I suppose i am a public theologian, inasmuch as I write about theology and issues in the public discourse for this publication and my blog. I believe offering a theologically driven perspective on current events is important because: 

It offers hope when people are losing hope. 

It ensures that Christian nationalists don’t monopolize what the public thinks of Christians. 

It makes us feel a little less lonely in our activism and part of a greater community. 

It fills our newsfeeds with encouraging content rather than doomscrolling fodder.

I’m not alone in thinking that public theology is particularly important in this time and place. Recently, The New York Times published an op-ed calling for more public theology. We need public theology to address the moral and existential crises of our time. 

I am grateful to stand with clergy both in my own city of Philadelphia and across the United States as we turn our words into deeds and minister to the world.

Despite the role of public theology in current affairs, I do not think it is the only kind of theology — or, better put, care — we need today. We also need intimate, personal spiritual care. Perhaps we need it now more than ever, because oppression and the rise of fascism weigh heavily on our souls and spirits.

People often dismiss the idea that spiritual care is a form of healthcare. Yet studies show we are healthier when we attend to our interior lives. That does not necessarily mean going to church, reading the Bible or professing a confessional faith (although I am in favor of all of these things). Rather, it can mean having hope beyond the material world, believing in the divine, or praying. 

When the world around us is falling apart, it’s easy to let our spiritual needs be sidelined. While our physical needs may be more pressing than our spiritual ones, our souls and bodies are intertwined. As the adage goes, the body keeps the score.

For me, as a pastor, doing my best to offer spiritual and pastoral care to the people I serve is a far greater priority than my public witness.

I do not find it particularly useful to bifurcate the public and the private, as if they are separable. Our bodies are ensouled, and our souls are embodied.

My argument against separating the spiritual and the physical needs cuts both ways. Way too many pastors spiritualize material concerns. They try to pray oppression away. Or, perhaps, they dismiss it as a worldly matter, one that good Anabaptists should not engage in. If that’s where you find yourself, I invite you to read the rest of my columns (and my book). To be sure, the gospel makes political demands of us. 

It has taken me a long time to see that my public advocacy is matched in importance by my private reflection. When I was younger, I would proclaim that faith that isn’t publicly enacted is dead. Not only is that an ableist perspective, but it also diminishes the contributions of those in our movement who pray with us, sit with us, walk with us, sing with us and share meals with us. 

We all play a role in confronting oppression, even if we don’t take to the streets every day or even very often.

My spiritual director was central to this realization. She helped me attend to my emotions and to what my body holds. She is no stranger to activism (which is why I sought her out), and she is deeply aware of the connection between our inner lives and our public posture.

While I long for more public conversations about the state of the world today, I also long for a deeper understanding of how we care for one another. Yes, we need public theology, but we also need spiritual care. 

This, then, is a call for activist pastors to continue caring for those in our churches. It is also a call for weary activists to tend to their souls and bodies, because public action alone will not do that for us. 

And it is a call for all of us to recognize that we can contribute to the movement for peace and justice in a variety of ways, according to the gifts God has given us.