I’ve seen it. That moment wrecks me. Because that was my dream. Always. That was the moment I never got. But here’s where the story turns. Not long ago, I was in the backyard with one of my sons. We were messing around; we grabbed gloves (both right-handed ones, thank you very much) and I him tossed a ball. He threw it back. And there it was. We were having a catch. Just like that. No soundtrack swelling. No ghosts in cornfields. Just a dad and his kid, throwing a ball back and forth. And I’ve gotta say—it was one of the best things ever. That backyard moment didn’t fix what I missed growing up. But it rewrote the story. It baptized the ache. It reminded me that I don’t have to pass down what was handed to me. I get to choose something different. I get to show up. That glove—the one that never quite fit—still sits in the box. But lately, I’ve thought about taking it out. Maybe even setting it on a shelf. Not because it’s sacred, but because it tells the truth. That even something left behind can hold a thread of redemption. It’s a reminder, of the father who disappeared, of the son who chose to stay, and the backyard catch that said, this story isn’t over. I never had a catch with my dad. But I get to have one with my boys. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe it’s more than enough. Because I still believe in baseball. I believe in gloves that don’t fit and grace that does. I believe in showing up—even when it wasn’t shown to you. And I believe that when this life winds down, and the lights go soft, I’ll hear a voice—quiet, kind, and holy—“Hey kid… wanna have a catch?” And I’ll know exactly who it is.

We watched the Preakness this past Saturday. We didn’t throw a full-on party like we did for the Derby—no fancy hats, no fun foods. But we still honored tradition in our own small way: not with a Mint Julep, but with a Black-Eyed Susan, the official drink of the Preakness. Just a quiet afternoon, and a drink in hand. A little ritual. A little altar, in its own unlikely way. The weather in Baltimore was perfect—a sharp contrast to the mud-soaked chaos of the Derby a few weeks earlier. And while no one sang “Run for the Roses,” I still found myself humming it—because honestly, what’s a springtime horse race without a little Dan Fogelberg in the background? One horse in particular caught my attention—Gosger. He was the one I was pulling for. Not because he was flashy, but precisely because he wasn’t. At 20:1 odds, he was the forgotten one—overlooked and underestimated. But what really made me root for him was his name. One of his owners, a woman named Donna Clarke, chose “Gosger” not for flair or branding, but in honor of a Facebook friend, Jim Gosger. A name I should have recognized—but didn’t. I’ve been a Mets fan for as long as I can remember. The 1969 Miracle Mets are etched into my memory like sacred scripture—Seaver, Grote, Koosman, Swoboda. But Jim Gosger? Honestly, I had to look him up. He played in 39 games that year. I didn’t remember him—but Donna Clarke did. And that horse—like his namesake, nearly forgotten—almost made history. He ran his heart out, finishing just a half-length behind the favorite. It felt right that it happened at the Preakness—the middle child of the Triple Crown. Not the glamorous Derby with its roses and celebrities. Not the Belmont with its history-making potential. Just the Preakness: scrappy, quieter, easy to forget. And to be honest, the whole story reminds me of my beloved Mets. The Yankees are more like Churchill Downs—steeped in legacy and pageantry. The Mets? They’re more like Pimlico. Gritty. Quirky. Prone to chaos. And yet, every so often, capable of something miraculous. You don’t root for the Mets because it’s fashionable. You root for them because they make you believe anything is possible. That the overlooked and underestimated still have a shot. That long shots can still run the race of their lives. And sometimes, even when they fall short, they remind you what heart looks like. There’s something quietly beautiful about that. Because Gosger the horse didn’t run in the Derby. He didn’t get the spotlight. He just showed up at the Preakness—the middle space—and gave it everything he had. And Gosger the Met? He wasn’t the star. He was one of the many in the background who helped hold the miracle together. So, where’s the unlikely altar? It’s in the choosing. In the small but defiant act of remembering someone who could have been forgotten. Donna Clarke didn’t pick a name to impress the crowd. She picked a name that mattered. And in doing so, she built an altar—not out of stone or stained glass, but out of memory and meaning. Altars don’t always stand in cathedrals. Sometimes, they show up in a name, in a race, in a drink raised quietly on a Saturday afternoon. Sometimes, they run.

Mother’s Day is tender terrain. For some, it brings joy—a chance to celebrate the women who raised us, nurtured us, cheered us on. But for many, it’s more complicated. It can carry a quiet ache that sneaks up without warning. A scent. A song. A laugh that sounds too much like hers. Or simply the sharp truth: She’s not here. Some grieve mothers who were a steady presence. Others mourn the absence of that kind of love. Some carry the weight of children lost far too soon—or children who never came. Some made the brave, invisible decision not to become mothers. Others mother daily, without ever being called “Mom.” And all of it—every version of love and loss—is sacred. I was part of a gathering Friday evening at Kingwood Funeral Home, a quiet space for those holding heavy things on this weekend. We cried. We laughed. We remembered. And I was struck again by how love never really leaves. It just changes form. It shows up in the way we fold towels, the way we stir our tea, the way we still talk to the air like someone’s listening. Grief is just love that’s had to take a different shape. And it has a way of leaking out—through stories, songs, silent rituals no one sees. Two cups of coffee when there’s only one person. A contact still saved in the phone. A casserole made without a recipe, because you know it by heart. It’s funny how stitched into our lives someone can be—until they’re gone, and suddenly we notice everything. The phrases coming out of our own mouths. The craving for a dish we swore we’d never eat again. The way we hold others, the way we were once held. It’s in the towel folding and the soup stirring. In the way we carry their memory like a photo tucked in our chest pocket. And not every mother was gentle or safe. For some, “Mom” is a complicated word. Maybe she wasn’t there. Maybe she hurt more than helped. Maybe she couldn’t show up the way you needed. If that’s your story, you belong in this reflection too. Your grief is no less sacred. Your truth, no less valid. And those who mothered without the title? They are the quiet heroes in the background. The aunts, teachers, neighbors, chosen family. The ones who packed lunches, listened without judgment, and brought snacks when everything felt like too much. Whether they were related by blood or not, they offered a kind of presence that shaped us. Mother’s Day is loud in the world—brunch specials and pastel greeting cards. But here, in this quiet corner, we make space for the full truth. The complicated stories. The holy ones. This is an Unlikely Altar A place to lay down grief and pick up memory. A place to let yourself feel what you’ve been holding in. To cry. To laugh. To remember. We remember the spicy moms, the loud ones, the unembarrassable ones. The ones who gave advice no one asked for, who made casseroles and life plans in the same breath. The ones with purses that could produce a Band-Aid, a pen, and a snack at a moment’s notice. The ones who stirred tea with a butter knife and never got names right, but made everyone feel like family. We say their names. We tell their stories. Because remembering is how we keep love alive. So if the tears come today, let them. If a memory makes you laugh out loud, don’t hold it back. If all you can do is sit quietly and breathe, that’s holy, too. Grief is not a sign of weakness—it’s a sign of great love. And those we love? They are not gone. You are not alone. Love stays. And so do they.

They’ve elected a new pope. Leo the Fourteenth. Now, to some, this might sound like just another line in a history book, another white cassock on a Vatican balcony. But for me—raised Catholic, now a United Methodist elder—it cracked open something sacred. Something nostalgic. Something hopeful. Leo XIV. Now, if you know your papal history, you know this isn’t just a name. It’s a theological breadcrumb leading straight to Leo XIII, one of the great minds and souls of modern Catholicism. Leo XIII saw a world changing rapidly with industrialization, worker exploitation, and poverty. Instead of staying quiet, he said, “The Church must speak.” In his 1891 document Rerum Novarum, he emphasized that faith isn’t just belief—it’s about how we live. He argued that work has dignity, the economy should serve people, and justice isn’t optional for Christians. So, what does it mean that this new pope, this first-ever American pope, has taken on Leo’s name? It means he’s sending a message. One that says: This Church won’t hide from the real world. It’s a signal that the Church may be ready to speak again about justice, economics, power, and compassion. About the Gospel being not just good news but good news for the poor, the outcast and those pushed to the margins. It’s a name that doesn’t stay hidden in abstract theology but reaches into the real lives of people on the ground. And speaking of choices that speak volumes, let’s get to the real burning question: Cubs or White Sox? For half of Chicago, this isn’t just about baseball loyalty—it’s a matter of worldview. If he’s a Cubs guy, we’re talking resurrection hope. Decades of waiting. Suffering that somehow strengthens the soul. A theology of patience, joy, and Ivy-covered walls. If he’s with the White Sox, we’re looking at gritty reformers. South Side energy. Ecclesiology with a chip on its shoulder. Either way, Chicagoans now have something deeply personal to debate, and I love that for them. As for me? I'm a Mets fan. Yes, that kind of Mets fan. I still remember the summer of ’69—the day Neil Armstrong walked on the moon and the Mets were 9.5 games out of first place. And then… the Miracle. By October, we were world champions. Don’t tell me God doesn’t move in mysterious ways. And maybe that’s what makes this papal moment so moving for me. Even though I chose to serve the Church under the cross and flame of Methodism, even though my theology has taken on new hues, the white smoke from St. Peter’s still finds its way into my soul. I watched Pope Leo XIV emerge and felt something ancient and holy stir. A memory of incense. Of kneelers. Of prayers whispered in Latin. Of saints, I still talk to in the quiet. This new pope may lead a Church I no longer belong to institutionally, but he still leads a part of me. And if his name is any clue, that part of me might get to hope again. Hope that the Church universal will speak clearly for the vulnerable. Hope that courage and compassion can hold hands. Hope that we are not done seeing miracles—not in baseball, not in the Church, not in our aching world. So welcome, Leo XIV—Robert Francis Prevost of Chicago. May your voice be prophetic, your heart be open, and your baseball allegiance be declared soon—because half of your hometown is holding its breath. And if, in a moment of divine whimsy, you want to say a word about the 1969 Mets, I’ll know the Spirit is really on the move. *Since the writing of this article, the Holy Father has declared he's a White Sox fan. So, gritty reformers it is. South Side theology confirmed. Cubs fans may need to invoke the intercession of St. Jude—patron of lost causes.

It’s been a few days since the Kentucky Derby, and I’m still thinking about it. Not the roses. Not the winner. Not even the finish. (And no, the horse I was rooting for didn’t win.) What stuck with me was the mud. That heavy, sloshing kind of mud that clings to everything. The kind that makes it hard to run and hard to stay upright. The kind that brings even the strongest down. And the whole time I watched the race, there was something about that mud that felt familiar. You see, I’ve been there. Not at Churchill Downs, but I have been in the mud. And when I say that I have been in the mud, I mean face-first in the mud. Not just metaphorically. I’ve hit the ground so hard, so publicly, that the only thing louder than the thud was the silence that followed. Or worse—the sound of people judging. Or maybe the quiet satisfaction of those who hoped I’d fall and seemed strangely comfortable with me staying down. Maybe you’ve been there too. Then, right on cue, Dan Fogelberg’s voice comes through—aching, honest, and familiar: “It’s the chance of a lifetime / in a lifetime of chance…” He’s not singing about the win. He’s singing about the try. About the wild courage it takes to step into the unknown. The deep breath before the risk. The moment your heart says, “I’m in,” even though your brain whispers, “This might hurt.” And sometimes, it does. Sometimes we fall because we mess up—because we made a choice we wish we hadn’t, said something we can’t take back, hurt someone we meant to love. Sometimes we fall because the ground just gives out—because the mud is thick, and life is unfair, and we slipped even though we were doing our best. And sometimes? We fall for no tidy reason at all. Because life is messy, unpredictable, and occasionally brutal. But here’s the good news: The fall is still sacred. Not because it feels good—believe me, it doesn’t—but because God didn’t leave us there. He meets us in the mess, and that changes everything. Yes—there absolutely is an Unlikely Altar here. It’s not at the winner’s circle. It’s not made of roses or gold trophies. It’s right there in the mud. The altar is the place where we fall flat on our faces—publicly, awkwardly, sometimes spectacularly—and discover that grace still meets us there. Not in spite of the mess, but in it. Because the mud doesn’t disqualify us. It’s where we find out we’re not alone, not forgotten, and not beyond redemption. That moment—on the ground, heart bruised, face dirty, ego dented—is holy. Not because it feels good. But because it’s real. And God always shows up in what’s real. That’s an Unlikely Altar : Where your fall becomes the place where love finds you. Where you stop pretending and start healing. Where the song still plays, even when the race didn’t go the way you hoped. So yes, this post is about the Derby. And Dan Fogelberg. And the deep, bruising humility of falling. But it’s also about what happens next. Because I have been there. Face down. Ego bruised. Mud everywhere. But I’m still here. Still standing. Met by grace I didn’t earn. Still held by a God who never looked away.

I’ve found a little church that doesn’t look like much from the outside. The sign flickers. The booths are cracked. The coffee is… well, let’s just say “average” is generous. But somehow, grace lives here, and I keep finding my way back. Welcome to the Church of Waffle House . On days when I’m preparing to officiate a funeral, I leave early—too early to head straight to the funeral home or cemetery. Houston traffic is unpredictable, and being late is not an option. So, I make a sacred detour: a booth in the back, or a spot at the counter, a plate of scrambled eggs, and hashbrowns “smothered” in onions—because even in grief, a little flavor doesn’t hurt. At the Church of Waffle House , the choir sounds like clattering plates and laughter from nearby tables. The liturgy is simple: coffee refills, a friendly nod, a server yelling the order in that unmistakable Waffle House way. This church doesn’t care if you’re still half-asleep or wearing yesterday’s clothes. Nobody judges if you're mourning, celebrating, anxious, lost, or just really hungry. You’re welcome as you are—hair messy, heart messy, life messy. Come on in. There’s a strange holiness in places like this. Thin places, where the space between heaven and earth narrows. Where people show up hungry—for food, yes, but also for comfort, for quiet, for a breath of something bigger. As I sit with my laptop open and my smothered hashbrowns in front of me, I watch life unfold around me: a toddler taking a bite of a BIG waffle covered in peanut butter, a couple of tired nurses just getting off a shift, a group of teenagers grabbing something before school, and an older man eating alone, ball cap pulled low. Each one carries a story I’ll never know—maybe too heavy for words. But I believe God walks through these doors, too, no matter the hour, no matter the heartache. This is a church without walls, without programs, and without any agenda but to feed whoever walks through the door. It’s messy, imperfect, and that’s exactly why it feels like a little piece of heaven. Here, I am not a celebrant or a reverend. I’m just a tired soul, eating a simple meal and finding a few moments of peace before I stand between the living and the dead to speak words of hope. It’s easy to believe that sacredness only belongs in polished places—sanctuaries, cathedrals, or those “holy” moments we’re all supposed to be ready for. But the Church of Waffle House reminds me: holiness happens wherever love refuses to leave. It happens in mourning and in memory. It happens between forkfuls of hashbrowns and heartbeats of hope. Soon, I’ll pay my check, slide out of the booth, and head toward a family waiting to remember someone they love. But I’ll carry a little bit of this place with me—a full heart, a whispered prayer, and the reminder that even at the edges of loss, grace can still find us—scattered, smothered, and covered.