SpaceX Falcon 9 rocket. Photo: SpaceX via Wikimedia Commons.

I want to reflect today on a story I read recently, a story that, in a strange and heartbreaking way, speaks volumes about the limits of human aspiration and the enduring reality of God’s sovereignty over creation.

I confess, as a lifelong Trekkie, I have often imagined my own final journey, inspired by that famous, poetic burial of Mr. Spock in The Wrath of Khan. I dreamt of having my body reach for the cosmos, but after reading this story, I think I’ll settle for a more earthly resting place: a plot of dirt right here in Chicago’s Graceland Cemetery.

The story I read is of a final journey, one chosen by 166 souls: scientists, dreamers, and fans of the cosmos, who wished to make deep space their eternal resting place. In June of 2025, their cremated remains were aboard a special memorial capsule, designed to orbit our blue marble before its eventual return. It was meant to be the ultimate triumph of technology over finitude: an eternal memorial among the stars.

The imagination behind this is immense, and perhaps, beautiful. We all feel the desire to transcend the dirt, the rain, and the limits of the grave. But this journey, powered by one of the most advanced launch systems in the world, did not reach its planned destination.

Shortly after a failed attempt, completing its controlled re-entry to save the mission, the capsule’s parachutes failed to deploy. Instead of a soft landing, it crashed into the Pacific Ocean.

What was meant to be a burial among the stars became, instead, a burial at sea.

The memorial service, meant for the stars, was sharing space with companion payloads that included scientific instruments and, on this very commercial space mission carrying the remains, even cannabis seeds and plant matter intended for an extraterrestrial growth experiment.

There is a profound, almost biblical irony in that descent. In our Reformed tradition, we talk about the doctrine of creation, and the truth of imago Dei, that we are made in God’s image. We also acknowledge the consequence of human pride, the deep-seated impulse to be as God, to erase our limits, to conquer mortality itself.

This impulse, this striving to use technology to defeat the simple, humbling reality of “dust you are and to dust you shall return” is the very definition of modern hubris.

We believe that if we build a machine fast enough, powerful enough, and tall enough, we can finally escape the constraints placed upon us by our Creator. But when the sacred ritual of burial becomes a line item on a commercial manifest, sharing space with the purely mundane or experimental, we reveal a spiritual emptiness.

But creation, in its elemental power, is relentless. The ocean, often a symbol of chaos and untamable might in Scripture, reached up and reclaimed what the machine had tried to defy. The cold water, the immense pressure, the anonymity of the deep, these were the humbling realities that replaced the infinite promise of the void.

The lesson for us, as people of faith, is not to judge the desires of those families, but to understand our own spiritual geography. We are, after all, dreamers who look up and imagine an ultimate transcendent farewell.

Yet, our hope does not and cannot rest on the success of a rocket launch. The ultimate memorial for those we love is not located in any physical place, be it deep space or a churchyard plot. It rests in the unbreakable promise of the Resurrection, a promise that operates outside the laws of physics and the whims of technology.

In a world obsessed with transcendence through engineering, where we attempt to launch our dearest hopes alongside commercial crops, the failure of that spacecraft is a powerful, sorrowful reminder: our final journey is not dictated by NASA or SpaceX, but by the love and grace of the One who holds the stars and the sea in the palm of His hand. When the rocket fails, our faith must hold. And in the mystery of God, it always does.

Someone from my church said it’s only Tuesday and it’s already been an extremely exhausting week. She asked for me to record a prayer.

So, let us pray.

Loving God, we come before You weary and heavy with the weight of the world. The headlines never stop. The alerts on our phones shake us awake before we are ready. The voices from places of power shout over each other, while those most vulnerable among us—our neighbors, our elders, our children—wait for news of help that never seems to come.

We pray for calm, Lord—calm in our spirits when the noise grows too loud, calm in our hearts when fear begins to rise, calm in our homes and neighborhoods where ICE and CBP bring terror instead of peace, where the uncertainty of paychecks, food, and shelter gnaws at the edges of our hope.

Grant us the courage to breathe deeply in Your presence. Let Your peace be a shield against despair. Help us to see one another through the eyes of compassion, to remember that we belong to each other, and that Your love holds us even in the storm. May Your still, small voice remind us that the chaos of this world is not the end of the story—that justice, mercy, and peace are still possible, and that You, O God, are still here: steady, faithful, and near to the brokenhearted.

Amen.

It’s that time of year again. The pledge cards are coming out, the spreadsheets are starting to grow, and pastors and stewardship teams all over the country are taking a deep breath before we start asking our people to give.

If you’re not familiar with Edgewater Presbyterian Church, go ahead and look it up on Wikipedia. You’ll see our 100-year-old building on Chicago’s North Side, a 52,000-square-foot community house that hums with life. Inside are art studios and black box theaters. There’s the Nepali Cultural Center, Humanity Relief for refugees and immigrants, and rooms filled with activity and hope. But that also means 52,000 square feet of lights to keep on, water to run, heat and air conditioning to pay for, locks to fix, and security to keep our people safe. And when something breaks, our saintly Dwight Elmore has to figure out if he can repair it himself before we have to call in the professionals.

Add to that the ministries we love—the worship services, the fellowship hall dinners, the community meetings, the choir rehearsals, the youth events, the basketball games in the old gym. Each one takes resources, planning, staff hours, and care. It’s not just running a church. It’s running a living, breathing part of the neighborhood.

And yet, this is the part of church life I hate the most. Asking for money. Talking about budgets. Watching the numbers not quite meet the dreams. They don’t teach this part in seminary. You study theology, Scripture, pastoral care. You learn to preach about love, grace, and hope. But no one pulls you aside and says, “Oh, by the way—you’ll also have to figure out how to make a buck if you want to keep the lights on.”

Still, here we are. Because as much as I hate this part, I also love what it makes possible. Every dollar pledged is a sermon in itself. It’s a statement of faith that says, “I believe in this place. I believe in what God is doing here.” The pledges keep our doors open to the artists, the immigrants, the students, the seekers. They keep the sanctuary warm on Sunday mornings and the gym bright on cold winter nights when people need somewhere to go.

So, if you’re out there listening and you’re dreading this season—if you’re a pastor or a finance elder or a stewardship chair and you’re feeling that same knot in your stomach—hear me: you’re not alone. You’re doing holy work. You’re helping make ministry possible. It’s awkward, it’s uncomfortable, and it’s not what we signed up for when we said yes to ministry. But it is one of the most faithful things we do.

Because stewardship isn’t just about money. It’s about trust. It’s about building a community that believes enough in the mission to carry it forward. It’s about saying, “This church matters.”

So take a breath. Step into the pulpit. Send that email. Make that ask. Because this, too, is gospel work. And even though they never teach it in seminary, it’s part of how we keep God’s light burning in the heart of our neighborhoods.

There’s a haunting scene from Renaissance Florence that still speaks to our own time. On May 23, 1498, the Dominican friar Girolamo Savonarola stood on the gallows in the Piazza della Signoria. The Church that once praised him for his piety now condemned him as a heretic. The same city that once gathered to hear his sermons now gathered to watch him burn. As the flames rose, someone in the crowd shouted, “If you can work miracles, work one now!” and when the fire made his hand lift as if in blessing, the crowd panicked and scattered. It was as though conscience itself had momentarily reached out through the smoke to remind them what they had done.

Savonarola was no saint, and truthfully, I never cared for his brand of religion. His iconoclasm—his hatred of art, his denunciation of beauty, his censorship of the imagination—ran contrary to everything that makes faith human and culture alive. But beyond that, his fearless voice against corruption remains admirable. He stood before popes, princes, and merchants and told them that their greed was poisoning the soul of the city. He spoke against the rot he saw in both the Church and the state, and he paid with his life.

That story isn’t trapped in the fifteenth century. It repeats itself whenever power wraps itself in holiness and calls injustice divine. We are seeing it again now. When a government weaponizes fear—sending agents into our neighborhoods to raid homes, detain parents, and terrorize children—it claims to uphold the law but acts against love and mercy. And when Christian nationalists cheer it on, praying over the cruelty as if it were a holy cause, that isn’t faith. It is blasphemy. It is the spiritual corruption of a Church that has forgotten who it is supposed to serve.

Faith should be a check against tyranny, not its megaphone. The early followers of Jesus faced down empire by living compassion, not by aligning with it. They sheltered strangers, fed the hungry, and cared for prisoners. To follow that example today means to resist systems that strip dignity from immigrants, the poor, or anyone cast aside. It means confronting the state when it crushes the vulnerable, and confronting the Church when it blesses that cruelty in God’s name.

We can’t just oppose political corruption; we have to oppose spiritual corruption too. Because if the soul of a nation decays under the weight of fear and nationalism, no election or policy can save it. What will save it are people who remember that the fire of conscience still burns hotter than the bonfires of hate. People who, when told to stand aside, stand up instead.

And this weekend, we can do exactly that. On No Kings Day this Saturday, when people will gather downtown to declare that no man, no ruler, no president stands above the people or above God, we can be Savonarola in our own way. Not by condemning art or beauty, but by speaking truth to power; not by burning books, but by igniting conscience. We can stand shoulder to shoulder and say that tyranny has no place here. We can say that our faith does not serve kings—it serves the poor, the hungry, and the displaced.

Savonarola’s hand may have lifted in the flames by accident, but maybe it was also a sign—a reminder that even in the face of death, faith can still move, still bless, still point toward a better way. And that’s what we are called to do now: to keep faith alive in a world that would rather burn it down, to walk into the streets on No Kings Day and say, with courage and clarity, that love is still stronger than fear, and conscience still burns brighter than any throne.

Photo: Gerald Farinas.

The Cubs may be out of the postseason, but our hearts in Chicago have not lost their rhythm of gratitude. This past Sunday was Pastor Appreciation Day, and the honors continue throughout October with Clergy Appreciation Month. At Edgewater Presbyterian Church, our congregation surprised the Rev. Kristin Hutson with words of deep appreciation during the Prayers of the People. It was a small, heartfelt way to acknowledge what she brings to our spiritual lives.

But the truth is, what we see of our pastors and all who serve in church leadership is just the tip of the iceberg. Behind every Sunday sermon, every hospital visit, every comforting prayer, lies an entire world of work that most of us never witness. The role of a pastor extends far beyond the pulpit. It includes administrative duties, financial oversight, building maintenance, human resources, conflict management, and community relations. These are not the glamorous parts of ministry. They are the hard, gritty, sometimes downright nasty parts.

As a member of the Presbytery of Chicago’s Commission on Preparation for Ministry, I have read comments from candidates who dread this side of the calling. They speak of endless emails, budget meetings, and personnel disputes. They talk about the exhaustion of having to be both spiritual shepherd and business manager, counselor and custodian, preacher and problem solver. Many go into ministry to provide compassionate care, only to find that compassion alone will not keep the lights on or the roof from leaking. Yet without that administrative labor, the bulletins, the budgets, the phone calls, everything that supports that care would fall apart.

And then there is the emotional side. Pastors are not just caretakers; they are emotional vessels. Every joy, every heartbreak, every confession and cry for help that their parishioners pour out gets collected somewhere within them. They absorb the grief of the bereaved, the anger of the disappointed, the fears of the anxious. They hold these emotions with grace, but even grace has its limits when one person carries the collective weight of a community’s sorrow and hope week after week.

We expect our pastors to be endlessly patient, always wise, always available. Yet they are human, and the emotional toll of ministry can be immense. Burnout is common. Loneliness is real. The expectation to always be the calm in the storm often leaves no room for pastors to experience their own storms.

So during Clergy Appreciation Month, maybe our appreciation can go deeper than words. We can listen to our pastors without expecting them to fix everything. We can volunteer to take on some of the work that wears them down. We can remember that compassion is a two-way street. Our care for them is part of our faith too.

Because when our pastors stand at the pulpit or beside the hospital bed, they are doing so not just as ministers but as human beings who have chosen to bear the burdens of others. And that is no small thing.

The fact that I had to meet with a couple of the Edgewater Mutual Aid volunteers about my plan for an ICE raid during the most basic thing of giving out food to hungry people not only saddens me, it angers me to my core.

It was just three of us talking. Outside, the other volunteers were starting to gather on the church steps, stamping their feet against the fall chill, chatting softly and keeping a lookout as they did for those government agents, as they waited to come in and start separating the produce donations into little bags. Eggplant, bittermelon, lemongrass, tomatillos and tomatoes, among other things, the weekly work of feeding neighbors in need.

These are volunteers who’ve always been ready for direct action. They’ve trained, they’ve shown up for protests, they’ve helped organize marches and safety plans. But this morning felt different. The air carried something heavier than cold. It was anxiety, a low hum beneath every conversation, a shared look in every passing glance.

Because all day yesterday, ICE and CBP agents were in our usually quiet lakefront neighborhood, detaining people, or rather, abducting people, dragging them into unmarked SUVs driven by masked and unidentifiable villains of the State.

That’s what they are. Villains. The kind who make neighbors disappear and then claim it’s for law and order.

So here we were, trying to plan for something no one should ever have to plan for: what to do if those same black SUVs roll up while we’re just trying to give out food. What to do if compassion becomes confrontation.

We talked through the basics, who would be on the lookout, who would document, who would calm people down. It all sounded so methodical, so strangely clinical, as if we were planning a fire drill instead of bracing for the Trump Administration to descend on our doorstep.

And as we spoke, I could hear the muffled laughter of volunteers outside, laughter that felt fragile, like it could shatter with the sound of the next siren.

I looked toward the Sanctuary, just beyond the Fellowship Hall wall. Inside that space, Pastor Barbara Cathey baptized children, Allison Mann led us in our hymns, Pastor Kristin Hutson prayed for peace. And now, on the other side of the wall, we were preparing for raids.

This is what it has come to, the work of hospitality shadowed by the machinery of fear.

It’s hard to describe what that does to the soul of a city. But if you’ve ever stood in that tension, between generosity and danger, you know it’s not abstract. It’s real. It’s the Chicago front.

And yet, despite the fear, despite the exhaustion, I know these volunteers will keep showing up. They’ll keep bagging the produce, welcoming the hungry, praying with one eye on the door. Because love, real, embodied love, doesn’t retreat.