Author: ericjogi

My aunt Lucy—a vivacious nun who is the embodiment of Catholic social teaching—was the only one present with my mom and dad when I was born. Since that moment, she has believed that God had a distinct call on my life. She has often reminded me of this. I typically responded with a smile of gratitude and humility, although I was never quite as convinced as her. Twenty-six years later, my dad proudly posted about my acceptance into seminaries on Facebook. “We could see it coming in the birthing room!” she commented.

But my faith has not always been so affirmed. On a resplendent August afternoon before my senior year at UW-Madison I met for lunch with my mentor, the Director of Campus Crusade for Christ (Cru). I was heavily involved with Cru for three years in college leading the worship band and Bible studies and mentoring freshmen. We began by laughing and exchanging stories from our summer adventures. As our conversation shifted to the year ahead, my mentor looked at me with anticipation: “Eric, I want you to lead a group that gets to know Muslim students and shares the gospel with them.” I paused as he finished his invitation, the hope being that some would “accept Jesus as their Lord and Savior.” “I… I can’t lead this group,” I stated mutedly. With a deep breath, I explained my reservations and growing questions, which I knew were out of bounds in that Evangelical world: gender and sexual diversity and religious pluralism.

I could no longer ignore these questions. Over the previous year, I had developed friendships with: Mike, a deeply spiritual gay Catholic student who confided in me as the first person to whom he came out; Huda, a Muslim student with whom I took classes on the Bible and who had a fiery passion for social justice; and Levi, a Jewish student and active leader in Hillel—the center for Jewish student life—who had recently begun his own coming out process. My questions now had faces. Even more, in these friends I caught an unmistakable glimmer of God. As in a manger in Bethlehem, at table in Capernaum, and on the hillsides of Galilee; as on a mount called Golgotha and the road to Emmaus—still today: Divinity incarnates among us, challenging and invigorating our faith with an invitation to embrace a counter-cultural and boundary-breaking love. Emmanuel: God is with us indeed—if we have eyes to see.

Having given this candid and vulnerable account of my journey to my mentor, I added what I had come in knowing was inevitable: “I need to step down from leadership and give my questions space.” With tears in his eyes, my mentor looked at me and said: “Eric, I remember a guy who was so in love with Jesus and passionate about his faith that he would do anything for him. I wonder what happened to that guy?” For a moment my head and heart felt paralyzed. I stared blankly, trying to consider his words but only felt a sharp piercing of my soul. “I do love Jesus,” was all that echoed in my mind. After a long, heavy silence, I added: “Ministry is what I am most passionate about. It’s the one thing I know I want to do with my life.”

Despite this earnest statement, my mentor and Campus Crusade community saw my questions as a sign of failing faith. The truth, however, was that my faith and my personal identity have always been so inextricably intertwined that the idea of “losing my faith” was completely nonsensical. From my earliest years, I was raised breathing the liturgy and soaking in the hymns at Peace United Church of Christ. During high school retreats I sat with my pastor to write liturgy and select hymns for the service our group led upon our return. At a friend’s youth group, I began leading music in worship and Bible studies with peers. Before long, my siblings were jokingly referring to me as “Pastor Eric,” which, of course, was a play on the fact that our pastor’s name was also Eric. During and after college, I often returned home to help lead Vacation Bible School, youth retreats and mission trips. For me, God has always been a given. My struggle has never been with God’s existence, but rather with what God’s existence and revelation in Jesus of Nazareth means for how I live my life. In spite of this, a canyon was swiftly forged between this campus ministry and me, and I became a heretical outcast. Suddenly, for the first time in my life I had no local spiritual community or support. Needless to say, I began my last year in Madison deeply wounded.

By God’s grace, I eventually found The Crossing, a UCC and ecumenical campus ministry. This community approached faith very differently than Campus Crusade. They encouraged me to ask honest questions about faith and life and challenged me to live more justly, compassionately, and humbly, and assisted me in discovering more fully who I was and who God was calling me to be. They not only fed my soul that year as a student, but they then called me into ministry for three powerfully (trans)formative years afterward. Thankfully, throughout my entire journey—and especially when my Campus Crusade community assumed my faith was deteriorating—Pastor Eric also appreciated and nurtured my curiosity as a sign of deepening faith. His mentoring companionship and the steadfast love offered me by Peace Church are two of the most significant factors in my path to ordination.

However, it was only in retrospect after several years of excavating the depths of my questions, fears and longings that I realized just how true my words—“Ministry is the one thing I know I want to do with my life”—were on that brilliant yet disheartening August afternoon. As I stand on the verge of ordination and ask with the great African-American mystic and theologian, Howard Thurman, “What makes [me] come alive?” I undoubtedly know it to be the labors of ministry. Thurman exhorts: “What the world needs is people who have come alive,” so “go do it.” So I am, humbled again to know in my soul that this is not just what I want; it is what God has been midwifing me toward since my birth.

covenant & autonomy: the United Church of Christ, the local church, and me

What better way is there to speak of our UCC polity than through the theological framework of covenant and autonomy? After all, we are the “united and uniting” church that came together under the vision “that they all may be one” (John 17:21). Still, it could often be said of us that “covenant remains…problematic…and is frequently outdone by autonomy in tests of strength and inclination.”[1] Autonomy is a signature of the UCC in all of its settings. Theological diversity is fundamental to who we are, the protection of which manifests itself in our governing structure. With Christ alone as the head of the church, there is no centralized authority that imposes theological or social pronouncements. As is often heard around the UCC, each setting speaks to the others, not for them, which means that the power and authority for decision making ultimately resides in the individual members of individual congregations.

Autonomy has enabled the national setting, General Synod, to make bold stands on social issues—like gender equality and LGBTQ rights—as it has attempted to be the headlights rather than the taillights on issues of justice. This has led many to join the denomination over the years, especially those marginalized and rejected by faith communities elsewhere. However, this same autonomy has led some of those who feel slighted or dismissed by these progressive stands to withdraw their denominational membership. “Not surprisingly,” Mary Gast writes, “there are times when the varied voices of the UCC put a strain on the power of the first personal plural pronoun—‘we’—to adequately represent [all of] ‘us.’” Indeed, “when do we speak of the UCC as ‘we’?” And, “When does the ‘we’ become ‘they?’ ‘them, over there?’” Attention to the gap between “we” and “they” is crucial for thinking our polity through covenant.[2] Covenant is not merely that which balances autonomy; it is fundamental to our understanding of autonomy. In describing our polity, therefore, we must look again to our rich theological heritage.

At the twelfth General Synod in 1979, Rev. Walter Brueggemann spoke precisely of the relational nature of covenant and the implications of imagining our polity through it. Covenant, he said, is “a way of being committed to each other as God is committed to us, a way of being defined by, accountable to, and responsible for each other…pledged to solidarity across ideological lines and prepared to live in sustained engagement with one another in ways that impinge on and eventually transform all parties.”[3] Transformation doesn’t seek the assimilation of others, nor does it merely lead us to tolerate our differences. Rather, it insists that we are not simply a collection of separate individuals; we are inextricably bound together in a web of mutual becoming. None of us can realize our own humanity except by participating in its realization for others. As such, our communal identity is not fixed or static; it is inherently dynamic and ever evolving. Those who were “them” yesterday may join and become “us” today, but “they” do not assimilate and dissolve. Indeed, it is not only “they” who are changed in the uniting, but “we” all, and “in ways that impinge on and eventually transform all parties.” This covenantal articulation of our identity as relational and dynamic instead of autonomous and static has significant implications for our polity as well as navigating the challenges of change.

In the language of covenant, the various settings of the UCC do not merely coexist by remaining together so long as their interests overlap. Rather, they work cooperatively and with mutuality, serving one another in self-giving love, knowing that they can do more together than alone. For instance, an Associate Conference Minister or Conference Minister is likely to prioritize her time in a particular way if she sees herself as an autonomous setting that local churches can reach out to if need be. She is likely to spend her time in a very different way, however, if she envisions her setting as fundamentally about supporting and strengthening local churches, connecting with parishioners, and knowing their joys and concerns. On the other hand, covenant leads local churches to support the mission of the wider church through prayer, money, human resources, etc. Together they are able to offer Christ’s embrace and healing balm to many more than they could alone.

Furthermore, this vision of a covenantal identity can help local churches seeking greater diversity to recognize that this implies changing: in aesthetics and in worship, in forms of communication and dealing with conflict, in theology, and even internal structures. “Those who were ‘them’ yesterday are ‘us’ today, and ‘we’ are forever changed.” We are reformed in our understanding of community and ourselves; forever changed and forever open to more change. This takes place not haphazardly, but in response to that earliest call to relationship in covenant that changes everything: “I will be your God; and you will be my people” (Jer. 7.23).[4]v

This covenantal vision helps us lean into our perpetual fear of change. It doesn’t dismiss this fear offhand; neither does it create nostalgia for some yester-year, or a yearning for a “pure” past when things were more comfortable and less complicated. This can too often be the myth to which we revert, but it is to our own detriment. Rather, “we,” like the Trinity, have always been a unity complicated and enriched by diversity. As we struggle together through change (and our fear of it), covenant gives us a different storyline, a different paradigm by which we can make sense of ourselves—one that helps us remain forever open instead of one into which we shrink back and close ourselves off. This provides a radically different myth out of which to organize, vision, grow, and make meaning of “us” in the midst of conflict.

Covenant invites us to love one another and remain peaceably united by recognizing our similarities while still honoring differences. This is a crucial reminder in our divided and deeply hurting nation. It is challenging, but I know it is possible: I have experienced it in the incredible love and support my largely conservative home congregation has lavished on this unabashed liberal. I have also experienced it in my largely conservative and libertarian leaning family’s steadfast support of me in my wide-ranging journey. We embody deeply divergent theological and political orientations and yet remain steadfastly—even if imperfectly—committed to gathering together, loving one another, and growing a new generation. We generally do this not by playing nice and refusing to mix religion and politics—every family gathering does that! Rather, we do so by striving to honor one another even as we engage our differences (have I mentioned this is inevitably done imperfectly?). In this striving, we have been and continue to be open to repentance and reformation. My relationship with them across our differences has played a fundamental role in shaping my faith and journey to ministry. It is also a vision for the church.

[1] Mary Sue Gast, “Introduction” in That We May All [Finally] Be One (forthcoming), p. 1.
[2] Ibid.
[3] Ibid., 2.
[4] Ibid., 3.

Scripture: Dialogue & Transformation

I cherish the Bible. I’ve been actively reading and re-reading it since I was a teenager. Its visions and prophecy, poetry and song, lament and praise have inspired much of my own. I meditate on it, study it, and wrestle with it. Because I love it, however, I am also willing to question it, and it most certainly also puts me into question in return. The Bible did not drop down from heaven pre-packaged, nor was it etched in ink by passive hands. Rather, it exemplifies a people actively struggling to discern the presence and absence, the work and ways of the Divine in the world—and the implications for how to live as a result. As such, it is a testament to both the genius and dangers of our endeavors to speak of God.

A fundamental question with which to begin, therefore, is: What is one’s relationship to the Bible? For many, the orienting principle for this relationship is one of obedience. As the authoritative Word of God, we must read Scripture and apply it to our world today; this is what it means to faithfully do the will of God. For some, this principle radically undermines obedience to abusive human authorities, as one is ultimately obedient only to God and Scripture. A problem quickly arises, however: what do we do with the fact that Christians interpret the Bible in radically contradictory ways, and yet each one claims to be seeking to obey the will of God? What one person insists is culturally limited to its historical context and therefore can be left in the past, another says is the eternal will of God and must be applied today, and vice versa. Who is right and who is wrong—and on what grounds is this decided?

Even more, how do we obey the Bible when it doesn’t even obey itself? For instance, Ezekiel (18:1-4) challenges the notion of intergenerational divine punishment emphasized in Deuteronomy (5:9), Exodus (20:5; 34:6-7), and Numbers (14:17-19). “Proverbs seems to say, ‘These are the rules for life; try them and find that they work.’ Job and Ecclesiastes say, ‘We did, and they don’t!’”[1] A common refrain in Jesus’ mouth is: “You have heard it said, but I say….” But in the gospels of Mark (10:2-12) and Luke (16:18), Jesus says that whoever divorces and remarries commits adultery, while in Matthew (5:31-32; 19:3-12) Jesus says it is not adultery if one does so because of infidelity. Paul, however, writes: don’t get divorced, but if you do don’t remarry (1 Cor. 7:10-11). It’s exhausting, and these are just a few of the myriad examples.

With all of these variances, I believe it is more important to challenge ourselves to reflect and dialogue about why we interpret Scripture the way we do rather than debating the “right” interpretation that must be obeyed by all. If God truly is still speaking, then we too are invited into this dialogue that we find taking place within Scripture itself. We are invited to listen anew for God’s surprising voice in Scripture but also to wrestle with and challenge it. For instance: if one reads 1 Corinthians 14:34-36, which admonishes women to be silent in church gatherings, but believes that women should be able to speak up and lead churches, what else in Scripture or personal experience would she offer as her reasoning? Likewise, if one thinks women should not be leaders in churches, what would she offer as her reasoning?

Rather than seeking to win a debate, we pursue such dialogues with Scripture and one another with an openness to repentance—literally, “a change of mind”—as we seek to be transformed by the perpetual renewing of our minds (Rom 12:1-2). Central to these dialogues is listening honestly and with anticipation to encountering God in surprising ways. As we do, we learn more about one another and ourselves—including our own blindspots and prejudices. When we listen to be renewed and transformed, we learn more about God. Indeed, we learn that God cannot be domesticated or controlled; She will continue to break through our stifling barriers and invite us to discover life anew. With humility and grace, through these conversations we may even begin to heal the wounds we’ve caused one another.

[1] David Hubbard, Tyndale Bulletin 17, 1966, p.6.

Theology as Divine Enticement, Faith as Costly Call

“Theology seduced me… Theology reaches for our limits, and it opens in our midst… ‘I am interested in language because it wounds or seduces me…and in theological texts we find the very language of wounding…and of infinite seduction.”

“Faith is the willingness—more strongly, the will—to dwell in question, in mystery, and so, paradoxically in the pursuit of answers…answers [that] precisely are question; the answer is questioning, wonder, absence and excess, knowledge at its most restless, pulled by memory and desire. In the Christian version, this is characterized by a most peculiar time of incarnation.”

                             —Karmen Mackendrick, Divine Enticement

Why does it matter what my theology is?
Why does it matter whether or not I do theology—whether or not we do theology?
How do my words about God become flesh—how do they affect people?

As I reflect on theology—on my theology—these questions remain before my mind’s eye. Thinking about God is not something we should take lightly, as if what truly matters is simply “doing the work.” Thinking about God and doing the work are caught in an inextricable dance; they always mutually inform one another. The stories we tell about God, others, and ourselves inevitably shape how we live. Likewise, how we live reflects and shapes our theology. This perhaps becomes most obvious when we encounter or speak about those whom we deem “outsiders” or “different.” Indeed, whether we feel qualified or not, each of us is inherently a theologian insofar as we think about God or ask what it means to follow Jesus.

Since our relationship with God is never merely private, the content of our theology matters profoundly. Words about God come ever enfleshed; they arise out of our embodied experiences—always carrying a trace of our own joy and woundedness—and inherently mark the bodies of others. It’s a simple but crucial reminder: we possess the power to build up and destroy. We must be sensitive, therefore, to the ways our theology is shaping the world. The challenge and invitation to us—as I discovered through my friendships with Mike, Huda, and Levi—is this: How does our relationship with and thinking about God lead us to encounter unfamiliar people and situations? As we do, how open are we to the reformation of our understanding of God?

Because of the implications of the stories I tell about God, others, and myself, I have tried to cultivate a fundamental orientation of dwelling in mystery, searching for good questions, and listening to others—especially those who are often overlooked and marginalized in our society. In this sense, I begin with a conviction borne of experience—I have much to learn! Both academically and personally, my faith has been profoundly challenged, inspired and transformed by African Americans, undocumented immigrants, and Palestinians; by people with disabilities, those who struggle with mental health, and those who are homeless, poor, and/or in prison; by people from developing countries and those who practice other religions. This is not merely a list. As I recount my spiritual journey, these identity markers open profound stories where I have encountered God anew and in a way that has enlivened and deepened my faith.

On this journey, I am seeking nothing less than utter transformation, perpetual transfiguration, and continual rebirth so that with Paul I might proclaim—as both aspiration and as mine now by faith—that “I have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer I who live but Christ who lives in me” (Gal. 2:19-20). I feel called to ministry because I desire to invite others into this radical journey—this joy-filled as well as costly call to discipleship. For me, ministry is not so much one career choice among many as much as a manifestation of living out my deepest yearnings.

the following is a theological reflection on the work of ministry. this is a shortened version of a longer paper i wrote, which you can access here

My aunt Lucy—a vivacious nun who is the embodiment of Catholic social teaching—was the only one present with my mom when I was born. She claims that she sensed in that moment that God had placed a distinct call on my life. Growing up, she often reminded me of this. I typically responded with a smile of gratitude and humility, although I was never quite as convinced as her. When I was accepted into seminaries, my dad proudly posted about it on Facebook. “We could see it coming in the birthing room!” she commented.

During seminary, I have often reflected on my aunt’s confidence that I had “a distinct call” before I was even born. Perhaps fittingly, out of these reflections I have begun imagining God as our divine midwife. Indeed, midwifery has become for me a primary image of ministerial leadership. The church is in need of midwives who can offer steadfast companionship in the midst of the turbulence and uncertainty of our present moment, faithful and creative imagination to envision beyond it, and the capacity to empower communities in their becoming and bringing forth new life. The art of midwifery is neither solitary nor kept at arms length; it is a messy, involved, co-creative kind of art. It is less a work of mastery and more a work of partnership. “Lord, prepare me to be a sanctuary,” is the prayer of the pastor as midwife, as she struggles alongside others through moments of ecstatic joy and heartsick pain. Through such leadership, the church offers a creation “groaning in labor pains” (Rom. 8:22) a uniquely holistic context in which to journey in beloved community toward restoration and new birth.


Going forward, these midwives must be capable of preaching good news in a religiously plural, rapidly globalizing, and often-volatile world. They must help people (re)discover the joy of the gospel that inspires costly and transformative discipleship. Imagining ministry as midwifery emphasizes that our work is not about doing for others what they must do for themselves, but about providing a space of safety and empowerment built on trust so that, by God’s grace, out of fear, pain and brokenness may come hope, healing and new life.


This passionately incarnational vision of faith and ministry, which has taught me how needful I am of the eyes, minds and voices of others, has been deepened by the sacraments of Holy Communion and Baptism. Through these sacraments, we gain eyes to see the mystery of God in the holy ordinary. In them, we also find a vision and mission for the church. The Table of Holy Communion opens unto a superabundance of meaning that—like liberated Hebrew slaves receiving manna from heaven or Jesus feeding 5,000 with five loaves—is both paradoxical and profound. I believe all are welcome to this Table—not just the confirmed, members, or those who can articulate a theology of it, but anyone who is curious, inspired, and/or challenged by the life and death of Jesus and wants to know more about his invitation to new life.


This simple meal taken with the memory of Jesus and friends in that upper room is a profound opening to the depths of gospel—gospel audacious enough to imagine, like the Prophet Ezekiel, a valley of dusty dead bones being filled with God’s ruach­, growing sinews, and becoming enfleshed, again. Indeed, at that last meal with Jesus was one he knew would betray him for a small sum of money and another he knew would deny him. The rest would flee, abandoning him to the violent forces of power. Still, Jesus ate with them—as he often had, with everyone from the religious and political elite to the religiously and socially marginalized. When I affirm that all are welcome to the Table, I take this biblical account as my background; and like the bread and cup, we too are invited to be transfigured and transformed. This Table—which invites us to bring all of our brokenness, imperfections, and joys as we eat and drink—is an image of God’s extravagant welcome and radical hospitality. It is a reminder that the Kingdom of God is marked by superfluous abundance; there is more than enough for all. The invitation for the church is to enjoin itself to this vision of grace, equity, connection and healing that lavishes all.


Like the Communion Table, Baptism also asserts God’s indiscriminate and unconditional love. In the moment of its affirmation—“this child is God’s beloved”—one is made as Christian as she’ll ever be. This affirmation also invites the church into a covenant whereby it seeks to embody God’s prodigious love as the hands, feet, and bosom of Christ. In Baptism, one dies to herself and is raised anew in Christ. This act marks a decision—hers or her guardian’s—to enter a community striving to embody the Beloved Community and make manifest the Kingdom of God. That is, a community of discipleship with all its joy and costliness, “for those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for [Christ’s] sake will save it” (Lk 9:24). In doing so, we proclaim with Paul, as both aspiration and ours now by faith, that we have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer we who live, but Christ who lives in us (Gal. 2:19-20).


Baptism renewed by discipleship is crucial to the witness of the church. In looking to Jesus, we comfort one another where we are afflicted and “afflict” one another where we are comfortable. This is the Gospel of Jesus Christ: God loves us so much that God accepts us exactly as we are, but God loves us too much to leave us there. In Baptism, this gospel word becomes enfleshed in the church’s commitment to supporting its newest member in her life-long commitment to a discipleship that, following Jesus, breaks through our barriers of division, draws us into deeper relationship, and opens us to repentance, reformation, and continual rebirth.


On my winding journey from the birthing room to ordained ministry, the mysterious incarnational and sacramental love of God has manifested abundantly in my life. God has come to me in myriad individuals who have supported, challenged, and invigorated my faith. I am here because of so many others who have “gotten me over”: from my rural Wisconsin family and home church to Usama and his family, Palestinian Christians with whom I’ve shared meals in their home near Manger Square, Bethlehem and with whom I’ve prayed while leading a group through the militarized streets of Hebron. From Huda, a Sudanese-American Muslim woman who is one of my closest friends, to David, a man I mentored through Harvard’s Prison Education Project. From seminary colleagues to the men with whom I dined while working at a homeless shelter in Cambridge. From young children in Vacation Bible School to a 95-year-old fellow parishioner who I visited as a teenager. In these people and so many more I have caught an unmistakable glimmer of the God who incarnates among us inspiring, confronting, and animating our faith with an invitation to embrace a boundary-breaking love. Emmanuel: God is with us indeed—if we have eyes to see.


The ministry of the church is rooted in the ancient Israelite vision of shalom: a world of justice, generosity, and peace born of the proclamation that there is more than enough for all of God’s children. Biblically, this vision—the healing and repairing of our beautiful yet broken world—requires covenantal relations strong enough to weather the difficult yet joy-filled trans-generational work of seeing it through. It requires a God who midwifes us to new beginnings with each day. Indeed, I am humbled and grateful to know in my soul that the life-giving work of ministry isn’t just what I want; it’s what God has been midwifing me toward since my own birth.