I’VE BEEN THINKING

In 2016, I bought two bold RESIST! decals and slapped them on my car—not just as political protest, but as something deeper: an act of bearing witness. For most of my life, I’ve understood my identity as a Christian to include this obligation—to stand up, speak out, and be seen. But only recently have I begun to understand how profoundly tied that urge is to something even more personal: my need to feel noticed, valued, and affirmed.

From my early days preaching in youth groups to decades of teaching at church, I’ve found joy and meaning in being the center of attention—not out of ego alone, but because it made me feel purposeful. When that role was taken from me, I felt lost and angry. It wasn’t until I was invited back into a small group discussion that I recognized how vital it was to be back “in the arena,” as Roosevelt once said.

Now, well into my 80s, I’ve come to terms with this part of myself. My need to bear witness isn’t just spiritual—it’s personal. It’s how I’ve always felt most alive. And so, the decals are back on the car window—still resisting, still speaking, still hoping to be seen.

On Memorial Day, I find myself reflecting on the quiet, personal stories of war—not just of battlefield heroism, but of memory, loss, and the scars left behind. My earliest memory is of Uncle Harry, fresh from World War II, buying me a baseball glove I’d use until high school. Fifty-five years later, I learned he’d kept our photo by his mirror all his life, praying for me nightly.

My father, a Navy dropout from the 1920s, wore his seaman tattoo and carried his wounds in the form of anger and alcohol. He never saw combat, but he fought his demons every day. And then there was J.—a childhood friend who went to Vietnam and returned deeply changed. His life unraveled in the shadows of PTSD, ending in heartbreaking isolation and tragedy.

These aren’t names on a wall in D.C., but they are warriors I remember. Some came back in body but never fully in spirit. This Memorial Day, I grieve not just for the fallen in war—but for those who fell after it, quietly, painfully, and unseen.

TV shows and films—from The Bob Newhart Show to Shrinking—have long portrayed therapists as quirky, brilliant, or boundary-breaking characters. They’re often entertaining, but rarely accurate. Real therapy, as I’ve experienced it both as a therapist and long-time client, is slower, quieter, and deeply human.

Two films, Ordinary People and Good Will Hunting, come closest to showing what therapy can actually be: tender, empathetic, and at times, transformative. Those rare moments when someone finally feels safe enough to break open—those are sacred. They don’t come with sweeping music or dramatic lighting, but they’re the heart of what we do.

In my practice, the work begins with listening. I want clients to feel two things early on: empathy and hope. Whether it’s Sharon’s torrent of anxious storytelling or Arnold’s cautious silence, my job is to help them reach the emotional truths beneath their words. It takes time, patience, and careful judgment. Therapy isn’t about fixing someone—it’s about discovering meaning together, piece by piece.

Unlike the chaos-filled portrayals on TV, the real work of therapy is both more ordinary and more profound. It’s sitting with people in their uncertainty, helping them trust themselves again, and sometimes—if we’re lucky—laughing together at the beautiful, messy humanity we share.

I grew up in a working-class family where education was seen more as a necessity than a priority. My early academic life reflected that indifference—I was more interested in friendships, basketball, and girlfriends than in algebra or biology. Even after clawing my way to a B+ at UCLA and making it into Princeton Theological Seminary, I never felt smart enough. I worked three jobs, skipped the classics, and constantly feared I didn’t belong among my more privileged peers.

It wasn’t until years later—decades into therapy with a woman named Susan—that I began to trust the strength of my own mind. She helped me see myself not as someone barely surviving but as someone truly thriving. Her words and presence echoed Toni Morrison’s phrase from Beloved: “She is a friend of my mind.” That’s what Susan became to me—a gatherer of my broken pieces, offering them back in the right order.

Now at nearly 84, I still wrestle with old anxieties about falling short—intellectually, emotionally, even physically. But I’ve made peace with myself. I no longer chase perfection. I crave discovery and challenge, but I finally feel at home in my ordinary, pretty good mind. After a lifetime of striving, I’ve become my own friend of the mind.

On a quiet January morning in 2000, we placed our son Jesse’s ashes in the columbarium at All Saints’ Church. That sacred niche has become, for me, the holiest place on earth. It’s where grief meets memory, and where love persists despite death. Years later, I still climb the stairs to touch the marble and talk to him. I still believe he listens. And yet—I also know he’s gone. A pile of ashes behind a wall. These two truths coexist, painfully and tenderly.

This duality echoes the tension I feel every Easter. I’ve spent a lifetime studying theology, yet I find myself standing between belief and doubt. I want to believe in the risen Jesus. And yet, intellectually, I struggle to accept the resurrection as historical fact. My head and heart live in different worlds, and I’ve learned to let them both speak.

What I cling to most now isn’t theological certainty—it’s stories. The Gospels’ accounts of Jesus’ life, full of compassion, courage, and moral clarity, are where I find him most vividly. Likewise, the stories we tell about Jesse—his humor, his kindness, the memories that continue to surface—are where he lives on. Neither man appears to me in visions, but both are deeply alive in the stories that shape how I love, how I believe, and how I endure.

So this Easter, we’ll visit Jesse’s resting place again. Becky will leave a smudge of lipstick on his name. And in church, I’ll sing Jesus Christ is Risen Today—not because I’m certain of it, but because I hope it’s true.

I was raised in a church that dismissed Lent as ritualistic excess—unnecessary, unbiblical, and foreign to our direct relationship with God. But in the 1970s, a surprising encounter with the Lenten season transformed my view. With a small Bible study group, I took part in a six-week covenant of daily scripture, journaling, prayer, and fasting that became one of the most spiritually profound seasons of my life.

Now, decades later, I find many Lenten practices—giving up desserts or sports—feel hollow compared to the deeper call Jesus answered in the wilderness. Lent wasn’t about minor deprivations; it was about facing real temptation, asking: What does it mean to be God’s beloved? How should I use the power I’ve been given?

Jesus chose not to use his power for personal gain but to serve the common good. That’s the deeper meaning of Lent—not pantomiming suffering, but willingly choosing it when love or justice demands it. It’s in these choices—sacrificial love, courage, and compassion—that we mirror Christ’s journey and reclaim the sacred power of being a beloved child of God.

After decades as a Marriage and Family Therapist, I’ve seen relationships die not with dramatic endings, but with a slow erosion of connection and trust—what I call "marital necrophilia," the act of clinging to something long dead. I see the same thing happening in our political culture.

Where politics once thrived on vigorous debate and mutual respect, today it has become a battlefield of dehumanization, driven by self-interest and the erosion of democratic values. The “we” that once defined the American experiment—built on shared purpose and the idea that all are created equal—has given way to a divisive moral order favoring power over unity.

Still, I choose not to give in to despair. I refuse to dehumanize others, even those who disagree with me. I support leaders and movements that prioritize the common good. And despite my age, I am ready to take to the streets once again. Because even though we may be dragging the corpse of a political system that no longer functions for all, I still believe in the power of action, truth-telling, and the hope of building something better.

This year’s Academy Award-nominated films brought a mix of emotions—two I loved, several I liked, one disappointed me, and another was the worst film I’ve seen all year. Notably, three standout films—two nominees and one that should have been—centered on gender-fluid characters, offering deeply personal narratives rather than broad cultural debates.

Will and Harper is an unforgettable documentary exploring the evolving friendship between Will Ferrell and Harper Steele, who transitioned later in life. Their road trip tests social perceptions, particularly in conservative settings, resulting in an honest and deeply moving story of acceptance.

Emilia Perez is a gripping, musically infused crime drama with compelling characters and a haunting backdrop of cartel violence. Though its final act leans into familiar tragedy, it remains the best film I’ve seen this year.

Conclave delivers a fascinating glimpse into Vatican politics, with stellar performances by Ralph Fiennes and Stanley Tucci. However, an unearned plot twist undermines its impact, making its resolution feel unconvincing.

A Complete Unknown was my personal favorite, capturing Bob Dylan’s early years with authenticity. Strong performances and timeless music make this a must-watch, especially for Dylan fans.

Wicked failed to win me over, much like the stage production years ago. Despite strong vocal performances, excessive CGI and a shallow storyline couldn’t match the heart of the original Wizard of Oz.

Finally, Anora was the worst film I’ve seen this year. Its repetitive, soulless scenes lacked depth, wasting what could have been a meaningful story. Instead, it felt exploitative and monotonous, a clear example of a film that needed a serious edit.

While this year’s nominations were a mix of triumphs and disappointments, the best films reminded me why cinema remains such a powerful medium for storytelling.

In a year marked by conflict, chaos, and loss, music has been my unexpected refuge. In this post, I share the stories behind three songs that have been my constant companions through turbulent times—from the resolute spirit of "It Ain’t Over Yet" to introspective ballads capturing the bittersweet confusion of each new day, and a rollicking rock anthem that speaks to the rebel in all of us. Join me as I explore how these melodies have carried me through ambition, love, and the painful beauty of memory, reminding me that even in our darkest moments, there’s always a song that feels like home.

Lee Daniels’ The Butler (2013) portrays the life of Eugene Allen, an African American butler who served in the White House across twelve presidencies. The film highlights major justice conflicts, from civil rights to economic crises.

Reflecting on the film, I once believed that progress was inevitable—that history bent naturally toward justice. But the election of Donald Trump shattered that assumption, revealing a powerful backlash to decades of social advancements. His administration sought to dismantle democratic principles, favoring an autocratic minority.

This realization forced me to confront my own past activism. I once saw myself as an indispensable force for change, needing to be on the “right side” to validate my significance. Now, I understand that the fight for justice is ongoing, led by new generations with fresh visions. My role has shifted—from leading to supporting. The struggle for liberation continues, and I trust those coming after me to forge the path forward.

I was dead asleep when the phone rang at 6:30 a.m. on Thursday, November 11th, 1993.

“Rick, it’s Karen.”

“You’re up early. What’s up?”

“Your mountain is on fire.”

Before I could smell it or see it, I heard it—eighty-mile-per-hour winds driving a wall of flames over the ridge, roaring like a battalion of tanks. We fled with only our wallets, photo albums, and our howling dog, hot cinders raining through the open moonroof as we escaped. By nightfall, half the homes in our mountain neighborhood were ashes.

Thirty-two years later, as flames consumed Altadena, the memories reignited. The word "apocalypse" was used to describe the destruction, but its original meaning—revelation—feels more fitting. Disasters like this unveil truths: about our fragile systems, our disregard for the environment, and, most of all, our capacity for kindness. In this moment of survival, we have a chance to reimagine the future. Will we?

From the dozens of books I read this year, five stood out as unforgettable journeys into new worlds, profound human connections, and life-changing insights. Among them, The Ministry for the Future by Kim Stanley Robinson redefined my perception of science fiction, offering a chilling yet hopeful exploration of climate change and humanity's resilience. Gabrielle Zevin’s Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow revealed the deeply human stories behind the gaming industry, a culture I had underestimated. Kate Chopin’s The Awakening revisited the timeless struggle for women’s independence with breathtaking poignancy.

Anthony Fauci’s memoir, On Call, shed light on a life of integrity and commitment to public health through decades of global crises. Finally, Rabbi Sharon Brous’s The Amen Effect delivered a heartfelt guide to building compassionate, inclusive communities. These books opened my eyes, challenged my assumptions, and left me with lessons I’ll carry long after the final page.