Heavenly Mother: A Monday Speculative Profile

God was there before the beginning. She was planning the beginning. Working closely with Her Council to design and create the worlds. At least, one new world, a test run of sorts. She had it all laid out, from start to finish. Six days. With a seventh on standby, just in case. The concept of days wasn’t yet created for this new world, so time was a little mushy around the edges.

She poured over the plans, pulling the pen from behind Her ear to make a few last corrections before they got to it the next morning before they entered the timeless space of creation.


She was up. She leapt out of bed, giddy with excitement. She quickly got ready and headed over to workspace.

“Alright everyone. It’s time to get to it. We’ve got a world to build. Homes to make.”

That first day, She fearlessly led Her crew as they mined out the darkness, making space for the light. They worked tirelessly to separate the two, dividing them sharply. At least, that was the intent. The darkness miners were a little careless and create some grey spaces that no one quite knew what to do with, that seemed to defy the binary of light and dark that they were hoping to make a theme of for this new world.

“Huh,” She mused, looking over the day’s work, “I dig this shades of grey stuff we’ve got going on. I was a little disappointed it upset the stark black and white vibe we initially set up, but this should make things interesting. Let’s run with it.”

And that was the first day.


She was in the trenches the next morning, working tirelessly alongside Her team as they worked to make some space for the light and dark to inhabit that signaled to the future inhabitants what was up, but didn’t radically disrupt their lives.

She’d decided to place the light and darkness up above, out of the reach of these future creatures. Placing the dangerous light and darkness on the top shelf, like a jar of secret cookies. For safekeeping. And perhaps to dangle in front of them as an inspiration to reach new heights, quite literally.

And that was day two, dividing the heavens and the earth.


God was ready to get to the good stuff. She was a little tired of all the manual labor of these past two days and wanted to get to making things.

She had her Council get to work on the Land, using Her plans that she’d been tweaking, while she spent Her time working the water. The water was calm and wild and vast and so complex. The water contained everything. Or it would. She paid particular attention to the movements, to the crash of the waves on the coast, the flow of the rivers, the smooth reflectiveness of the lakes. And She fiddled with the scent for hours. Wanting to give the ocean that right balance of bite to entice people to come back and back, to feel called to the waters.

And that was the third day.


She’d decided that the light and darkness divide was a little too simplistic. She wanted something to contain the light in, to set scattered throughout the darkness. She developed two classes of containers (though the first had a subclass that evolved essentially to be its own class of light)—stars and the moon. The stars were everywhere, with huge variation. Some small, some large. One, standing out from the rest, so close to where they were playing around, that they started calling it their son, then The Son.

And that was the fourth day.


Time to breathe some real life into this thing. She was excited. The water and the heavens would get some life.

Once again, She worked with the water. She was drawn to it. Something about the water spoke to Her (and obviously, Her Council used Her work to bring the birds into existence).

She breathed into the ocean, Her fingers twirling through the matter, as Her breathe brought new, yet unseen life to be. She dove down to the depths and walked along the sea floor, stopping every now and then to pay attention to creatures so odd and strange and horrifying that may go millennia without recognition or contact or the love that others would get. Yet, down here, buried beneath the waves, in a new found quiet, there was something lovely about the strangeness, about these creatures that seemed otherworldly, existing.

She began to swim back up to the surface, stopping to add a few finishing touches to a wildly colored creature, granting them the power to launch their claws through the ocean almost faster than She could travel through time and space.
“Here,” She said as She played with their eyes, “Now, you’ll be able to see countless colors, untold light and beauty. You will be blessed with beauty and strength; you are the harbinger of blood-soaked rainbows.”

She swam to the surface and gazed longingly at the fowls filling the air.

And that was the fifth day.


The big day was here. The Deadline. Hopefully, everything kept going according to Her meticulously prepared plan.

Her Council got right to work on the animals (well, everything besides the fish and birds). She popped in here and there with some tweaks.

“Nah, that one should be more like a duck and a beaver, but with a poison claw. Oh, yes, that one needs to be aloof, holds its head very high. Ah, yeah, just, uh, whatever you want with those tiny ones…absurdly strong? Sure, go for it.”

She was preparing the magnum opus.


She was fierce at work shaping the dust into life.
She puzzled over the two shapes She was simultaneously working on.

“Something’s not quite right, here.”

She leaned over to the one on the left and pulled a chunk out of the side, then walked over to the body on the right and started working it in.

“Ah, yes, that’s better. More equal distribution of life. Hopefully that sticks.”

She pressed Her head to their temples, one hand on each of their heads and breathed out. As Her breath passed over them, it began to fill them with life. They started to move and live.

She stepped back.

“We did it. I did it. Uh, uh, wow.”

She watched, barely containing her enthusiasm as they moved and sat up and began to notice they’re surroundings. And finally, Her.

“Hi. Yes, hello. I am God and this is Planet Bob.”

The Council chuckled and nudged Her.

“Earth, yes, this is Earth. Your home. Look around you. All these shapes and colors are so that life doesn’t hurt so badly, which it inevitably will. So take advantage of what you see. You are meant to care for it. All of it. Which I get is a heavy responsibility for two freshly created, still stunned beings, but I believe in you.”

And that was the sixth day.


It was finished.

She looked out over all Creation. Checking the final product against Her plans.

She put them away and just took it all in.

“Daaaaaaaaaaamn,” She whistled, “It is good.”

And that was the seventh day.


I, like many Mormons, love the doctrine of a Heavenly Mother. I love bringing a divine feminine presence into the discussion of Godhood (which is often, particularly in LDS circles) quite masculine.

Yet, as a queer Mormon that is wary of, and disinterested in, reinforcing prescriptive gender roles, the idea that women are only valuable as mothers, and Mormonism’s tendency toward an oppressively heteronormative heaven, I’m unsure quite what to do with Her.

Essentially, I’m concerned that increasing dialogue surrounding Heavenly Mother will reinforce Her position primarily in relation to Heavenly Father, that is as a Wife and Mother, not as God in and of Herself. Obviously, this is complicated. Because on the one hand, I love the idea that none of us can become God by ourselves, that Heavenly Father cannot be God without Heavenly Mother, that I cannot one day be a God without Cec.

And yet.

Some of it is that despite this underlying, implicit belief, the rhetoric we use has essentially granted Heavenly Father Godhood independent of Heavenly Mother for close to two hundred years (within Mormonism, and, uh, far longer within Christianity generally). Though to be fair, we know very little about Heavenly Father (especially since most of the scriptural accounts of God within Mormonism are OT or BoM, where God is Jehovah, who is the premortal Jesus Christ). But we still largely use masculine pronouns for God, suggesting that we mean Heavenly Father, when there’s a linguistic argument (and Mormon doctrinal argument) that we should use plural pronouns (God as Elohim in Hebrew is plural, plus all the coupling necessary for Godhood stuff mentioned above).

I love the representation in Divinity that Heavenly Mother gives to all the women that I know. I love that it speaks to the Divinity that I see in countless women that are in my life. I love that Heavenly Mother gives my daughter a role model that looks a little more like her for the eternities.

But I want that work to be done as inclusively as possible.

I want Heavenly Mother to truly be a Divine Feminine, to be more than a Mother, to be God.

And I want that to happen in a way that empowers all of us to embody and lean into the best of our femininity.       

Anyway. I’m writing seven (if all goes well) profiles of Heavenly Mother this week and hope that as I do so, I can build on the work of those that have gone before and work to create a space for Heavenly Mother that includes, that reaches out to those already on the margins and pulls them in for a warm embrace, that smashes every expectation, that preaches with power, that loves fiercely, that challenges warmly, that sits quietly, that stands loudly.

Here’s to Heavenly Mother, a God(dess) in Her own right.

(Re)Claiming My Mormonism

I firmly believe that reclamation is holy work. That perhaps the foundation of salvation is to reclaim and to make holy that which is tragic and broken and hurtful and imperfect and lacking and mortal. That is what God does. God helps us find and make meaning out of that which is otherwise meaningless. Suffering is not inherently meaningful. The pains and trials and tribulations that I face are not custom-made for me. But with God they can be. We together can create meaning. We can reclaim that which was previously beyond our reach.

This is what I strive to do daily with Mormonism. And what I hope I can give others a little more space to do for themselves. To reclaim Mormonism.

I believe that this is nothing new. This is precisely what every generation has done and will do. I’ve been thinking about reclaiming Mormonism for some time now and I can trace some of those thoughts back to first reading Adam Miller’s Future Mormon: Essays in Mormon Theology in 2016. A quote from the introduction still resonates quite strongly with me:

“Every generation must work out their own salvation. Every generation must live its own lives and think its own thoughts and receive its own revelations. And, if Mormonism continues to matter, it will be because they, rather than leaving, were willing to be Mormon all over again. Like our grandparents, like our parents, and like us, they will have to rethink the whole tradition, from top to bottom, right from the beginning, and make it their own in order to embody Christ anew in this passing world. To the degree that we can help, our job is to model that work in love and then offer them the tools, the raw materials, and the room to do it themselves.”

Adam Miller, “Introduction: A Future Tense Apologetics,” Future Mormon: Essays in Mormon Theology, xii

We must work out our own salvation. Just like all the generations before. We must make Mormonism new. We must transform it so that it can transform us.

The most common critique of my position in and relationship to the Church as an institution is actually leveled at me from both ex- and post-Mormons and other critics, as well as those that have more traditional beliefs (for lack of a better descriptor)—that is, that Mormonism, or the Church, is not _________ (whatever I happen to be describing it as). Essentially, that I can’t make up what Mormonism is and that I have no authority to define it.

I respectfully disagree.

I am a Mormon. I may not have power to change what the Church as an institution does or teaches, but I have power over what I do and teach. Mormonism is far more than the institutional Church. And I have a say in what that is and means and can be. I want the Church, in the experience of those around me (I’m working on another piece on the Three Churches that elaborates on this, but essentially, my local congregation(s) and family and friends and others in a broader “Church” sense), to be better. To be safe for queer people, for those that doubt, for women, for single people, for those with progressive politics. These people will be in the pews and I cannot control everything, but I can do my part to make Mormonism for our generation something that better addresses these and other imperfections currently present.

Mormonism is all the good and bad of the Church. Mormonism is Tyler Glenn’s Excommunication, Imagine Dragons, Ender’s Game and Speaker for the Dead, Utah granting women the right to vote in 1870 and refusing to ratify the ERA, the Bundys, the great work of Gina Colvin, Sistas in Zion, Sunstone, Dialogue, the on-again-off-again Student Review at BYU, the Osmonds, Gladys Knight, jello, funeral potatoes, settling much of the West, The Book of Mormon Musical, and Matt Page’s Mormon Saint candles that Cec and I use for Advent.   

And that’s just the beginning.

Mormonism is all truth. Wherever it is found. And continuing revelation. That’s far more expansive than I can really conceive of. That’s more than any single institution, no matter how good, can fully and consistently express.

I believe in the good of Mormonism. I believe in the promise of Mormonism. I believe in the past of Mormonism. I believe in the present of Mormonism. I believe in the future of Mormonism.

I’m under no illusion that the Mormonism that I believe is common or traditional or whatever. But it is still Mormon. I believe that I belong and have found myself largely accepted by my local community as I authentically express my own sorta fringey, strange way of believing.

As I continue to reclaim Mormonism, to find ways that it resonates with my life and to embody its principles and teachings and ideas in the ways that weave together in the most convincing and provocative and challenging ways for me, I have found my life enriched. During the darkest days and nights of my faith remodel, I wondered if Mormonism was worth saving. If there was anything there that I could make my own, that I could keep with me authentically as I strived to life the life of integrity that I’d been taught to prioritize by the Church and my family my entire life.

I found it by digging deeper into my Mormonism and unearthing the bits and foundations that speak the most to me. That “tastes good” as Joseph Smith would say. I am who I am because of my Mormonism and the ways that I have reclaimed it, not in spite of it.

I know that some have trauma and pain and suffering that is too inextricably tied to Mormonism to reclaim it. Don’t retraumatize yourself. Do what is best for you and let go of that which does harm. I’ll do my best to make space for you however you want space made and hope that you do the same for me.

Look, don’t let the institutional Church dictate how you Morm[on]. Every time someone insists that I can’t be Mormon, they are giving the institutional Church authority over what it means to be Mormon, authority that they don’t have a monopoly on. Mormonism is way more than them. (And they recently threw out the label “Mormon”, so it’s ours for the taking.) If you find value or promise or hope or something in Mormonism, however it is that YOU relate to it, take it. Claim it. Be a Mormon. Whatever that means to you.

I see so many friends longing for a space to be Mormon, but on their own terms. I, a fellow fringey, wanderer, universalist, postsecular, agnostic-adjacent, skeptic, believer, doubter Mormon, grant you permission to (re)claim your Mormonism. Whatever it looks like.

I claim:

  • The King Follett Sermon (THEOSIS?!?!?!? Hell Yeah)
  • The Book of Mormon (these stories will always be part of my scriptural foundation)
  • The Pearl of Great Price (God weeping over Creation is one of the most transcendent passages of scripture I’ve ever encountered)
  • “In Our Lovely Deseret” (a hymn that I unironically adore with ever fiber of my gosh darn being)
  • Continuing Revelation (few things give me more thrill than the belief that God is continually revealing and restoring His/Her/Their work and that I am a part of it)
  • Gods (Abraham talks about “Gods” doing the work of Creation and D&C explicitly describes Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob as “Gods” and I’m all for a funky, mythic pantheon of Mormon Gods)
  • Kolob (I mean, if all the belief in Kolob gave us was “If You Could Hie to Kolob” it would be worth it, but it also embodies Mormonism’s insistence on wild, wacky material theology and the cosmic potential of Space Mormonism that I adore)
  • Funeral Potatoes (so damn good)
  • Feminism (the early Saints, and women throughout the Church’s history, have embodied ideas and principles of gender equality we associate with feminism. I’m under no illusions about the institutional Church’s shortcomings in this arena in the present and the past, but I find inspiration in the countless women that have lived marvelous lives within Mormonism)
  • Blending the Sacred and the Profane (Joseph Smith was a radical, an underappreciated one. Perhaps the most radical of all his teachings and revelations was the ways in which he tore down the barriers between our world and the Divine and insisted on blending them, mixing the Sacred and the Profane, insisting that God is like us and that we are like God, and I am constantly in awe of the reach of these ideas—that I am co-eternal with God, lending power to the notion that I should wrestle with God. I am often challenged by them as well, that all those I see around me are, too, co-eternal with God, that they have Divinity inherent in them)

You may (re)claim different parts of Mormonism. And I hope you do so. I attend weekly and in much of my practice am indistinguishable from other, more traditional believers because of how I want to participate within the institutional Church. You must make those choices on your own. What you (re)claim is up to you. But we must all be about the work of reclamation. As Adam said, “And, if Mormonism continues to matter, it will be because they, rather than leaving, were willing to be Mormon all over again.”

I am willing to be Mormon all over again and I hope that if you wish to be, you can find the space to do so too.  

Necessity of Prophetic Fallibility

Note: This is not a history of teachings concerning prophetic fallibility, nor is it a scriptural or doctrinal exegesis focused on expounding resources for belief in prophetic fallibility.

Prophetic fallibility strikes me as one of the most important and least developed beliefs in Mormonism. We often pay lip service to it, but seem to treat prophets and their authority in such a way that renders the very idea of prophetic fallibility meaningless. Prophetic fallibility is the belief that prophets are not perfect, that they are humans who make mistakes. Now, for this idea to have any power and significance the range of possible mistakes must be bigger than the prophet swearing or yelling at someone sometime. Prophetic fallibility demands that the act of prophecy be eligible for error, not just the everyday existence of the prophet.

Then-Pres Uchtdorf alludes to these happenings in his 2013 General Conference address, “Come, Join With Us,” when he said:

“And, to be perfectly frank, there have been times when members or leaders in the Church have simply made mistakes. There may have been things said or done that were not in harmony with our values, principles, or doctrine.

I suppose the Church would be perfect only if it were run by perfect beings. God is perfect, and His doctrine is pure. But He works through us—His imperfect children—and imperfect people make mistakes.”

Most everyone I know agrees with this idea in the abstract. Very few people, that I know personally, will argue that prophets have never ever made a single mistake. However, some people are likely already pushing back on the implications of my framing of prophetic fallibility. Discussions of fallibility always stop short because the institution never defines past actions, even when reversed, as mistakes. We have plenty of support for the belief that there were mistakes, but once I start naming things, people immediately become defensive.

Without at least the serious consideration of past teachings and policies as wrong, the belief in prophetic fallibility is toothless.

Believing in this version of fallibility, that amounts to practical infallibility is tempting. I feel the temptation. If we accept this belief, we have something certain to rely on in a world that is defined by uncertainty. We can trust in something unconditionally. We have a sense of confidence and comfort that is often lacking all around us in an era some have described as post-truth. Certainty calls to us. Practical infallibility gives us the certainty that we often hunger and thirst after.

Yet, if the prophet always is right and always speaks for God, what does that require of us? How does that build our own personal faith and relationship with the Divine?

Very little.

Consider that the act of wondering and pursuing personal confirmation that any given statement from a prophet is from God is a True/False exam, that’s open book where you can study and learn and find the correct answers. However, you also know that there’s a cheat to this particular exam–all of the answers are “True”. Will you even bother to study out for yourself one question? No. At least, I wouldn’t.

Perhaps this is an indictment of my own laziness, but I think there’s a spiritual truth here. If the prophet is never wrong, my only choice is to abdicate my agency. To give my will entirely and to languish in spiritual childhood. How can I wrestle with someone who is never wrong? If the outcome is already pre-determined, why bother asking the question?

I cannot exercise faith in someone who I know to always be right.

Faith demands uncertainty.

Faith demands the possibility of wrongness.

Faith demands fallibility.

If we accept prophetic fallibility, then suddenly, I, and all of us, are energized in the building of Zion. We all have our agency restored to do and say and believe. To push and pull and agitate. To feel divine discontent.

If the prophet can be wrong, I have a responsibility to watch for those wrongs and to speak against them. I must be vigilant in my spiritual life. I must take every pronouncement to the Lord in prayer and wrestle with it. To ponder and mull and debate and chew and feast and argue.

To return to our exam, the test is suddenly alive with possibility. Any question could be True or False. Or even some mixture of the two that defies the reductive binary we tend to impose on prophetic announcements that seems to fall wonderfully short of the reality and complexity of (at least my) lived experience with the Divine.

I can’t simply float through any longer.

I must seek to know God so that I know Their/Her/His voice when it comes from the prophet’s lips. I must build my own relationship with the Divine because I cannot count on another, even the Prophet, to speak God’s will with complete accuracy.

I must approach this process humbly, particularly with epistemic humility. I must be careful that I don’t make my own idol out of myself and my beliefs. Yet, as I check myself and strive for humility, I cannot shy away from speaking what feels true to me. For the good of the Body of Christ. For my fellow comrades in the Gospel, my fellow Saints.

If we embrace the beauty and challenge of prophetic fallibility, our work is only just beginning. We need a communal ethic of fallibility so that we as a people can move beyond the damaging teachings and beliefs of prophetic perfection that seem to violate the spirit of the first three of Ten Commandments revealed to Moses (no other Gods before me, no idols, no taking the Lord’s name in vain) and create a culture of spiritual stagnation and dependency that separates us from God and the source of Salvation.

Perhaps the central conceptual difficulty in creating this ethic is to find a way to ensure that community is not lost with the dissolution of some of the authority centralized in the prophet. As prophetic fallibility is spread and believed, the centralized authority of the Church will be weakened. In many ways, this is the opposite of what decades of work of correlation has done. But I believe it is a necessary work.

As a community, I believe that we risk missing out on the promise of continuing revelation. We are all the Body of Christ and if we don’t listen and talk with one another and express our pain and discontent at the actions of some of that Body, how can we grow and improve?

Our community risks being robbed of its richness and diversity. We risk losing our connection to the Divine. We must know and find God in each other, not just in the voice of one man. I have so much to learn from all of my fellow saints and may neglect their voices if I believe that one man speaks pure, unfiltered truth at all times.

Our communal spirituality can be deepened and strengthened, not weakened, by an ethic of fallibility.

Perhaps it may even inspire us to take more seriously the words that are shared by our prophet(s). To wrestle with them, to engage with them. To truly discuss and ponder them. To feast on them and to discuss them one with another. Rather than a culture that shares, listens, and is done, the sharing is simply the beginning. Gone would be the days of assigning a General Conference talk as the basis for sacrament meeting remarks, only to hear that talk parroted by each and every one of the speakers because the words were thought to be beyond challenging.

Maybe, we could have three or four different perspectives on that talk. Different readings of it that come from the speakers’ own lived experiences and expertise. I could perform a literary analysis, rooted in some sort of textual explication or intersections of postsecular-Marxist-intersectional feminist-queer theory. My brother (in med school) could weave in some discussion of the body and anatomy as a way of understanding what was shared. Cec could take a perspective of various therapy techniques, grounded in cutting-edge social science.

Or maybe, we could find a sense of unity by grounding ourselves more in our foundational Mormon texts: the Bible, the Book of Mormon, the Doctrine & Covenants, and the Pearl of Great Price. We engage fiercely with what these texts ask of us and use them to be in kinship one with another.

I’m not calling for prophets to stop speaking. Or for us to stop listening to them. I LOVE the doctrine of continuing revelation. I believe that we need to work with God to find more ways to Love, both God and our neighbors, better. We are far from living up to the commandments that Christ has given us and continuing revelation will be an essential part of building Zion. Continuing revelation will help us create the community that Christ can return to. Continuing revelation will guide us as we strive to embody the principle that all are alike unto God. Continuing revelation will teach us how to live according to God’s ways, even while we recognize that they are higher than our ways. Without continuing revelation, the word of God has been revealed. God no longer needs to speak to us, we simply need to find God’s truth in the texts that have been given.

Continuing revelation demands eternal progression. If revelation is constantly flowing, the work is never done. If revelation stops, we may stop progressing. I don’t think we’re done yet and eagerly await what may yet be revealed and to continue to strive to bring to pass God’s work on this Earth.

Let’s wrap up with some questions that animate the journey to this communal ethic of prophetic fallibility that I believe we need to cultivate:

How do we balance community and maintaining unity as a Church with the belief in prophetic fallibility?

If “following the prophet” cannot be the same rigid standard that it currently is, what can replace it?

Does a more rigorous understanding of prophetic fallibility create a need for institutional accountability?

If so, what does that look like?

How do we atone for the mistakes of past or current prophets?

What do we do when there is disagreement about whether any given prophetic pronouncement is from God?

Do we need a unified response to everything the prophet says?

What are the limitations of prophetic fallibility?

Where is the burden of proof? Do we assume that a statement is from God until proven otherwise? Or do we assume a statement is mortal until proven Divine?

Can a global Church have a less-centralized hierarchy?

Does a stronger belief in prophetic fallibility necessitate a less-centralized power structure?

What are the consequences of this?

If prophets can be wrong, why believe in them?

If prophets can be wrong, how should we believe in them?

How do we express dissent when we feel, after prayerful consideration, that a prophet has said something not of God?

Are there limitations on the proper expressions of dissent?

What exactly is the place for alternate voices, or loyal opposition?

How do I filter out personal pride and blindspots when seeking revelation about the Divinity or lack thereof of any given prophetic pronouncement?

How do I ensure that in displacing the idol of prophetic authority, I don’t simply replace it with an idol of my own authority?

How do we prevent ourselves from building new idols that we worship instead of God as we tear down the old ones?

What does it mean to sustain a fallible prophet?

I hope and pray that we can consider these questions together, as Mormon comrades in Christ. Please, reach out to me with any thoughts and insights that you have.

And now, let us close with the words of Brother Levi Savage that guide much of my relationship with Mormonism:

“What I have said I know to be true; but seeing you are to go forward, I will go with you, will help all I can, will work with you, will rest with you, and if necessary, will die with you. May God in [His/Her/Their] mercy bless and preserve us.”

God be with all of us.

Jesus: An Easter Speculative Profile

I was settling back into the swing of things, getting used to life again, when Cec burst in, talking a thousand miles an hour.

“He’s back! JC! Joshua! He’s…he’s…he’s back, I saw him, he’s here, he’s alive, he’s the same, but different, uh, like, JC IS ALIVE!”

I was dumbfounded.

“Alive?” I say slowly.

“YES. Alive! Like back from the dead! Like a zombie, but ya know, less…gross.”


I didn’t know what to think. Obviously, I believed Cec, but I couldn’t believe it. It was too much. I couldn’t bear to be disappointed again. No. I can’t fully let myself believe until I see him. The cost of hope is too high.

I sat, overcome with the feeling of hope that I couldn’t stop myself from feeling, no matter how hard I tried. How could I not believe my wife?

I look over at the clock.


“Shit. Babe, we’ve gotta get going or we’ll be late!”

We hurry to gather our things and H— before rushing to church.

As we’re hurrying we pass a middle-aged woman in disrepair, looking in need of a shower, holding a piece of cardboard with, “2 kids. No work. Need food. Anything helps.” scrawled on it. I scrounge for some cash and hand her five bucks without stopping.

Clouds are starting to gather above us.

We pick up the pace and make it inside, just as the rain starts to pour. The tall heavy wooden double doors of our old school chapel closing behind us.

I breathe a sigh of relief and the three of us find a seat.

We’re next to an older gentleman in the congregation, who is notorious for talking through the entire meeting. Immediately he starts in on some meanderings about a dog or a horse and the farm and a broken tractor and I’m trying to pay attention to the meeting while nodding and “uh huhing” along with the story so he doesn’t feel ignored.

This went on for a few minutes and then I glanced over at the old man and his eye twinkled.


I startled. Wait is that….no. It’s just Wilford. Just Wilford. What am I saying. Even as ye have done it unto the least of these. The woman from earlier flashed before my eyes. I’ve been failing you, JC.

I turn to Wilford and truly listen to him. As I turn, his eyes are welling up with tears, he’s talking about loss and pain and loneliness. I simply lock eyes with him and put my arm around him before pulling him in close. We stay like that for a moment, the rest of the chapel fading from view. He pulls away, and whispers, “Thank you.”

Thunder rumbles.

We sing some hymns, as I continue to ponder what has happened and what I’ve done.

I repeat the refrain that’s pulled me through the grief thus far.  

Lord, I believe.

Help thou mine unbelief.

The organ swells and the prayer’s about to start when thunder booms throughout the chapel, echoing along with the trample of the rain. The prayer begins and before the last “amen”, the sound of the thunder and rain ramps up and the doors begin to creak open.

I look back.

A tall, dark-skinned figure, head bowed, hair covering his face dripping with rain, pushes both doors open, in shadow, until he stands tall, moving his head out and to the right, shaking his long hair out of his face. The shorts and floral shirt are too good to be true. It can’t possibly be.

“Well, God surely does send down rain on the just and the unjust.”

His eyes twinkle, the smile that crosses his lips filled with renewed energy that I haven’t seen in months.

I climb to my feet and leap over the pew to run to him.

He opens his arms wide, grinning with his whole face, his whole being.

We embrace.

I’m cheering.

Tears stream down my face.

We hold each other close.

My friend. My brother. My king.

Jesus: A Saturday Speculative Profile

We had all gathered together. The old crew. All the places were laid and we were just getting food out (Cec and I were hosting so that we could step away and help out our daughter if need be). I was counting the places set one last time to ensure that we were totally covered.

“Twelve! There are thirteen of us, remember?”


He’s gone.



The grief catches me in surprising moments like this. I think that I’m totally fine and have come to terms with his absence when all of a sudden it hits me. He’s not here and I’m waiting.

Back to the wilderness.

I sometimes wonder if I’d be better off now if I’d never known him. If I never saw him heal. If he’d never ministered unto me. If I’d never felt my soul on fire with his teaching.

And then I can’t stand the thought. I can’t stand thinking about the ways that my life could have been better without JC. After all he did for me. For us.

I hate myself for even daring to think such a question. He’s fresh in the ground and I’m already wondering what all this was about and if it’d be be possible or even beneficial to imagine a world where I wasn’t wracked with guilt at every absence that I noticed.

Could I have arrived here without this pain and suffering? Or was this an essential part of my adult life experience?

But the grief is debilitating. Worse than before I met JC, because now I know what connecting with the divine is like. Back to seeing through the glass darkly. What am i supposed to do? What is the point?

What was true that he taught? What am I supposed to do with his message now, in the wilderness? He taught so much and promised so much that now seems impossible. How can the Kingdom come if the King is dead?

Even now with his loss the memories of being with him are starting to fade. Some of the things we saw seem impossible. Each passing hour changes what I feel and how I remember. Perhaps the Divinity and truth that I experienced wasn’t. Perhaps it was something less, some kind of trick.

God, how could this happen? How could you let them take him? We needed him? His work wasn’t done. We’d only just started, and now…

I need to keep him near me. Somehow keep him here. Remember him. Honor him. Serve him. I thought he said I’d see him again or that he’d be back or that this wasn’t the end, but I don’t know what he was talking about.

I wait.

I mourn.

I ache.

I suffer.

I need JC. I need him. Where can I find him?

Lord, I believe.

Help thou, my unbelief.

And still, I wait.

Jesus: A Friday Speculative Profile

There he was again. JC. Dressed in that damn orange jumpsuit. I tried to come every week, but life had gotten busy and it’d been awhile. But time was running out.

I looked up at him through the glass, his brown face looking back at me, long hair touching his shoulders in loose ringlets that he’d brush back every once in a while. His beard was trimmed pretty closely (from the trial, he’d refused to cut his hair, the help of an attorney, and even to say anything in his defense, but did clean up his beard a bit).

He was just looking at me. Those big, kind, eyes always felt like they were giving me a hug, when he was the one that needed comfort.

“It’s good to see you, Conor.”

“Good to see you too, JC. How are things?”

“My end is near, but things are good.”

I close my hand into a fist, squeezing my nails into my palm in anger and pain, hoping to stop the tears I could feel welling up.

“Why? Why couldn’t you just defend yourself? Or run away…we could’ve got you out of here…what are we going to do without you?” I trail off, looking down and off to the side before turning back, locking eyes, his gaze clearly never leaving me, “What am I going to do without you?”

His lips turned up into his familiar smile, weaker than usual.

“I am, who I am.”

“C’mon, JC, they’re going to fucking kill you and you’re…you’re being all cryptic and shit…”

“Hey. Conor.”

His hand was placed on the glass, splayed out and inviting.

I reluctantly bring mine to rest against the other side of the glass.

“I’ll be back. This isn’t the end. It’s only the beginning.”


“You’ll see.”

“But why why you? Couldn’t it be someone else? Anyone else? This isn’t right. You don’t deserve this, you…you…you”

“Does anyone here deserve this?” He asks, gesturing to the other inmates around him, “If they can’t have justice, why should I?”


“It’s good to see you, Conor. You’ll be here tonight?”

Tonight. Tonight was the end. The execution. Tonight they were going to kill JC. An innocent man.

I paused.

“I’ll be here.”

“Thank you. I’ll see you.”

He placed the receiver in its cradle. And started standing up before sitting back down and picking up the phone again.

“At least if I end up in Hell, I’ll be prepared to search for my book of life for eternity, right?”

I chuckle.

“Right,” I say with a soft smile.

He finally places the receiver in its cradle. And stands up to leave. He’d turned to walk away, but looked back to shoot some last finger guns at me, his eyes wearily twinkling as he walked back.  

I sat. Stunned.


It was time.

I was back at the prison. I’d dressed up, not sure why, but it felt right to witness JC’s final moments looking my best. Even though he rarely changed out of his patterned shirts and board shorts. I chuckled to myself remembering all the times we’d had — the fish sinking that boat, that wild snow storm, that night with H—. What am I going to do without you, JC?

They walk me back to the observing room. The chair is in the center.

I’d tried to stop myself, but I’d been devouring everything I could find on lethal injection and my stomach churned thinking about how fucked up the whole thing is.

They walked JC out, in chains.

They place him in the chair, and strap him in.

The doc is preparing the injection to the side.

This is it. The End.

The injection is placed, but before it can enter his blood stream, JC cries out, “God, where the hell are you hiding?”

The injection enters.

He slumps, twitching.

I gasp.

I stare dumbfounded.

It was finished.

Jesus: A Thursday Speculative Profile

JC and I walked in for dinner, pretty late. I hadn’t been home since I left early that morning, leaving Cec alone with Baby H— hours longer than I tried to.

It wasn’t that unusual for JC to join us. He didn’t really have anywhere else to go and often found himself at our table, which we were always grateful for. He was a delightful dinner guest, always ready with a witty retort and deep thoughts on everything (though to be honest, I sometimes felt a little like he was operating on a different plane than the rest of us, just seeing a totally different world than we see).

So, JC was over. But something felt different about tonight. He seemed preoccupied, some heaviness weighing him down.

We traded pleasantries and dinner was ready.

JC’s mind was clearly elsewhere, so Cec and I caught up on how each other’s day was, with JC occasionally chiming in. All of us taking turns with H— as the meal went on.

As we wrapped up, JC cleared all the plates and did the dishes (all of them, even the ones from days ago with food crusted onto the pots, pans, plates, and bowls). An unexpected kindness.

As he was finishing, he turned to me, “Conor, I know you’ve got work in the morning, but can you stay up with me? I’m waiting to hear from a friend and…”

“Of course, JC, I mean, Cec’s tired and I’ll probably need to help with H—, but I’ll be just in our room, awake, if you need me.”

His eyes filled with a gratitude, barely masking the pain and longing that was beneath.

“Thank you.”

After bustling around for a couple of hours, we left JC out on the couch, thumbing through Steven Peck’s A Short Stay in Hell, while we went to put H— to bed. Cec was out immediately, exhausted after caring for H— all day.

I woke up to JC, shaking me, my body splayed out across the bed, hand holding a pacifier in H—’s mouth.

“Conor, I’ll never shake the angst about eternity from this book!”

“……wha…..what….what book?” I slur out, still practically asleep.

“This one!” He whispers with necessity and excitement, brandishing Peck’s novella he’d been browsing earlier.

“Mmmmmm, it’s good…huh,” I manage to slip out before my eyes close.

H— is screaming.

My world is spinning. Something is happening. I have to do something. What is that noise? GAH, I scramble for my glasses and my phone to piece together what I’m experiencing.



I blink rapidly, trying to prevent my eyes from closing involuntarily. I reach over to H— and touch her chest, making quiet, calming noises, while I try to wake up enough to help her.

Cec is already awake, checking for a bottle or a diaper. Stumbling around.

“Babe, it’s ok, I’ve got her. You sleep,” I tell her, still feeling some guilt for leaving her alone with H practically the entire day before.

I picked up H— and tried to calm her down, when JC walked in, and I realized that I’d left him totally alone with the existential angst of Hell and felt awful.

“JC, I’m so…”

He simple shook his head, his long curls gently jostling, before reaching out for H.

“Hey, H—…” he trails off, lifting her from my arms and looking deep into her eyes. “Sleep, Conor, I’ll take her.”

“Are you sure?”

He looked at me with that same bone-weary, yet kind look.

“I’m sure.”

“Thank you…” I mumble as he turns to leave.

I get one more look at H— and got the strange feeling that she was helping him as much as he was helping her.   

Jesus: A Wednesday Speculative Profile

Nothing was ever quite the same after I met Joshua. He had a knack for upending life, bringing in the unexpected.

I was in the middle of teaching a class when he first came in. We were talking about rhetoric and the ethics of persuasion and finding common ground, when all of a sudden the door opens, which wasn’t that unusual, and this guy looks in. He’s a little wild looking, but overall, he’s fairly nondescript. I couldn’t give you a clear physical description of him.

I stop and turn, leaving space for him to jump in with his question if he had one and there’s nothing. I wait expectantly.


I turn back to my students, “So, how can you use appeals to pathos ethically?”

“Come,” the stranger at the door beckons, “follow me.”

He then bounds off, the last thing I saw of him before he was out of the classroom, was a knowing smile, with a twinkle in his eye.

I didn’t.


I was out with some friends on the lake. We were sorta fishing, but mostly just wanted to hang and laze about in our boat. I kinda hated fishing, to be totally honest. I’d fished a handful of times with scouting as a kid, but it was so boring (and then you had to kill and gut the fish, which was gross and smelled awful). Anyway. We were fishing.

We’d been out all day and were about to come in. Nothing to show for our efforts. Which is the absolute worst. Usually, we at least had some fresh fish to fry, but nothing. Just vaguely smelling like worms and lakewater.

Then, suddenly, there’s a guy on the shore. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t totally recognize him at the distance (not to mention the angle the sun was at).

He calls out to us, “How’s the fishing?”

“Rubbish!” I yell back, as my friends mock my persistent and haphazard use of British slang.

“Try it once more! Cast all your rods on the left side.”

We all look at each other, rolling our eyes, but something about this exuberant guy made me want to humor him.

So we did. Expecting nothing.

I held my rod lacklusterly, not paying attention, until it suddenly jerked and pulled me forward before I caught myself.

As I braced myself against the deck, I looked around and realized that everyone else was experiencing the same thing. We started to reel in our respective catches. As we’re all reeling and reeling, straining against what felt like a blue whale, I look back at the shore and the man has his hand to his mouth, trying (and failing) to stifle laughter.

I land what I think is going to be some monster fish, as do all of my friends. The deck is groaning under the collective weight of these massive fish, when an entire school of fish leaps out of the lake and onto the deck, flopping everywhere. Where suddenly swimming in fish. Slipping and sliding as I try to get out of the ankle-deep pile of fish. The boat is now taking on water, and we’re desperately trying to navigate back to shore, fighting off untold numbers of fish, and the man is now doubled over in laughter.

We land the boat and all manage to get off, pulling fish out of our pockets and sleeves.

As we struggle to figure out what is going on, I finally got a look at this stranger, wearing bermuda shorts, sandals, and a floral shirt, unbuttoned showing his dark brown chest. He had some sunglasses that he pushed up to rest on his black, flowing, shoulder-length hair, revealing the same face that peeked into my classroom. He reached out his hand, saying through an ear to ear grin and barely recovered from his laughter, “Hey, I’m Joshua.”

“Get the hell away from me, man. I cannot handle whatever it is you’ve got going on,” I retort, pushing his hand away.

“Oh, come on, I’ll make you fishers,” he paused, that twinkle in his eye back, suggesting he was very pleased with what he was about to say, “of men.”

I left.


This was a mistake.

The storm raged all around us. Shit. We’re going to die.

We were stranded in the midst of a wild snowstorm, off road, wind and snow blowing in all directions. I couldn’t see anything. Anywhere. We’d tried to walk through it earlier, but fell through the snow banks that were everywhere, not to mention, just being utterly unable to keep our feet steady with the wind and snow.

The snow was starting to bury our truck. Soon we would be unable to open the doors.

A figure was up ahead. Somehow walking eerily through the storm.

“Uh, guys, you see that?” I ask, nudging Andrew next to me, pointing out at this vague person-like figure moving in our direction.

I don’t believe in the abominable snowman or yetis, but damn, what else could be here?
As the figure got closer, the colors were bright, florals maybe?


Everyone looks at me slightly shocked, but awaiting my explanation of what could possibly cause such an exclamation given the near-rock-bottom place we already were.

“It’s that Joshua dude.”

“No way, it can’t be. No human could possibly survive this storm, especially be walking like that. Ask him.”

I look incredulous, but after some more cajoling, figure, what do I have to lose?

I roll down the window and stick my head out and yell, “Who are you?”

“C’mon, man, I’m Joshua! Just look at me!”

He had a point.

But for some reason, felt possessed to say what came out of my mouth next.

“If it’s really you, Joshua, ask me to come to you.”

“Alright, Conor. Come.”

I did.

Jesus: A Tuesday Speculative Profile

I was late. I had to finish up some things at the office before I could leave for the day and my manager kept piling on tasks that I had to finish. It was exhausting. We had our regular meeting of the fringes that night and I was looking forward to actually doing something about all these systems of oppression that surrounded us. Seize the means of production and all that.

I hopped off the bus and quickly walked through the last couple of blocks to get to where we were all meeting. The place was packed. Sports cars and even some sort of law enforcement vehicles were out front. People were everywhere, many of whom I don’t think I’d ever seen before. Something didn’t seem quite right about all of this.  

I walked inside and there was JC, at the table, surrounded by some of our regular crew: John a gay spiritual leader, Pete the sort of violent anarchist from Southeast Asia, and Mary the black, queer activist and pioneer. Yet, there were others I didn’t recognize at first. But as I looked closer, I was bewildered. An ICE agent in the corner chatting with a regular, Carlos. Then there was a crowd of Wall Street types, dressed to the nines in suits that probably cost more than I made in a month. A handful of others were scattered throughout the room that I’d never seen before, that looked somewhat uncomfortable with the crowd.

What was happening.

We were supposed to be planning a protest for this weekend against the very sorts of oppressive forces that these newcomers represented. How could we do that with them all around us? What the hell was JC thinking?

I was fuming.

My fists were clenching, unbidden. Breathe. Calm down. There’s gotta be a reason for this. I was just calming myself when one of the Wall Street bros (he looks like a Chad, he’s gotta be a Chad) came over to JC and hands him this bottle of Screaming Eagle Cabernet that cost more than I had made in my entire life. Combined. Hundreds of thousands of dollars.

I lost it.

I stormed over and snatched it from the dudebro’s hands, as JC was reaching for it.
“Now, look, man. I know you probably don’t realize this, but we could do so much more good with the money you spent on this bottle. Think of the poor! What are you even doing here? Do you even know what JC is about?”

He was flabbergasted. Stumbling over his words, as I clenched the bottle, a miracle that it didn’t shatter into a thousand pieces (or a testament to my scrawniness).

JC reached up, gently removing the bottle from my death grip.

He nods apologetically to Wall Street, as I turn to look at him, deflated and hurt.

“JC, what’s all this? We were on the cusp of SOMETHING. We were about to do great things. Great things! And now…” I trail off as I wave my hand at all the partying and gluttony that surrounded us, “this.”

JC looks at me, then to the bottle in his hand and turns it over, drinking in every detail of the craftsmanship. Hyperfocused.

He gestures for a couple of glasses, opens the bottle and pours two glasses.

He hands one to me, which I refuse, putting my hands up in front of me.

He shrugs and purposefully swirls the wine beneath his nose, breathing in.

He sips, letting the cabernet flow gently throughout his mouth.


“I…I…I don’t understand. I thought you stood for the marginalized, the oppressed, the sinner, but these…”

“I do.”

“But, how can you stand for all of them, when you’re, you’re here, eating and drinking with the enemy! The oppressor! The very thing we’re fighting against! Drinking their wine!”

“It’s a mighty fine wine.”

“JC…that’s the point. We could do so much good with that money, instead of squandering it on wine. Typical Wall Street…selfish.”

JC moves his hand to my shoulder. He reaches for the glass of wine he offered me earlier and offers it again. His eyes steady, looking directly at me. That mix of steeliness and joy that is so damn intoxicating. His lips turn up in a weary smile.

I take the glass.

“That is a mighty fine wine.”

I join him on the couch.

“Conor, are these not all sinners? All need what we preach. Even the oppressor, the sinner, the enemy.”

“But, but, how can the oppressor and the oppressed sit and eat at the same table? Doesn’t that fail to really bring about justice?”

JC sorta shrugs and looks meaningfully to the bottle of wine on the table.

“Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.”



JC looked up from the ground, where he’d been drawing in the dirt with some kids.

“What’s up?”

I looked sheepishly around.

“Can you heal this woman’s daughter? I tried and…” I sighed and lowered my head, “nothing happened.”

“Bring her here.”

I mouth, “thank you” as I go with the woman to bring her daughter to JC.

As we enter the woman’s house I’m struck once again by how little they have. There’s a beat-up laptop on the table, open to a GoFundMe page, trying to raise money for treatment for Rebecca, the woman’s daughter. Brochures for various alternative medicine are scattered throughout the house. The woman, Kristina, looks like she hasn’t slept well in months. Lines of worry crease her face.    

“Sorry about the mess,” she says to me after we’ve been in the house for a few minutes, as if she just realized the disarray and disaster that surrounded us.

“Don’t worry about it. What’s going to be the best way to get your daughter to JC?”

We figured out how to get Rebecca from the house to JC (Rebecca’s wheelchair worked most of the way and then we cobbled together a ramp and some other things to make it the final stretch).

As soon as Rebecca wheeled up to JC, his face lit up.

“Your sins are forgiven you!” He shouted, arms raised to the sky, before crouching down and kneeling in front of her, clasping her hands in his, their eyes locked, whispering earnestly “your sins are forgiven you.”

Weeping, she breathed, “Thank you, brother.”

As JC straightened and turned to return to the children, she caught his shirt, “Wait.”


He stopped and turned to face her again, waiting.

“Heal me.”

He nodded and crouched again, placing his hands on her knees, and pressing his forehead to hers, “Rise, and walk.”

Kristina and Rebecca embraced, mother and child, as if for the first time, holding each other. Tears streaming down their faces.

JC grinned softly before jogging over to the kids playing, his hair flowing in the wind.