I named my first blog “Something to Say” because I needed the reminder, the affirmative mantra, that I actually had words worthy of publishing. Writing for the internet felt riskier than preaching — I trusted my congregation to be kind, to say “thank you” at the door after worship whether I hit the high mark I set for myself or not.
I don’t remember the content of my first post. It was likely a reflection on Scripture, the start of a Sunday sermon, or a cute story about my kids. I’m sure it wasn’t anything bold or prophetic. But it was a start — a new public venture in answer to my growing call to write.
I do remember the courage I had to muster to click the box on my computer screen that read “PUBLISH.” My heart thudded as I sent my words into the ether and then fled the scene, leaving my computer behind to distract myself from my fear of internet trolls descending like demons on my post, confirming all my self-negating messages. Who do you think you are? You’re not worthy of this stage. You’re not smart enough or talented enough. I braced myself for an onslaught of criticism that never came.
I don’t think anyone besides my husband (obligated by marriage to read and compliment whatever I write) and a few blessed church members read that first post. But the little encouragement I received was enough to keep me writing and publishing.
There are still legitimate reasons to fear going “public.” Our menacing “cancel culture” and social media’s outrage reflex can keep us from publicly sharing what we really think or showing up as our authentic selves. Despite these social dangers, I am convinced that more of us who practice and profess a Christianity rooted in Jesus’ radical love and inclusive welcome need to do so more publicly.
In our increasingly secular, religiously unaffiliated society, controversial soundbites and stories of scandal paint a public picture of Christianity that does not reflect the Jesus I know and love. Instead, we see an exclusive Christianity that stokes fear and shame as a strategy, stunts creative questioning, and bans the different; irrelevant churches that retreat into safe spaces of personal spirituality instead of following the Christ publicly crucified for resisting political tyranny; a jingoistic Christianity so enmeshed with patriotism that God n’ Country trips off American tongues as one word and one national sin.
Countering these portrayals of Christianity requires a public message and medium. You may not consider yourself a public theologian, but you are. We all are. Do you make music or art? Do you teach? Do you write letters or op eds? Do you raise money for good causes? Do you make reels? TikToks? Do you organize community meals or movements? Your life, your words, your actions speak of your beliefs and profess your faith. Your medium is whatever blank canvas God unfurls for you to share the good news.
A few days ago, I was feeling beaten down and bluesy, scrolling my social media feed for a distraction. I came across a post from my pastor friend, Jenny, who wrote: “If you are in need of hope or courage or comfort today … listen to this prayer and know it is for you.” Her post included a video of Spencer LaJoye singing their song, “Plowshare Prayer.” I clicked the link and listened:
“I pray if a prayer has been used as a sword … against you and your heart I pray that this prayer is a plowshare of sorts … I needed this song and its words that, like a plowshare, dug up the soil of my spirit that had been beaten down and hard-packed by weapons of fear and self-negating messages. I clicked replay again, and again. The melody, the words, and the prayer loosened and readied me for new seed, a comfort that stayed with me and kept rising to my lips to sing.”
What song has our loving God given you to sing or share? However you claim your call to be a public theologian, know that someone somewhere needs the message you’ve been gifted to share. And although it may take courage, it doesn’t have to be hard. You, too, have something to say.
Want more content like this reflection on being a public theologian in your inbox? Sign up for Outlook’s weekly newsletters.
