Baptist Spirituality

I am not entirely sure why I had so much trouble coming up with a subject for my sabbatical. I knew that in order to be competitive for the Lilly Clergy Renewal Endowment, I needed (1) to study something, anything; (2) to study something that “makes my heart sing”; and (3) to study something that is unique and competitive, but sustainable — you know, not something that is a shot in the dark just to win a grant.

When I originally applied for the grant in 2019, I was going to study Baptist origins and history. I was energized because it was going to bring me to far-off places, such as the United Kingdom, Ireland and the like. Besides, my family was going to travel with me and excited to visit places familiar to the world of Harry Potter, Shakespeare, and J. R. R. Tolkien. But, unfortunately, I had to withdraw my application from the grant because of COVID.

Here I was, nearly three years later, and several of those dreams were off the table: I do not want to travel oversees. Baptist history is no longer sustainable, since my heart no longer “sings” at the prospect of sifting through old sermons, letters, and histories of my spiritual ancestors. My children are all grown and have no intentions of traveling anytime soon. (This was a point of grief, mind you).

When I revisited the thought of (and the deep need for) sabbatical in this season of life, I really struggled with a topic. When you are working tirelessly in ministry with very little fuel to give to other ventures in life, things become stale and stagnant. What was going to make my heart sing?! I didn’t have the stamina or emotional bandwidth to sing at all!

In 2023, there came a distinct turning point. It consisted of a very simple daughter-and-daddy date with my daughter, Haleigh. We went to eat somewhere, maybe Casey’s, and she asked, “If you were to live in a fictional world, such as Middle Earth or Oz, where would you live?”

Without skipping a beat, I said, “The starship Enterprise from Star Trek.” When I heard the words come out of my mouth, I felt (for the first time in a long time) my heart leap! My heart sang! “LA, LA, LAAAAA!”

For the next month, I couldn’t get the thought out of my mind: How do I explore the stars? How do I invest meaningful time understanding the origins of the universe? How do I enter more fully in the heart and person of God with a new opportunity to learn about God’s majestic creation– a subject that has captivated my imagination since I was little?

What better way to study God’s great cosmos and creation than to devote a sabbatical to it?

I started pouring over my library for a resource and trajectory to harness the energy of this volcanic emotion, some avenue of learning that would help me to frame my intentions for sabbatical.

My first (and last) place to look was in the literature of my favorite author Barbara Brown Taylor, whose observations on life, from the significance of darkness, to reflections on how wondrous mosquitos are, always captured my imagination.

I finally arrived at her brief monograph on science and faith, The Luminous Web, and read the essay, “The Evolution of Praise.” In it, she moves readers from the very seed of the universe, with all its power and glory and matter, to a chorus of voices that gives glory to the Creator. Speaking on the origins of the universe, she writes,

When I survey this fifteen-billion-year-old history (which has more good guesses in it than hard facts), it is difficult to miss the most stunning miracle of creation: That in us, the universe became conscious. We are the first creatures to articulate the motion of the planets. We are the first creatures to discern the commonality of all life. For those of us who believe God is the source from which we all arose, we are the first creatures to say so out loud. . . God may well prefer the sound of spring peepers, but I have to believe there was joy in heaven when the first human being looked at the sky and said, ‘Thank you for this’” (p. 31-32).

God may well prefer the sound of spring peepers, but I have to believe there was joy in heaven when the first human being looked at the sky and said, ‘Thank you for this.’”

There it was. In just one short essay, I had my subject and nearly my proposal. How was I going to understand my part in this vast creation, with all its mysteries and miracles? How was I going to translate this new inspiration for learning about God’s creation with inviting my congregation to come along with me on an adventure that sweeps the universe?

And for the next year, I’ve been hard at work trying to do just that in writing my grant proposal. It isn’t perfect, hopefully good enough to get a grant award; but, it is a start. It is an invitation. The next season is to reach for the stars, to, as John Claypool used to say about preaching, go out into the world and report back on where God is at work.