This week, we are repeatedly called into a conversation about nourishment. In 1 Kings, Elijah is encouraged not once, but twice to eat and fortify himself for the journey ahead. In the Psalm, we are reminded that holy communion brings the reminder that God is good — that God cares for the poor among us. And in the Gospel of John, we recall the story of Jesus as the bread of life and are invited to eat of it and live forever. We are invited not only to partake, but to truly nourish ourselves for the difficult path that lies ahead.

The importance of this nourishment is juxtaposed a couple of times with the uncertainty we humans so easily espouse. Elijah, after a day in the desert, sits down under a broom tree and is ready to give up. He is so unsure of his own ability that he would rather not forge ahead. Similarly, the humans described in John are uncertain as well. They are unsure whether Jesus can bring them the nourishment he claims. 

A common reading of these stories places some amount of blame on the humans, casting uncertainty as doubt. And we, too, may cast our own uncertainty as something to overcome. In her book Showing Mary, Dr. Renita Weems flips this representation of uncertainty on its head, casting it instead as possibility. Weems writes:

“You are on the verge of something special. You know it. You can feel it. Something is in the air. You are restless and don’t know why. You wake up in the morning with flutters in your stomach even though your calendar doesn’t indicate any special meetings scheduled for the day. Your mind is racing from thought to thought, and you can’t figure out why. A voice in you won’t be quieted, but you can’t quite make out what it’s saying. You wonder if you’re forgetting something, but you forgot what. Nothing has happened or is about to happen. But it is, and you sense it. It feels as though you’re supposed to be doing something, something important, but you don’t know what it is. The people and things you usually rely upon to distract you when you’re unsettled only frustrate you right now. Today is not the first day you’ve felt like this. This feeling has been coming in waves, off and on, for some time. […] You are like Mary of Nazareth in the New Testament gospel stories. You are pregnant with possibility” (1-2).

In the face of innumerable injustices and in the midst of a system that does not work on behalf of our people, many of us feel stuck in uncertainty. We chastise ourselves or others for not doing enough or doing too much. We get frustrated by the lack of visible progress and instead of pushing on, we give up. We see times of uncertainty as immovability, and we forget about the need to nourish ourselves as we fight on behalf of our neighbors. 

Weems reminds us that uncertainty need not prevent us from moving forward. In fact, she pushes us to realize that when we feel unsure, it is often because we are on the edge of transformational change. For some, Weems’ writing might seem daunting. It might seem overwhelming. But for others, her writing might feel like being seen for the first time in a long time. Either way, it is so easy in this world of “more” to assume that all the best ideas and all the most thoughtful people are somewhere else. Instead, today’s readings push us to see the holy right here, right now. In the birth of new possibilities and new parts of ourselves. They show us that we are allowed to change and grow, and we are allowed to recognize that the transformation in and of itself is sacred. Even as we explore new parts of ourselves and carefully welcome them into the world, we are allowed to see the beauty and fragility of these moments as holy. We are allowed to see ourselves as holy.

Today’s readings ask us to recognize our uncertainty as an asset – as the possibility that it truly is. In our uncertainty, we are able to be thoughtful partners in creating a more just world. In our uncertainty, we are able to be more welcoming leaders in creating a more loving world. And in our uncertainty, we are able to see the possibility for a more engaged community. So how do we catalyze this uncertainty into productive, meaningful action on behalf of our neighbors?

Questions for Contemplation:

1. What internal voice have you been silencing recently? What is that voice telling you?
2. How might you welcome possibility for deeper nourishment in the current season of your life? 
3. How might you lean into the needs of the community you are in, right now?

I began working in affordable housing in Minneapolis, MN in May 2020 – just a week before police murdered George Floyd. In the past four years, my work has centered around working with neighbors who have experienced homelessness and housing instability to bring their stories and perspectives into decision-making spaces. In 2023, residents in our group shared their stories with legislators over 90 times while advocating for a $1Billion budget for affordable housing and homelessness services – the largest in Minnesota’s history. 

Most, if not all, of these individuals have stepped from their own nervousness into positions of both vulnerability and leadership. They have not waited to become sure of their footing (there simply has not been time for that). Instead, these neighbors have gained confidence by simply starting. On the verge of profound internal transition, they have seen the possibilities that lie ahead and chosen to prioritize them. 

Even as the residents grow in their own confidence, the feedback I have heard most often is that the residents appreciate supporting their peers more than they enjoy sharing their own stories. In these moments, I am reminded that the strength that has emerged among them has been forged through urgency, yes, but that it has also been nourished by a deep sense of responsibility toward one another. This communal strength emerges when we take our time. It rests in Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s affirmation that “the moral arc of the universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” And it relies upon each individual’s decision to step out, even in their uncertainty, and join the effort.