But The Rise and Fall of Mars Hill is brutal, and I’m not sure why I’ve gravitated back to it for a second time. I’m sure part of my reasoning is my love of a well-crafted and well-told story, and believe me, this is a well-told story. It’s captivating and intriguing and leaves the listener wanting more. But I think more than that, the story itself captivates me.

It hooks me. I can’t stop thinking about the American church and the empires we’ve built. I’m captivated by the role of platform—online and otherwise—for Christians in our modern world. Because to be sure, if anyone wants to be anyone with significant influence, they need a platform. They need a social media presence and a following online and in person. They need a large email list and thousands of subscribers. The more, the better.

Ditch the Masses?

And I’m not sure that all of this is bad—the large numbers. After all, didn’t the crowds follow Jesus? Did they mob Him, pressing in on every side of Him? Won’t the masses gravitate toward a story filled with truth and love and light? Don’t we all crave meaning and purpose in a way that our world just can’t satisfy?

So, I don’t think it’s always a bad thing if a church or a leader or a speaker or a writer or anyone who is following Jesus builds a large platform. But as I listen to this podcast repeatedly, I am reminded of a quote from Christine Caine that I heard in 2016. It went something like, “If the light on you is stronger than the light in you, then the light on you will destroy you.” 

If you know little about the Mars Hill story, you’re probably not alone. I only had a vague understanding before I started the podcast. A quick Google search will tell you more than you want to know, but in a nutshell, theirs is a story of a mega-church that crumbled to the ground as their leader focused on numbers and brand and platform through bullying tactics, intimidation, and a win-at-all-cost mentality. As a woman in the Kingdom of God, I must admit that I also find many of Mark’s views on men and women and marriage to be terrifying and damaging. I’m sure there are others who would disagree with me, but honestly, I have very little desire to be a part of the Kingdom he preached on week after week. I’m not sure it was an accurate representation, anyway.

A Problem Bigger than Mars Hill

I think there were more than a few things Mark got wrong about the Kingdom of God, but I’m not convinced he’s alone. I don’t think we can hold him up, crucify him, cut him down, tout him as the poster child of a pastor gone wrong. Because I think our modern Christianity loves celebrities. We love influencers and charismatic people who can build platforms and followings. We crave them, and I can tell you as someone on the other side—the side of trying to build a platform online—the pressure is real. I feel it every day. I’ve woken up at 4 in the morning thinking of all the things I should do to build mine and Kristy’s platform as we prepare to launch a book.

It's never ending, and it’s exhausting. And sometimes it just feels like a gigantic waste of time. To be fair, I don’t think it always is. After all, if we truly carry the words of life through Jesus, shouldn’t we be trying to reach the world? So, while these efforts aren’t a waste, the pressure and the worship given to those who can build something large and impressive is concerning.

Whose Kingdom are we Building Anyway

This morning as I was again listening to another episode of The Rise and Fall of Mars Hill, I asked myself the question, “Am I trying to build my empire or God’s Kingdom.” Not that I think I will have an empire someday. Yikes. Nah. Probably not.

It’s a heart question, a heart check. Because, "if the light on us is greater than the light in us, then the light on us will destroy us." So in all this working and striving and posting the most perfect picture and caption on social media, what is our motivation? A personal brand or the Kingdom of God? I don’t think these are just questions that leaders and writers and pastors and influencers should ask of themselves. I think this is a greater cultural question, because we are a culture that gets dopamine hits off of likes and comments.

So why are we doing all of this?
And someday, will we find we built empires and brands and personal kingdoms on sand?

Our words and our actions have power. I think we sometimes forget that. But as followers of Jesus, may we pause a little longer today and ask ourselves some honest questions about our motivations and desires and the little kingdoms we are building for ourselves.  

The post Platforms and Kingdoms and The Rise and Fall of Mars Hill appeared first on Kate Berkey.

The Church is messy and deeply imperfect. We are a mosaic of broken people attempting to represent a good and perfect God to a watching and wondering world. Sometimes we forget that we’re not a place or a physical building, and we don’t exist for ourselves.

There’s a lot that could be said about our mistakes, our shortcomings, and our failings. Certainly, there’s also plenty to be said on the other side—our kindness and grace and love that help make this world better. But these days, I don’t think the good is the first to come to people’s minds. 

To many, the Church represents judgement and exclusion. It represents this idea of not being good enough or hypocrisy, and this breaks my heart. This wasn’t who Jesus designed us to be. In His final moments with His friends, Jesus told them that the watching world would know they were His disciples by their love. 

By their love. 

Not programs or services or pastors or size, because that’s not what’s most important. 

In the last few weeks, I’ve had the absolute gift of being welcomed into the homes of refugees in Chicago. I’ve been to this particular neighborhood so many times, and every interaction with the families there molds my heart a little bit more into something more beautiful and holy. 

These families remind me that while our stories and histories might be very different, we’re more similar than might seem. And that incredibly humbling position they find themselves in isn’t something they asked for. It’s simply their reality, and they’re trying to hold onto joy in the midst of a whole lot of change—like our friends who moved from a village in Burma to a small basement apartment in Chicago.

When I first visited this sweet family, I almost missed their door. My friend, Bob led me down a flight of stairs to their basement home. Their living room was small, cramped, and dark. Although plants and flowers littered the space, there was very little natural light, and I couldn’t help but think of how different their new home was compared to the almost constant sun and heat of Burma. 

Our visit was a sweet time of encouraging and praying with a family who finds themselves in the trenches day after day, but the greatest act of love came later when we were in the car. From the front seat, I heard my friend on the phone with another refugee who is an incredible artist. 

“I want you to paint something for her apartment,” Bob said. “Her home needs a little beauty. It’s dark and needs the light that your paintings bring."

As I listened to the conversation, I was overcome with this simple yet extraordinary act of love. Is there a holier picture of the Church than what unfolded that night? 

The world will know you by your love. 

Our friends from Burma don’t need this painting. They need food and a stable income to pay the bills, and people are walking with them in these needs. But our friends’ souls need beauty. They need joy. They need light and life. They need hope.

They need reminders that they are not forgotten. 
They need reminders that they are remembered and seen.
On the hardest of days, they need reminders that they are loved.

On our hardest days, we all need these reminders. We are not forgotten. We are remembered and seen. We are loved. This is the heart beat of the Church isn’t it—to remind people, to remember and see people, to love people at their very worst and their best.

More and more I am convinced that this is the role of the Church—the beautifully imperfect group the Father designed so very long ago. The Church looks like visiting the homes of the hurting and marginalized around us. It looks like bringing bags of rice and bottles of oil or a plate of cookies. It looks like pausing long enough to find out how our neighbor is really doing. It looks like filling their home with conversation and prayer. 

And it also looks like bringing all of our gifts and talents to the table—like painting a picture of flowers for our neighbor. Because these Holy Spirit given gifts have an incredible power to bring light and life. These gifts are how we love. And the world will know we are followers of Jesus by our love. 

This is the way the Church was meant to be.

“So now I am giving you a new commandment: Love each other. Just as I have loved you, you should love each other. Your love for one another will prove to the world that you are my disciples.”
John 13:34-35

The post The World Will Know You by Your Love appeared first on Kate Berkey.

In the kitchen, Kristy and I put the finishing touches on dinner—sometimes take out, other times something homemade. We’ve learned it doesn’t really matter what we eat. Food will always unite us.

This home—normally a quiet space—fills with noise and chaos in the best of ways. We wipe up food that spills onto the floor and laugh about water that falls from cups. It’s messy and beautiful and wonderful—the life-on-life kind of night our hearts ache for. 

And as we gather and talk and share life, our home fills with the sound of so many languages. Our friend Mylatte speaks Burmese. Nom wan speaks Thai. Paw wah adds Karen—one of the languages of the Karen people—to the mix. Rebecca and Eliana weave English, Thai, Karen, and Chinese into a single sentence. And the few Americans in the room speak English. 

Four. 

That’s four languages (plus a spattering of Chinese now and then) echoing through the room. Each of us picks up bits of the conversations we can understand. We simplify our words to help others join—using broken English or Thai or Karen or Burmese when needed. And when we need to communicate something to the entire group, time seems to slow down. 

First say it in English
Then Burmese 
Then Karen
Then Thai
Does everyone understand? 

What a beautifully complicated, chaotic gift. 

This is an average night at Braverly small group—a night for all of our Braverly women and any family or friends who want to come with them—to gather in our home. Our conversations range from completely silly to meaningful encouragement to thought-provoking questions. Every conversation, every question, every word needs translated into each language, and I think this is absolutely beautiful. 

When I came back to the States, people asked what the hardest part of life in Mae Sot was. For me, the answer was simple—the language. Thankfully, many people in Mae Sot understand enough English, and although my Thai is sad, I can get by. But after awhile, the shallow, small conversations become tiring.

Your girl doesn’t do small talk well. In fact, I hate it. But when the common language is so small, it’s all you can do. 

So I learned to do small talk like a champ while still craving the real deal—the kind of conversation that bonds and unites the hearts and souls of a group. 

But in this craving, in this longing for a common language, I found that it had always existed. It just didn’t look like words. It didn’t look like English or Thai or Burmese. It wasn’t like the tribal language of Karen or Poe Karen. 

It was the look of longing when we talked about family or showed pictures of our parents and siblings. It was the smile when we talked about our dreams for the future or held tangible pieces of our hopes close to our chest—like the way Hser Ku Paw held her new camera. It was the way we ducked and ran to avoid the pouring rain. It was the laughter that echoed in the room when we tried (and failed) to say something correctly in another language. It was the dance party that started when a song played over the speakers. 

Because despite our different languages, we were held together, united, and more similar than I could have ever imagined. 

That group of women in my living room on Thursday holds hopes and dreams for their futures. They long for a life for themselves and their families that is good and beautiful. They crave to be seen and known and loved by others. Kindness and empathy are desires of their hearts—being seen for more than just the hard parts of their stories. 

They like to try new things, and as scary as it is, they like to try challenging things. They like to prove themselves to others and to their own insecurities and doubts. They don’t like to get caught in the rain or stand in the blazing Thailand sun. Babies who bounce up and down to silly music make both of us laugh and dance along with them. Sometimes they say the wrong word in English, and most of the time, they laugh at me when I pronounce a Thai word incorrectly. 

We are held together by so much more than a language. We are united by our humanness, by the hopes and dreams and desires of our hearts. We find common ground in our delights and our sorrows, our stories. We are so very different—from different backgrounds and histories. And yet, we are one—the Church in its holy sacredness. We may not all believe the same things or hold the same values, but that’s ok. 

That’s ok. 

That’s ok.

I feel like I should say this again for America—a country who seems to lord their differences over others and can’t seem to pause long enough to find common ground. 

We may not believe the same things, think the same way, or hold the same values, and that’s ok. 

I don’t speak the same language as my beautiful Karen or Thai or Burmese friends. We come from distinct histories and experiences. We don’t think the same way about some things, but there exists a sisterhood forged by acts of love and kindness and empathy—values our world desperately needs. 

Church, we speak different languages. We come from different experiences and stories and histories, and this is beautiful. May we make space for one another and allow bonds of family to be forged out of this simple act of love.

The post I Think We Speak Different Languages, and That’s Beautiful appeared first on Kate Berkey.

Here goes.

I’m single. 

Whew. There. I said it. 

If you know me or follow me on social media, this isn’t a surprise. People tend to know if someone is in a relationship, because our culture is obsessed with relationships.

And dear Church, you are obsessed with relationships and dating and marriage. So as a woman who has had to navigate singleness in the Body of Christ, would you allow me to say a few truths that the Church desperately needs to grab ahold of? 

I feel the crushing weight of this label called single.

I’m mentally and emotionally exhausted. I’m tired of the jokes about putting me on some obscure dating site. I’m tired of yet another sermon on marriage. I’m tired of hearing, “So, I know this guy who’s single.” And I’m tired of all of these things coming from the Church. 

It’s hard to describe the crushing weight of this label called single. My town and home church are perfect for couples and families. Both are beautiful places, and I’m grateful for the ways they taught and shaped my family and me. But as a single woman trying to find a place and a community to belong in, this reality is painful, challenging, and crushing—especially when it is paired with incessant comments about relationships. 

So, before you start another conversation with your single friend about relationships, pause. Please, for the love of our sweet Father, just pause. Remember that the person sitting across from you is so much more than this label called single, but at the same time, she just might feel like she could die from the crushing weight of it.

There’s nothing wrong with me.

To be fair, no one actually asks, “You’re still single? What’s wrong with you?”

Very few people in this world are that blunt and cruel. Most comments are subtle, and people don’t even realize what they’re communicating. Friend, when you ask me if I’m dating someone every time you see me, you tell me something is wrong with me. When you try to set me up with someone yet again without me asking you to, you tell me something is wrong with me. When you joke around about how I’m too strong, independent, and confident for most men, you tell me something is wrong with me. When you teach another message on marriage, plan another marriage retreat, start another small group for married people without doing anything for singles, you tell me something is wrong with me. 

On my very best days, I can remember the truth—there’s nothing wrong with me. I am not the rejected. I am not too much or not enough. I don’t need to change my personality to find a date for a Friday night. I contribute value and help the Church see a different side of the Father that marriage can’t. 

So, please, sweet Body of Christ, remember this: Every time you mention that you just want to help your single friends find that person they can spend the rest of their life with, think about what they’re hearing. Their life is beautiful right now. They’re single, and that’s ok. 

Singleness is not a problem to solve.

Wouldn’t it be super weird if the Church acted like marriage was a problem to solve? I mean, half end in divorce, so with odds like that, shouldn’t we avoid it? 

YIKES! 

Marriage is beautiful. I certainly hope I get to experience all the wonderful, complicated, messy, incredible parts of it someday. But for now, I’m in this place called single, and I don’t need rescued.

Singleness is not a problem to solve. It’s not a place to save me from just like marriage isn’t a place to save you from. 

Sweet Body of Christ, what if we celebrated singleness—really celebrated it? What if we celebrated it for more than what we can get from single people who seem to have more time and energy than couples or those with kids? What if we celebrated the ways singleness shows us the Father in extravagant ways? 

What if we celebrated single people’s accomplishments? What if we encouraged them to pursue their dreams instead of waiting for their life to start when the “right one” comes along. History would miss so many beautiful, kingdom-building people if they had waited for their spouse before radically following Jesus.

So, friend, remember that singleness is not a problem to solve or a place to rescue people from in the same way that marriage isn’t a problem or a place people need saved from.

Better Together

Now hear this: I love the beautiful, imperfect Church, and I value marriage. I’m not holding grudges against those who have overstepped boundaries in their attempts to cure my singleness. I’m not angry. I’m not bitter.

Honestly, I’m just tired, because somedays, it takes all my energy to remember that I’m ok. I’m not a problem to be solved, a brokenness to be fixed, or a woman in need of rescuing. I’m just single.

Body of Christ, you need families and couples, retirees and people in that mid-life crisis zone, kiddos and awkward teenagers. And you need me—just me in all my glorious singleness. We are better together—not trying to fix one another or conform one another to our own ideal of perfect. So, would you create space for me, for my questions and struggles, for my party of one? 

I’ll make space for you if you’ll make space for me. 

The post With Love from Your Single Friend in the Church appeared first on Kate Berkey.

Recently, Kristy and I were talking about this insane life we get to live in Mae Sot. It's chaotic and beautiful and unpredictable and wonderful. It's stupid hard and surrounded by the unfamiliar, and it's also our normal.

Every day we have the opportunity to do life with incredible people on the border of Thailand and Burma. Sometimes this looks like having a casual conversation with Hser Ku Paw while we order our morning coffee. Sometimes it looks like teaching English to 150 middle school students. Sometimes it looks like youth group and Burmese church. Sometimes it looks like vulnerably telling our stories through writing or gathering our Braverly women at our house for small group. No matter what, it looks like using our gifts, talents, and passions to build God's Kingdom while also praying desperately for the Father to grow our capacities.

This is our yes.

It's wild to me that a year ago this month, I got on an airplane headed for Thailand for the first time. My short week in Mae Sot confirmed everything the Lord had been saying for months. This was my yes.

And a year later, I found myself sitting in a coffee shop with my dear friend in this city that now feels like home. As Kristy and I talked, we commented on how often we hear people say, "I could never do what you do!"

What they mean, of course, is that they could never move across the world. They could never change their life that much. They could never be a "missionary." I believe that this phrase, "I could never do what you do," could be one of the most dangerous phrases in the Church today.

This is the mindset that elevates people to a position they can only fall from, and it devalues the place and position of everyone else. This life and town and team is my yes, but it might not be yours. I'm not here because I am more courageous than the next person. I'm not here because I am a super Christian or because I love Jesus more than you do. I am here because I knew what my yes needed to be.

For years I wrestled with the Father, searching and seeking and asking Him to show me where He wanted me to go, what He wanted me to do. I knew that where I was not where He wanted me to be forever, but I didn't know where my next step was supposed to take me. And then, ever so slowly over the course of years, He began to help me see the path ahead. He began to show me my yes.

This yes happened to lead me to Mae Sot. It happened to lead me to missions and nonprofit and ministry. It happened to lead me far away from my family and all the comforts of my world in Nappanee. This was my yes, but it might not be yours.

I am confident of this–we all have a yes that is burning in our hearts. It's a yes we are still discovering or searching for, or maybe it's a yes that we've recognized all along. I believe the Father isn't looking for more people to sell everything they own and move to another country. He isn't looking for more people to become what they think they are "supposed to" become. He is looking for the people who pause long enough to recognize the yes He planted in their hearts so long ago.

My yes was to Mae Sot, Thailand. Your yes could be right where you are; it could be staring you in the face. Or just maybe, your yes might lead you far away. If there's one thing I've learned about saying, "Yes," it's that it will always lead us into deeper dependency, desperate courage, and abundant life in the Father.

But, friends, we need to stop comparing ourselves with those around us. We need to stop saying things like, "I could never do that."

Because you could.
Because there's nothing extraordinary about me.
I just said yes after years of searching and seeking and saying no to a lot of other things.

There is a "yes" burning in your heart that only you can say.

Be the kind of person who says, "Yes," to the Father.

The post One of the Most Dangerous Phrases in the Church Today appeared first on Kate Berkey.

For thousands of years, the Church, the Body of Christ has come to the table with Jesus. They have broken bread and drank wine, all this in remembrance of Jesus Christ, of what he offered. They have been invited to Communion, to Eucharist. They have been invited to a place of thanksgiving and gratitude, of grace and dependence, of reverence and awe.

For thousands of years, the Church, the Body of Christ has read and reread the words of Jesus found in Matthew, Mark, and Luke. They have read the story and poured over the words. They have noted that in Jesus’ final hours, he ate with his friends and the one who would betray him to his enemies. They have been reminded time and again of the indescribable holiness and beauty about coming to the table with Jesus, about Communion, about Eucharist.

When we truly pause and remember and dwell on this simple word—Eucharist—when we truly pause and remember and dwell on the story of Jesus’ final meal, the beauty of it all just might take our breath away, begging us to take off our shoes. The ground we are standing on is holy.

For the past month Troy and I have gathered with a group of believers in South Bend on Tuesday nights. It’s a community of people who are living on mission in the heart of our broken and bruised city, our city that is groaning with growing pains, our city that is hopeful about tomorrow. And every Tuesday we sing together songs that declare truths about Jesus and about his Church. We speak together liturgy and Scripture, and we learn together from God’s Word. It’s beautiful and simple and the stripped down version of “church,” and my soul breathes a little deeper every time we walk into that space.

This past week we were invited to the Table, to communion. We were invited to join the Church, Christ’s Church, in Eucharist. Jason reminded us that the word “Eucharist” derives from the Greek word for thanksgiving and gratitude. And so we were invited to the table in a similar posture, one of gratitude and thanksgiving and expectancy.

Communion, like the sacrifice of Jesus himself is a gift. This sacrifice is given out of love and joy, and it is received with a heart of gratitude and thanksgiving. In my many years of joining others in Eucharist, I have seen it happen with such seriousness and somberness. Yet, on Tuesday, there was a palpable sense of freedom and joy and intense gratitude in the room as we joined the Church in communion. With smiles and laughter, we remembered Jesus. We remembered his body that was broken, his blood that was shed. With deep reverence, we ate together with the Church, but this deep reverence brought joy, not mourning.

“This is my body which is broken for you.”

And Jesus poured the wine and offered it to those who were with him—friends and enemy alike.

“This is my blood which is poured out for you.”

Before we stood to take communion, Jason gave us a simple piece of instruction. Instead of taking communion, reaching for the bread and cup ourselves, we were to receive communion.

“There is something wonderful and beautiful about the vulnerability of holding out empty hands,” he told us.

We were told to simply come to the basket, holding out our empty, vulnerable hands, letting another give us the bread.

“This is the body of Christ which is broken for you.”

We were told to simply dip the bread in the wine that was held out for us, given to us, offered to us.

“This is the blood of Christ which is shed for you.”

The Church believes many different things about Eucharist, about communion. Some join together every week for it, others only a few times a year. Despite our differences in how we think about the physical act of Eucharist, may we never lose sight of this—we come to the table with open, empty, vulnerable hands and receive with immense gratitude and joy the sacrifice and grace and love that has been poured out.

On this Tuesday night in July, I could not help but feel in myself and sense in others a deep-seeded joy. And I can’t help but wonder if this joy, this gratitude came from holding out our open, empty, vulnerable hands. Together as a Body of believers, we accepted the gift that Jesus gives to us. Together, we came with nothing and were filled with the gift of life and love and holiness from Jesus.

And once again, I am reminded of the beauty and the gift of the table, of coming and gathering and living with gratitude and expectancy. I am overwhelmed by the wonder of being invited to the table, of having a place to sit with the Church, of having a place with Jesus.

So I will come with my open, empty, vulnerable hands. I will accept the gift that is offered. And may we come with immense gratitude. May we come with reverence, awe, and joy because the price has been paid. It has been paid in full, and it is offered to all.

“This is my body that was broken for you. This is my blood that was shed for you. Do this in remembrance of me.”

Emptiness and vulnerability. A gift so indescribably undeserved. Joy and gratitude

Eucharist.

Yes and amen.

The post On Eucharist appeared first on Kate Berkey.