Shane Ash

I’ve been thinking a lot about Jeremiah. The prophet, yes. But also my friend.

My friend Jeremiah has been on a spiritual journey these past couple of years. I’ve had the joy of walking alongside him as he explores the Christian faith with fresh eyes. Recently, he expressed interest in joining a local faith community. So we’ve been visiting churches together—across traditions, aesthetics, and theological expressions. After each visit, he turns to me and asks, “What do they believe here?”

He’s not asking for a doctrinal statement. What he means is: What’s underneath all this? What’s the animating story behind this form of performance? What kind of God is being imagined and celebrated here? And, is this really all that church is?

Behind his question, I hear something deeper—a quiet ache. A lament-laced longing for something more than spiritual entertainment or ritual maintenance. A longing for something real. Something active in the neighborhood. Something that clearly communicates good news and acts of relief for the suffering.

My recent post, Yes, I Am Sad, seemed to strike a chord with some—and it’s true. I am sad. I’m heartbroken over how fragmented, distracted, and disoriented the church has become. We’ve traded a liberating invitation for afterlife coping mechanisms and culture-war theatrics. We’ve become preoccupied with securing power instead of self-emptying love. In the process, we’ve neglected the very things Jesus said matter most: the blind see, the lame walk, the hungry are fed, the naked are clothed, the imprisoned are set free, the widows are defended, and the immigrants are welcomed.

And here’s the thing: the prophet Jeremiah was sad too. He is often called the weeping prophet.

“Oh, that my head were a spring of water and my eyes a fountain of tears,
so that I might weep day and night for the slain of my people.” (Jeremiah 9:1)

Jeremiah’s tears weren’t a sign of fragility. They were a form of resistance. A refusal to normalize empty religious routines. A refusal to imagine God in the image of power over others. A deep, embodied protest against numbness and indifference to the neighbor.

Jeremiah lived through the unraveling of his nation’s religious and political identity. He saw the temple corrupted, the marginalized crushed, the leaders indifferent. And still, he kept showing up—with lament, with courage, and with a heart torn open by grief.

I believe we’re living through a similar unraveling. And I believe we need a similar kind of courage—not a desperate attempt to rebuild what was, but a prophetic imagination to dream what could yet be… and the patient faith to live into it.

So, my friend Jeremiah—since you asked—I will imagine here with you for a while. There is no five-step plan. That’s part of the point. But I do see signposts of hope, hints of a different kind of faithfulness. And so, alongside my friend—and the ancient prophet too—I will practice holding sorrow and imagination at the same time. Maybe that’s how hope works.

I’m Imagining a Church That…

Feels Less Like a Performance and More Like a Shared Practice
Less about showing up on Sunday, and more about showing up for each other every day. Less like a stage, more like a shared table—or a community restoration project. Less like a talent show, more like a circle of honest friends. Something like AA.

These are communities of common practice where vulnerability isn’t just allowed—it’s expected. They’re not built around programs but participation. Not hype, but help. Not crowds, but connection.

Because when I look at what is, I’m reminded of Jeremiah’s warning: “Do not trust in these deceptive words, ‘This is the temple of the Lord, the temple of the Lord, the temple of the Lord!’” (Jeremiah 7:4)

Jeremiah called out a system that had turned sacred space into performance theater. A religion that had traded relationship for ritual. Presence for presentation. And we need that same level of lament now. We need less emphasis on spiritual experiences or encounters and more encouragement to live our lives truthfully and attentively—together.

Makes Space for Mystery
Certainty has become a drug the church can’t quit. We treat inerrancy like oxygen—as if truth will suffocate without our explanations. But mystery isn’t the enemy of faith. It’s its habitat.

The truth is…inerrancy, more often than not, becomes a scapegoat for abuse—a way to silence, control, and dominate. We need to let Scripture become a doorway for meditation, not a hammer for manipulation. A place to wrestle, to wonder, to sit in silence, to seek, to suffer, and to discern new things…

We need a story of God that doesn’t pretend to explain everything, but dares us to trust—even in the dark, even in the silence.

Trusts in Slow, Non-Anxious Leadership
Pastors don’t need to be impressive. They need to be present. We don’t need charisma. We need grief-holders. We don’t need bigger platforms. We need small space-makers. We don’t need better branding. We need someone who will sit on the ash heap when nothing makes sense.

This is the kind of leadership Jeremiah embodied. He was ridiculed, ignored, dismissed—and still he stayed. Still he spoke. Still he wept. And he also raged against religion that avoided the real wounds and pain of the people:

“They dress the wound of my people as though it were not serious.
‘Peace, peace,’ they say, when there is no peace.” (Jeremiah 6:14; 8:11)

It was a protest against shallow comfort, cheap grace, and careless hope. A protest on behalf of the wounded and the overlooked. Yes, we need pastors who will sit on the ash heap more than they stand on a stage. Pastors who will march in the streets more than they pace behind the pulpit. Pastors who feed the poor more than they administer the sacrament.

Plants Gardens in Exile
We are not in Jerusalem. We are not in Christendom. And that’s okay. The prophet’s words to the exiles still speak:

“Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat what they produce…
seek the peace of the city where I have sent you.” (Jeremiah 29:5–7)

This is the slow, faithful work of transformation. Not spectacle. Not dominance. Just yeast, seeds, tears, and love. The Church that’s coming won’t be the one that “takes back the culture.” It will be the one that dares to live with it, serve in it, and love it—quietly, fruitfully, faithfully.

Lets Go of Empire Logic and Strategies
Jeremiah didn’t offer a strategy for success. He offered an invitation to surrender. The Church of the future won’t be measured by attendance, followers, or members. It will be measured in mercy.

“I will give them a heart to know me,” says the Lord, “that I am the Lord. They will be my people, and I will be their God.” (Jeremiah 24:7)

That kind of knowing doesn’t come through noise or being the center of attention. It comes through giving attention—especially to those on the margins, the overlooked, the voices we seek to silence.

So yes, Jeremiah—the prophet Jeremiah was sad too. And maybe that’s not a problem to fix. Perhaps it’s the path to follow.

A sadness that refuses to look away. A sadness that breaks open into truth. A sadness that plants gardens in the rubble and care-takes the soil beneath its own feet. A sadness that imagines—and actively embodies—a different kind of faithfulness and community.