Collective Effervescence and the Need for Community
There’s a sacred energy that fills the air when we gather—when voices rise in song, when laughter echoes at shared tables, when silent nods affirm our shared grief. This energy has a name: collective effervescence. Coined by sociologist Émile Durkheim, it describes the powerful, almost electric sense of connection that arises when people come together for a shared purpose, emotion, or ritual. It’s what we feel at a packed concert, during a candlelit vigil, or even at a potluck where stories are exchanged over casseroles and cobblers.
This feeling isn’t just emotional—it’s experiential. It’s a reminder that we are wired for connection with one another.
In a time when loneliness is being called an epidemic, and disconnection is felt in all corners of society, collective effervescence is more than a sociological term—it’s a call back to what makes us whole.
Communal rituals anchor us. Team sports, family dinners, recovery meetings, memorial services, weddings, worship – these aren’t just events, they are lifelines. In each, there’s a rhythm that restores us, a shared heartbeat that syncs our individual stories into something greater.
Too often, we try to go at it alone. We convince ourselves that strength means independence, that faith is private, or that vulnerability is weakness. And yet, scripture, science, and experience tell us otherwise. “Where two or three are gathered,” Jesus reminds us, “I am there among them.” (Matthew 18:20)
In a world that often feels fragmented, community reminds us we belong. And collective effervescence? It’s that soul-deep confirmation that we’re not alone—that our joys are richer and our sorrows more bearable when shared.
So, let’s not underestimate the power of gathering. Let’s lean into the rituals, the small groups, the game nights, the laughter shared at a local coffee shop. Let’s be intentional about creating space for collective experiences, where presence is the only requirement.
Because in those moments—those effervescent, transcendent moments—we glimpse the divine in each other. Not as individuals striving alone, but as a beloved community pulsing with shared spirit.
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Joy Comes in the Morning…not happiness
For many years, I used the descriptors of Happiness and Joy interchangeably, as if each held the same weight as the other. But, there is a sacred difference between happiness and joy. Happiness is situational—fleeting and often tied to external circumstances. It’s the smile that comes with good news, the laugh shared over dinner, or the satisfaction of checking everything off the to-do list. But joy—true joy—is something deeper, something sturdier. It’s not dependent on what’s happening around us but rooted in hope, faith, and the quiet assurance that we are not alone.
Psalm 30:5 says, “Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes in the morning.” Notice it doesn’t say happiness comes in the morning. It doesn’t promise all will be well or that our grief will suddenly disappear. It promises joy. Joy that is not the absence of pain, but the
presence of light.
Over the years, I have sat beside people in the darkest moments of their lives—diagnoses, losses, transitions, and deep uncertainty. In those moments, happiness was not present. But joy? Joy was often found in the smallest gestures: a deep breath, a hand held, a memory shared. It came quietly, humbly. It did not erase the night, but it promised a morning. Joy offers a counterweight. It holds us when life unravels and invites us to keep going even when we can’t see
the road ahead.
Joy is an act of faith. It’s a quiet protest against despair. It whispers to us when nothing else makes sense and reminds us that we are seen, held, and loved—regardless of our circumstances. Unlike happiness, which is reactive, joy is resilient. It remains even when life feels fractured.
As people of faith, we are invited to cultivate and to seek joy—not by ignoring pain or forcing a smile, but by holding space for hope in the middle of uncertainty. Joy is not a dismissal of the night; it is the promise that the dawn will come. And when it does, it may not look like fireworks or fanfare—but like light peeking through the blinds, warm coffee after a sleepless night, or the stillness of knowing you’ve made it through one more day.
So, when you find yourself in the dark, don’t wait for happiness to arrive. Wait on joy. Trust its slow, sacred arrival. Because joy comes in the morning – Every time.
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The Secular and the Sacred
During the benediction on my last Sunday in pulpit ministry, I said to the congregation that there’s a good chance that one day, we will run into one another at a local coffee shop. And when we do, let’s greet each other with kind words and soft smiles. I deeply believe that moments shared over a cup of coffee and smiles exchanged across a room are sacred—holy encounters in everyday spaces.
The truth is, we often divide our lives into categories: the sacred and the secular. Sunday morning worship—sacred. Monday morning staff meeting—secular. Praying for a friend—sacred. Grocery shopping, folding laundry, sitting in traffic—secular. But what if this division is one of our greatest spiritual misunderstandings?
As people of faith, we are called to see with new eyes, to live with awakened hearts. And once we do, we begin to understand that the sacred is not limited to temples, sanctuaries, or scripture. The sacred is found in the ordinary, the mundane, the messy, and the miraculous alike.
Scripture and spiritual tradition remind us again and again: God is not confined to temples or holy books. The divine is woven into every part of creation. Genesis tells us the earth was called good—not just the heavens, not just the spiritual things, but all of it. Every leaf, every breath, every act of kindness is part of this sacred tapestry.
Brother Lawrence, the 17th-century monk who found holiness in washing dishes, reminds us that “God is as present in the kitchen as at the altar.” Jesus himself broke down the boundary lines by touching the untouchable, dining with the outcast, and blessing the everyday.
The secular is not separate from the sacred—it is soaked in it.
The divine shows up in Zoom calls and quiet cups of coffee, in hospital rooms and boardrooms, in deep belly laughter and late-night tears. The question isn’t if God is present, but are we paying attention?
To live as if all is sacred is to carry reverence into each moment: to speak with compassion, to work with purpose, to listen with openness. Sacredness isn’t about performance or piety; it’s about presence and awareness. When we choose to notice, to honor, and to show up with intention, we begin to recognize the sacred is already there.
Yes, Sunday mornings matter—but so do Tuesday afternoons. The sacred isn’t reserved for when we’re “doing church.” It’s how we live when we are the Church—every single day.
So, light the candle, say the prayer—but also notice the sunrise, hold the hand, do the work. Because when we live like it’s all sacred—we just might find that it is.
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Living a Faithful and Patriotic Life
As I sat watching fireworks from the safety of my home on July 4th, reflecting on the week’s headlines, I found myself thinking about how I express both gratitude and frustration for the country I call home. Living in the United States allows me to hold both of these truths at once – It can be uncomfortable, even unsettling, but it is also honest. It is the space I currently inhabit.
It’s simple, really: in times of national celebration or national crisis, we are reminded that living faithfully and living patriotically are not mutually exclusive. In fact, they are deeply intertwined when grounded in love, justice, and humility.
To live a faithful life is to align ourselves with the teachings of compassion, justice, mercy, and service. Faith calls us beyond self-interest and into care for the common good—feeding the hungry, welcoming the stranger, tending the sick, and advocating for the marginalized. This is not only a spiritual mandate, it is a civic one.
A healthy society depends on citizens who care not only about themselves but also about their neighbors. Let me say that again: a healthy society depends on citizens who care not only about themselves but also about their neighbors.
Patriotism, at its best, is not blind allegiance. It is a deep love for one’s country paired with the commitment to help it become its best self. True patriotism celebrates the gifts of our nation while also having the courage to acknowledge its flaws and work toward healing. As people of faith, we are not called to worship a flag or a nation, but to love our country enough to challenge it—especially when justice is denied or voices are silenced.
The prophet Micah asks, “What does the Lord require of you but to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God?” (Micah 6:8). These ancient words speak with power into our modern world. Justice. Kindness. Humility. These are faithful postures—and they are patriotic ones too.
We can pray for our leaders and still protest when decisions are unjust. We can honor the sacrifices of veterans and still grieve the cost of war. We can sing national anthems and still kneel in sacred repentance. Protest and praise can coexist. In fact, the freedom to express dissent is one of the foundational values this country was built on.
We are called to ask difficult questions, especially those that surround justice. We are called to give voice to the voiceless and speak power to the powerless. And as follower of Christ, I believe it is still possible to live both a faithful and patriotic life. To do so is to love God deeply and to love this country wisely—not perfectly, but persistently, with courage and with conscience.
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Leaving Church, Entering the Wilderness
For your reading pleasure this week, we have invited Mary Ward to share one of her writings from her new blog, The Progressive Pulpit. I found this particular writing of upmost importance and very timely. I hope her words resonate with you and I invite you to read more writings from The Progressive Pulpit.
Blessings to you on this journey,
Rev. Dr. Kelly Jackson Brooks, LPCC, CEAP
Executive Director
I used to have a pulpit.
It wasn’t flashy. It was wood, acrylic, or sometimes just a music stand in a fellowship hall that smelled like coffee and creaky folding chairs. But it was mine for a time. Mine to stand behind, pray behind, weep behind. A place where I poured out words I hoped were holy, even when I wasn’t sure I still was. A place where the same prayer echoed from my lips each week: “Now God, may the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable unto you, my Lord, my rock, and my redeemer.”
Now, I don’t.
Not because I lost my faith or stopped believing in God, the Church, or the calling on my life, but because sometimes the systems and walls we serve in can’t hold all of who we are, or all of what we’ve survived. Sometimes the institutions are too brittle to bear the weight of the living Spirit. Sometimes, staying breaks us more than leaving.
I stepped away, but I didn’t step down. Because even without a pulpit, I still preach.
Some days, it’s in writing. Other days, it’s in conversations over coffee, in DJ sets that echo shouts of freedom, in the soft bravery of showing up when it would be easier to disappear. I preach in playlists and poetry and protest. I preach with my heart when I refuse to grow hard and bitter. I preach because the Word is still like fire burning in my bones (Jeremiah 20:9). I cannot not speak.
I left the church as a job. I didn’t leave it as a love.
Which is confusing, honestly, because the wounds are real and the grief is sharp. And yet, so is the tenderness, the gratitude, and the part of me that still lights candles and whispers prayers that only God hears––the part of me still being sanctified, day by day, in the wilderness.
Because the wilderness has become my sanctuary.
And honestly? Preaching out here—outside the walls, outside the titles, outside the comfort of liturgical routine—might just be the holiest thing I’ve ever been led to do. Out here, I am stripped of status and structure, and learning again to depend not on routine, committee meetings, or an episcopal system, but on the Holy Spirit.
Not the approval of committees or the cadence of the lectionary, just the wild, relentless grace of God.
This season is refining me. Softening me. Sanctifying me. God is reshaping my heart into something more honest, more spacious, more like Christ, who never needed a pulpit to preach and never asked for a title to love.
I still miss the pulpit. I miss the rhythm of liturgy, the hushed expectancy of Sunday mornings, the sacred trust of hospital rooms and hospice beds. I miss children’s sermons and benedictions and the accidental holiness of potlucks. I miss the way Scripture used to surprise me mid-sentence, and I miss saying the words, “The body of Christ, given for you,” with every piece of bread that was shared.
But this is not a eulogy.
The pulpit may be gone, but the voice is not. And neither is the call.
So if you find yourself far from where you started,
If the collar is packed away, but the fire still burns,
If your voice trembles, but you speak anyway,
You are not alone.
Take courage. Stay tender. Let the Spirit do her work.
The wilderness is holy ground, too.
In the peace of Christ,
Mary
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What Keeps You Up at Night?
I know when my mind is running at full-steam ahead and I find myself having to carry a small notebook with me, not to mention having to keep that same small notebook on my bedstand as I sleep and on my sink counter while I get ready in the morning. It’s a notebook that contains all my aspirations for Chrysalis, my future self, my parenting goals, and my vacation and travel plans. It’s my Book of Dreams one close friend once called it and it’s a magical and safe place for me, and is truly What Keeps Me Up at Night.
When considering this phrase, I recognize that we usually ask this question to ourselves and others when we are seeking answers about stress, anxiety, or our never-ending to-do list. And yes, there are plenty of nights where worry steals our rest. But sometimes, what keeps us up at night isn’t fear—it’s fire.
It’s the idea you can’t stop thinking about.
The vision that won’t leave you alone.
The calling that keeps whispering, Don’t forget me.
These sleepless moments are often misunderstood. While exhaustion is real and rest is essential, not all restless nights are rooted in anxiety. Some are born from passion.
There’s something sacred about the quiet hours of the night. The distractions have faded, and suddenly, what matters most begins to rise to the surface. You remember what stirs your heart. You reimagine what’s possible. You reconnect with the deeper “why” behind your work, your dreams, your life.
Motivation doesn’t always look like energy or excitement. Sometimes, it looks like staring at the ceiling at 2:00am, wondering how you’ll bring a dream to life that’s bigger than you. That’s not failure – That’s purpose trying to speak.
Of course, balance is essential. But before dismissing every restless night as a problem to fix, consider this: What if your sleeplessness is a signal, not a symptom? What if something within you is waking up?
So, what keeps you up at night?
Is it fear… or is it fire?
Listen closely. The answer might be pointing you back to the reason you started in the first place, the calling you carry, or the work only you can do.
Let passion be your disrupter —and your invitation.
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Where Does It Hurt?
We’ve all heard the phrase: “Hurt people hurt people.” It’s often spoken with a sigh, an attempt to make sense of someone else’s sharp words, distant demeanor, or destructive behavior. It reminds us that pain doesn’t stay neatly packed inside—it leaks out, spills over, and sometimes lashes out. But too often, we stop there, diagnosing the symptom without asking the deeper question: Where does it hurt?
It’s a question that shifts everything.
When someone wounds us with their words or actions, our instinct is often to recoil or retaliate. But what if, instead of reacting, we paused long enough to ask: What pain might they be carrying? Where might their story have broken?
When Jesus encountered hurting people, he often led with this kind of question. To the blind man: “What do you want me to do for you?” To the man by the pool: “Do you want to be made well?” To the woman at the well, whose life was marked by rejection: “Will you give me a drink?” These questions weren’t rhetorical. They were relational. They opened space for dignity, for healing, for truth.
We all carry wounds—some visible, others buried deep. Some of us have learned to mask them with smiles, success, or sarcasm. Others carry their pain just beneath the surface, always a moment away from breaking through. Left unaddressed, these wounds become breeding grounds for bitterness, fear, and aggression. But when we tend to them with care, honesty, and the help of others, healing becomes possible.
So maybe the question for today isn’t just “Who hurt me?” or “Whom have I hurt?”—important as those reflections are. The more transformative question might be:
“Where does it hurt?”
Ask it of yourself. Be still long enough to notice what rises.
Ask it of others. Not as an accusation, but as an invitation.
Ask it in prayer. Trust that God’s mercy meets us in our wounds, not beyond them.
Healing is not quick work – It’s holy work. But every time we pause to ask where it hurts—every time we choose compassion over condemnation—we help break the cycle. We make space for grace. And slowly, painfully, beautifully, we learn to become people who no longer hurt others – including ourselves – but help one another heal.
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Settling for Resurrection and Forgetting to Ascend
Our image this week is my favorite piece of resurrection stained glass. This piece can be found at The Episcopal Cathedral Church of St. John in Albuquerque, NM off of the main sanctuary. What I find most striking is Jesus is not represented in the glass art – Jesus is gone!
We teach that we are a resurrection people. We proclaim this truth with confidence on Easter morning, with lilies in full bloom and hallelujahs ringing in the air. But somewhere in the celebration, we often forget that resurrection isn’t the final act of the story. There’s an Ascension.
The Gospels and Acts make it clear: Jesus rose, but he did not stay. Forty days after Easter, Jesus ascended—not as an afterthought, but as a vital moment in the sacred story. And yet, we often live our spiritual lives as if resurrection is the end of the journey. We long for new life, restoration, second chances. But, we resist the letting go that ascension requires.
The disciples stood on the mountain as Jesus was lifted from their sight. They had already grieved him once. Now, even with the joy of resurrection fresh in their hearts, they had to say goodbye again. Not to death this time—but to presence. To the nearness they had grown to cherish.
We are so often those disciples. We want to hold on to what we love and to what we know. We want resurrection to be the happy ending to the story that lets us stay in the garden or the upper room, breaking bread forever. But Jesus didn’t stay, and neither can we.
Ascension teaches us the sacredness of parting – It is a reminder that release is not failure, and that departure is not abandonment. There is holiness in the goodbye. Not because it is easy or painless—but because it is purposeful.
Jesus ascends so that the disciples can become the church.
Jesus parts so that our faith can stretch into the world, rather than remain rooted only in the simplicity of physical presence.
There’s something profoundly sacred about learning to let go—not in despair, but in trust. It is the same trust we extend when we launch a child into adolescence and then again into adulthood; a pastor into a new appointment; a friend into a new season of life even when we do not fully understand the decision to go. Sacred parting honors what has been and makes room for what will be.
So many of us live in the space between resurrection and ascension, don’t we? We rejoice in what has been restored, but we resist the call to release. We want to hold the resurrected moments tightly, to keep the miracle near. But Jesus calls us to move—upward, outward, forward. To ascend is not to escape. It is to make room.
This season, may we resist the temptation to settle for resurrection. May we recognize the sacredness in parting. And may we have the courage – not just to celebrate the miracle—but to ascend into the mystery.
Blessings on the journey,
Rev. Dr. Kelly Jackson Brooks, LPCC, CEAP
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The Butterfly Effect: Celebrating 5 Years of Chrysalis Counseling For Clergy!
This week, Chrysalis Counseling for Clergy 501(c)3 turns five. What began as a DMIN dissertation dream, has grown into a movement of hope and healing. This ministry was born out of transformation – And like the butterfly effect itself, small acts of care and compassion have rippled outward in powerful and unexpected ways.
The title of this reflection, The Butterfly Effect, is a deliberate play on words. Many have heard of the butterfly effect—a concept from chaos theory made famous by mathematician and meteorologist Edward Lorenz in the 1960s. He proposed that the flap of a butterfly’s wings in Brazil could set off a tornado in Texas. The idea is that small, seemingly insignificant actions can trigger far-reaching and unpredictable consequences.
At Chrysalis, we’ve witnessed this principle in profoundly human terms – One clergy person chooses to rest; One conversation opens a locked-up heart; One retreat allows space for truth to rise. These small moments, often quiet and unremarkable on the surface, have created ripples of healing, change, and resilience.
That’s why we speak of the Butterfly Effect. It’s not just about cause and effect, it’s about transformation. The effect refers to the emotional and spiritual impact we’ve seen as lives are gently touched and slowly changed.
Five years ago, we hosted our first clergy mental health retreat. We didn’t know who would come. We only knew the need to offer sacred space. Since then, we’ve welcomed 196 clergy, chaplains, and spiritual leaders into spaces of deep rest and honest reflection. In that stillness, we trust that they have found what they needed—sometimes clarity, sometimes courage, sometimes just the reminder that they are not alone.
What we have learned is this: When a clergy person finds their breath, the ripple reaches farther than we can see; Congregations shift; Families begin to see each other again; Ministries find new life. That’s the butterfly effect!
So, this week, we celebrate five years of sacred pause, and we celebrate those who dared to step away long enough to be still and to listen. We are so grateful for every person who has trusted Chrysalis with their story, their pain, and their hope.
Here’s to the next five years of unfolding hearts and faithful transformation!
Thank you for being part of this unfolding story.
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The Fire That Connects
Every October, the skies over Albuquerque, New Mexico, come alive with color as hundreds of hot air balloons from across the country rise for the annual International Balloon Fiesta. Each evening, those same balloons line up for a luminous spectacle called the Glow. As darkness falls, massive orbs inflate, light up, and ignite—fire roaring into their bellies. The crowds cheer, laugh, and marvel at the spectacle. It’s not quiet. It’s not subtle. It’s brilliant, loud, and alive.
Pentecost is like this…
Each year, fifty days after Easter, the Church celebrates Pentecost — a moment when the Holy Spirit swept through a group of ordinary people and ignited an extraordinary movement. It’s a story of fire, wind, languages, and transformation – and it is not a quiet holiday.
Pentecost doesn’t creep in gently like Christmas Eve or whisper like Holy Saturday. Pentecost rushes in like a violent wind, sparks flames on foreheads, and sends people spilling into the streets speaking in strange tongues. It’s a day of holy chaos, of Spirit-born movement, of deep and surprising connection.
In Acts 2, we read that on the day of Pentecost, the followers of Jesus were all together in one place. Suddenly, the sound of a rushing wind filled the room, and what looked like tongues of fire appeared and rested on each of them. Then, empowered by the Spirit, they began to speak in other languages—not babble, but real languages—so that those gathered in Jerusalem from all over the world could hear the good news in their own tongue.
It’s a stunning moment: fire from heaven, uniting what the world had divided.
Too often, we think of fire as destructive. And it can be. But fire also purifies. Fire energizes. Fire connects. On Pentecost, fire didn’t burn things down—it lit people up.
This is the fire that connects.
At Pentecost, the Holy Spirit didn’t give everyone the same voice. It didn’t erase difference or uniformity. Instead, the Spirit empowered diverse voices to proclaim the same good news: that God is near, that love is alive, that Christ is risen. The miracle of Pentecost is not sameness—it’s unity in diversity.
That’s a message we desperately need today.
We live in a world marked by division—political, racial, religious, generational. The temptation is to retreat into echo chambers, to build walls instead of bridges. But the Spirit of Pentecost won’t let us do that. The Spirit calls us out of our locked rooms and into the streets. The Spirit ignites courage in our hearts and words in our mouths. The Spirit sets fire to fear and fuels the holy work of connection.
Pentecost reminds us that the church was born not in silence, but in sound. Not in isolation, but in community. Not in sameness, but in vibrant, multilingual diversity.
So let the wind blow! Let the fire fall!
May we be brave enough to carry that fire—to speak the words someone else needs to hear, to listen for the voice of God in unfamiliar accents and cultures and communities – to let the Spirit burn away apathy and spark in us a love that reaches across every boundary.
This is Pentecost.
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