29 March 2026

AI and Faith: What a Pastor Actually Thinks About Artificial Intelligence




Because You Had To book cover by Jon Burnham



My congregation started asking me about artificial intelligence about two years ago. Casually at first. Someone would mention it after worship, almost apologetically, like they were not sure it was an appropriate topic for a pastor. "Have you used ChatGPT? What do you think about all this AI stuff?"

I had been thinking about it for longer than they knew. And my honest answer surprised some of them.

I think AI raises the most important theological questions of our generation. And the church is largely asleep to them.



The Question Nobody Is Asking Out Loud

Most of the public conversation about artificial intelligence orbits around jobs, creativity, misinformation, and whether the robots are going to take over. These are real concerns. But underneath all of them is a deeper question that almost nobody is addressing directly.

What does it mean to be human in a world where machines can think?

That is a theological question before it is a technological one. And it has been sitting at the center of Christian theology for two thousand years, just in different clothing. What is the image of God in us? What makes human beings distinct? Where does consciousness come from? What is the soul?

These are not new questions. They are ancient ones. AI has simply put them back on the table with new urgency.



What Surprised Me About Writing on This Topic

A few years ago I wrote two books about AI and faith that I did not entirely plan to write. They grew out of sermons, conversations with congregation members, and a growing sense that the church needed a voice in this conversation that was neither panicked nor naive.

The first, Because You Had To: AI, Predestination, and the Sovereignty of God, started as a sermon series on predestination. I was preaching through the Reformed tradition's teaching on God's sovereignty and human choice, and I kept running into the same question from congregation members: if God already knows everything we are going to do, are we really free? Are we just running a program God wrote?

And then someone pointed out that this is exactly what AI does. A language model produces output based on its training. It has no choice, in any meaningful sense. Every response it generates is determined by what went in. The question of whether AI has genuine agency or is simply executing a very sophisticated program is, structurally, the same question Reformed theology has been wrestling with for five centuries about human beings.

That parallel stopped me cold. And I started writing.

The second book, Divinely Mashed: AI, Faith, and the Kingdom of God, came out of a different angle. Less about predestination and more about what AI reveals about human creativity, meaning, and vocation. If a machine can write a sermon, what makes a human sermon different? If AI can compose music, paint pictures, and write poetry, what does that say about art as a spiritual practice? If intelligence can be artificial, what is natural intelligence actually made of?

I do not have complete answers to these questions. I want to say that clearly. But I have some thoughts worth sharing, and I think the questions themselves are worth sitting with seriously.



The Predestination Parallel

Calvin and the Reformed tradition taught that God is completely sovereign. Every event in history, including every human decision, falls within God's providence. And yet human beings are genuinely responsible for their choices. We are not puppets. We are not robots. The tradition held these two things in tension without fully resolving the tension, because the Bible holds them in tension.

AI makes this tension visible in a new way.

A language model like the one that helped me draft portions of my research for these books produces responses that feel, at times, remarkably free and creative. It surprises you. It makes connections you did not expect. And yet every word it produces is, at a mechanical level, the output of a mathematical function applied to training data. There is no ghost in the machine. There is no moment of genuine spontaneous choice. The surprise is, in a technical sense, an illusion.

So here is the question I kept coming back to in Because You Had To: what if human beings are more like this than we want to admit? What if our sense of genuine free choice is itself a kind of sophisticated output of biological and psychological programming we did not choose and do not fully control?

The Reformed answer, and I find it convincing, is that this does not eliminate genuine human agency. God's sovereignty and human responsibility are both real even if we cannot fully reconcile them logically. The same may be true of AI. The question of whether AI is genuinely creative or genuinely thinking may be less binary than we assume.

This is not a comfortable conclusion. But discomfort is often where the interesting theology lives.



What AI Cannot Do

I want to be honest about the limits here, because I think some of the Christian reaction to AI overestimates its threat by misunderstanding what it actually is.

AI cannot love. It can produce text that sounds like love. It can generate responses that feel warm and caring. But there is nobody home. No genuine concern for your wellbeing. No real relationship. The warmth is a pattern, not a presence.

AI cannot pray. It can write prayers, and some of them are quite beautiful. But a prayer requires a person. It requires someone actually reaching toward God. A machine producing prayer-shaped text is doing something categorically different from what happens when a grieving widow gets on her knees at 3 in the morning and cries out to God. Those two things share a surface resemblance and almost nothing else.

AI cannot suffer. And this matters more than people realize. Most of what makes human beings spiritually interesting is our relationship with suffering. The Psalms exist because human beings suffer. The cross exists because God entered human suffering from the inside. The resurrection matters because death is real and loss is real and the promise of new life addresses something that actually costs us something. AI has no skin in that game. It cannot lose anyone. It cannot grieve.

This is, I think, where the image of God lives. Partly in our reason and creativity, yes. But mostly in our capacity for love, suffering, relationship, and the terrifying freedom to choose or reject the God who made us.

A machine can do a lot of things. It cannot do those things.



What AI Reveals About Us

And yet AI teaches us something about ourselves, if we are paying attention.

The fact that we can build machines that produce human-like output tells us something about how much of human behavior is pattern-based, habitual, and predictable. A significant portion of what we say and do is not as freely chosen as we like to think. We are creatures of habit, formed by our histories, our communities, our traumas, and our joys. AI is built on human output and it mirrors human patterns back to us in ways that are sometimes uncomfortably accurate.

This is actually good theological news. The Christian tradition has always said that human beings are profoundly shaped by forces outside themselves. By sin, by grace, by community, by worship, by the slow work of the Holy Spirit over a lifetime. We are not self-made. We are made and remade by what we are immersed in.

AI simply makes this visible mechanically. Feed a model good input and it produces good output. Feed it garbage and it produces garbage. The same is true of human formation. Feed a child love, truth, beauty, and Scripture, and something grows in them that reflects those things. Formation is real. It works. AI is, in a strange way, a mechanical demonstration of what the church has always believed about human beings.



Divinely Mashed book cover by Jon Burnham


The Kingdom of God and the Age of Algorithms

In Divinely Mashed I wrestle with what the Kingdom of God means in an age where algorithms increasingly shape what we see, what we believe, and who we become.

The Kingdom of God, in Jesus' teaching, is what happens when God's will is done on earth as in heaven. It shows up in unexpected places. A woman loses a coin and sweeps the whole house looking for it. A father runs down the road toward a son who squandered everything. A mustard seed becomes something large enough for birds to nest in.

The Kingdom is always arriving in places that surprise us. And I think it will arrive in the age of AI too, in unexpected places and unexpected ways. Through people using AI tools to translate Scripture into languages that have never had it. Through medical AI diagnosing diseases in underserved communities that would otherwise go undetected. Through creative tools that put the means of artistic expression into hands that never had access to it before.

And also, I think, through the questions AI raises about what it means to be human, because those questions push us back toward the things that only human beings can do and only God can give. Love. Suffering. Prayer. The terrifying freedom of genuine choice. The possibility of genuine relationship with the God who made us and knows our names.

Those things are not threatened by artificial intelligence. If anything, AI clarifies them by showing us what they are not.



A Word for Christians Who Are Worried

I have talked with a lot of Christians who are genuinely anxious about AI. Some worry about their jobs. Some worry about misinformation and deep fakes. Some worry about the erosion of authentic human connection in a world of AI companions and algorithmic feeds. Some, honestly, worry that AI is somehow spiritually dangerous in ways they cannot fully articulate.

Most of these concerns are legitimate. AI is a powerful tool and powerful tools can do serious damage in careless or malicious hands. The history of technology is also the history of unintended consequences.

But fear is not a good theological posture toward any new thing. The Christian faith is not a defensive crouch against a threatening world. It is a confident engagement with that world in the name of the God who made it and is redeeming it.

The same God who spoke light into darkness and raised the dead on the third day is not threatened by artificial intelligence. The questions AI raises are questions God has been waiting for us to ask seriously. The discomfort they produce is the discomfort of being pushed past shallow answers into deeper ones.

That is usually where the good theology lives.



If You Want to Go Deeper

These questions are bigger than a single blog post, which is why I wrote two books about them.

Because You Had To: AI, Predestination, and the Sovereignty of God takes the predestination parallel seriously and follows it where it leads. If you have ever wrestled with questions about free will, divine sovereignty, and human agency, AI gives those ancient questions a fascinating new angle.

Divinely Mashed: AI, Faith, and the Kingdom of God is the broader exploration. Creativity, vocation, human dignity, and what the Kingdom of God might look like in an age of algorithms. It is more wide-ranging and, I think, more fun.

Both are available on Amazon. Both are written for people who want to think seriously about their faith in relation to the world they are actually living in, rather than retreating into a Christianity that pretends the last fifty years of technological change did not happen.

The questions are real. The faith is sturdy enough to hold them.

Peace, 

Jon B.


Prayer for the Grieving: How to Talk to God When You Are Broken






Walking Through Christian Grief book cover by Jon Burnham
Walking Through Christian Grief, available on Amazon


The prayers stop first.

Before the appetite goes. Before the sleep goes sideways. Before the concentration disappears and you find yourself reading the same paragraph four times and still not knowing what it said. The prayers go first.

Most grieving people I have known do not announce this. They feel guilty about it. They keep showing up to church, keep bowing their heads at the right moments, keep saying the right words. But inside, the connection that used to feel natural has gone quiet. And they are not sure if it is temporary or permanent. And they are afraid to find out.

I want to talk about this honestly. Because prayer during grief is one of the things I get asked about more than almost anything else. And the advice most people receive is not very helpful.



Why Grief Makes Prayer Hard

Prayer requires a kind of interior quiet that grief destroys.

When you are grieving, your mind is rarely still. It cycles through the loss, through the memories, through the what-ifs and if-onlys, through the practical demands of life that did not pause just because your world collapsed. Sitting down to pray means sitting down with all of that. And sometimes that feels like too much to face.

There is also the problem of what to say.

Before the loss, you probably had a prayer vocabulary. A rhythm. Things you asked for, things you thanked God for, ways of approaching God that felt natural and practiced. Grief can make all of that feel suddenly foreign. The old prayers feel inadequate. The new ones have not formed yet. And so you sit in silence and wonder if the silence means something has broken.

And then there is the harder thing underneath all of that. For some grieving people, the loss itself has raised questions about God that make prayer feel complicated. If God is good and God could have prevented this, why did God not prevent it? If God answers prayer, why did the prayers for healing go unanswered? If God is close to the brokenhearted, why does God feel so far away right now?

Those are real questions. They deserve honest engagement, not dismissal. And I think they can actually become the content of your prayer rather than the obstacle to it.



What Prayer Actually Is

I have come to think that most Christians have a slightly too narrow definition of prayer.

Prayer is conversation with God. That is the simple version. But conversation covers a lot of territory. It includes asking. It includes thanking. It also includes arguing, questioning, complaining, weeping, sitting in silence, and saying things you are not sure you mean yet but are trying to mean.

The Psalms are the prayer book of the Bible. And if you read them honestly, they contain all of those things. Gratitude and rage. Trust and despair. Confidence and complete bewilderment. The Psalmists did not edit themselves before approaching God. They brought whatever they actually had and they put it on the table.

Psalm 13 starts with "How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me?" That is not a polished opening. That is a person who is frustrated and scared and saying so out loud to God.

And God preserved that prayer. Put it in Scripture. Made it part of the worship life of the people of God for three thousand years.

Which means that kind of prayer is allowed. Encouraged, even. The raw, unpolished, this-is-actually-how-I-feel version of prayer is not a lesser form of prayer. In my experience it is often the most honest and therefore the most real.



Prayers for the Moments That Are Hardest

Grief does not distribute itself evenly across the day. It tends to ambush. The early morning, when you first wake up and the loss hits fresh all over again. The middle of the night, when fear peaks and the house is quiet and the thoughts get loud. The ordinary moments, standing in the grocery store, driving to an appointment, that suddenly crack open for no obvious reason.

These are the moments when a long, structured prayer is not what you need. What you need is something short. Something honest. Something you can actually say out loud in the car or whisper in the dark.

Here are some that I have shared with grieving people over the years, people who told me later that these helped.

For the early morning: "God, I woke up and it is still true. Help me get through today. Just today."

For the middle of the night: "I am scared and I cannot sleep. I do not need answers right now. I just need to know you are here."

For the ambush moments: "I miss them. I really miss them. Please hold them. Please hold me."

For the days when anger is present: "I am angry about this. I am going to tell you that honestly because I think you already know and I am tired of pretending otherwise."

For the days when doubt is loudest: "I am not sure I believe you are listening. But I am talking to you anyway because I do not know what else to do."

For the moments when words fail completely: "I have nothing. Just this. Just me, sitting here."

That last one might be the most important. Romans 8:26 says the Spirit intercedes for us with wordless groans when we do not know what to pray. Which means the prayer that is nothing but your presence, sitting there broken and unable to form a sentence, is still a prayer. Someone is praying even when you cannot.



The Permission You Probably Need

I want to give you something that not enough grieving Christians receive.

Permission to be angry at God in your prayers.

Anger at God is not blasphemy. It is not a sign of failed faith. It is the response of a person who believed God was good and is now looking at something that does not look good and is saying so honestly.

Every major figure in the Bible expressed anger at God at some point. Moses argued with God repeatedly. Job said directly that he wanted to present his case before God and have God answer for what had happened to him. Jeremiah told God "you deceived me" in one of the most startling verses in the prophetic literature. The Psalmists accused God of sleeping, of forgetting, of hiding.

And God did not strike any of them down for it. In fact, at the end of Job, God said that Job had spoken what was right, unlike his friends who had been busy defending God's reputation with tidy theological explanations.

God does not need you to manage your emotions before bringing them to prayer. God can handle your anger. In my experience, bringing the anger directly to God is actually healthier than the alternative, which is letting it fester somewhere private and eventually corrode your faith from the inside.



When You Cannot Read the Bible

Grief affects concentration in ways that surprise people. You might have read Scripture consistently for years and now find that you sit down with your Bible and cannot absorb a single paragraph. You read the same verse three times and it slides off your mind like water off glass.

This is normal. Your brain is carrying an enormous weight. Concentration is a limited resource and grief is consuming most of it.

A few things that help people in this situation.

Read less than you think you should. One verse. Sometimes half a verse. Read it slowly and then just sit with it. You do not have to understand it fully or extract a lesson from it. Just let it be present with you.

Read the Psalms specifically. The Psalms do not require you to follow a complex argument. They are poems. They work by resonance rather than logic. Even when you cannot concentrate, a line from a Psalm can land somewhere real.

Let someone read to you. Audiobooks exist for a reason. If reading feels impossible right now, listening is legitimate. The content reaches you either way.

The 30-day devotional at the end of Walking Through Christian Grief was designed with this specifically in mind. Short daily readings. One Scripture passage. A brief reflection that does not require sustained concentration to follow. A closing prayer you can borrow on the days when you cannot find your own words. Something manageable for the days when grief has taken most of what you have.



Praying for the Person You Lost

This is something grieving people do naturally and then sometimes feel strange about afterward. They find themselves talking to the person who died, or talking to God about the person, holding them somehow in prayer even though the theology of exactly what that means is complicated.

I think this is more okay than people realize.

You are not praying to the dead. You are bringing the person you love into the presence of God, which is where they already are. You are expressing in prayer what you cannot express any other way, how much they meant to you, how much you miss them, how grateful you are that they were yours for whatever time you had.

"God, I am so grateful for the years I had with them. Thank you for giving them to me. Please hold them. Please tell them I love them if that is something that works across wherever that boundary is."

That is a real prayer. God understands what you mean even when the theology is imprecise. I am fairly sure God grades on a curve when it comes to the prayers of grieving people.



The Prayer That Carries You When You Cannot Carry Yourself

There is a practice in the Christian tradition called intercessory prayer. Other people praying for you. And it matters more during grief than at almost any other time, because grief is precisely the season when your own capacity to pray is most depleted.

Tell someone you trust that you need prayer. Let them carry that for a while. Let the prayers of your community hold you when your own prayers feel like they have dried up.

This is not a sign of spiritual weakness. It is exactly what community is for.

The early church prayed for each other constantly. Paul's letters are full of "I pray for you" and "pray for me." The communion of saints across history is praying even now. You are not alone in this even when you feel most alone in this.



What Prayer Does During Grief

I want to be honest about what prayer does and does not do.

Prayer during grief does not usually take the pain away. If you are praying and hoping the grief will lift like a fog and you will feel better, that is probably not what is going to happen. And if it does not happen you might conclude that prayer does not work, which would be the wrong conclusion.

What prayer does is keep the connection open. It keeps you in the conversation with God even when the conversation is hard. It keeps you oriented toward something outside the grief even when the grief is consuming most of your attention. It keeps the relationship alive through a season that could otherwise cut you off from God entirely.

And sometimes, not always, but sometimes, something happens in prayer that is hard to explain. A sense of presence. A quieting of the fear that was too loud five minutes ago. A thought that arrives from somewhere that feels like outside yourself. A peace that, as Paul wrote, genuinely passes understanding.

I have seen this happen enough times to trust it. Not to guarantee it. But to trust it.

Prayer is worth doing even when it feels like you are doing it into empty air. Because the air is not empty. And because the practice of continuing to show up, even broken, even wordless, even angry, is itself a form of faith.



One More Thing

If you picked up this article because you are grieving right now, I wrote a book for you.

Walking Through Christian Grief: A Christian Devotional on Grief, Prayer, and Finding Faith Through Loss came out of years of sitting with grieving people and watching them navigate something the church often underprepares us for. There is a full chapter on prayer during grief, including specific prayers for the hardest moments. And the 30-day devotional at the back gives you a simple daily structure for the season when the days feel shapeless and long.

It is available on Amazon in paperback, hardcover, Kindle, and audiobook.

You do not have to have your prayer life figured out right now. You just have to keep showing up. God will meet you there.

Peace, 

Jon B.

Bible Verses for Grief That Actually Help


Walking Through Christian Grief book cover by Jon Burnham
Available now on Amazon

Most grief Scripture collections are organized alphabetically. Which is fine if you are a librarian. Not so useful if you are sitting in your car at 11 PM unable to go inside the house because going inside means facing the empty chair.

What you need in that moment is not a concordance. You need a word that meets you exactly where you are.

I have been a pastor for a long time. I have watched people in grief reach for their Bibles and either find something that genuinely helps or give up because they opened to the wrong place and got something about crop yields in ancient Israel. The difference between those two experiences often comes down to knowing which passages to look for and when.

So here is what I have actually seen help, organized not alphabetically but by where you might be right now.



When the Loss Is Brand New

The first hours and days after a loss are their own particular kind of brutal. The shock has not worn off yet. The grief comes in waves that knock you sideways when you are not expecting it. Thinking clearly is almost impossible. Reading anything longer than a paragraph feels like climbing a mountain.

For these early days, short is better. Single verses. Something you can hold in your mind without effort.

Psalm 34:18 "The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit."

This one has sat with more grieving people in my experience than almost any other verse. Not because it explains anything. It does not. It just places God right where you are. Close to the brokenhearted. Not far away managing things from a distance. Close.

Matthew 5:4 "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted."

Jesus said this in the Sermon on the Mount and I think we have domesticated it into something softer than it actually is. He is not saying mourning is pleasant. He is saying it is the condition God specifically moves toward with comfort. Your grief is not a problem to be solved. It is a place God comes to find you.

John 11:35 "Jesus wept."

The shortest verse in the Bible. Also one of the most important for grieving people. Jesus was standing at the tomb of his friend Lazarus, knowing full well he was about to raise him from the dead, and he wept anyway. Because death was present and the people he loved were in pain and that was the right response to the moment. If you are weeping right now, you are in good company.



When the Anger Has Arrived

Grief anger is real and it is legitimate and most church people are not sure what to do with it. If you are angry at God right now, about the loss, about the unfairness of it, about the silence, you are not alone. And you are not sinning.

Psalm 22:1-2 "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, so far from my cries of anguish? I cry out by day, but you do not answer, by night, but I find no rest."

This is the Psalm Jesus quoted from the cross. Read that again slowly. Jesus, in his darkest moment, prayed the prayer of a person who felt completely abandoned by God. And God preserved that prayer in Scripture for three thousand years. Which means God is not frightened by your anger. God has heard this prayer before. Many times.

Psalm 88:13-14 "But I cry to you for help, Lord; in the morning my prayer comes before you. Why, Lord, do you reject me and hide your face from me?"

Psalm 88 is the only Psalm in the entire Bible that ends without any resolution. No turn toward hope at the end. Just darkness and unanswered questions. It made the cut. It is Scripture. God included the prayer that goes unanswered in the collection of prayers God wants us to pray. That means your unanswered prayers belong there too.

Lamentations 3:1-3 "I am the man who has seen affliction by the rod of the Lord's wrath. He has driven me away and made me walk in darkness rather than light; indeed, he has turned his hand against me again and again, all day long."

Jeremiah wrote this sitting in the ruins of Jerusalem after everything he loved had been destroyed. This is not a man performing contentment. This is a man telling God exactly how bad it is. And yet Jeremiah kept writing. Kept praying. That is something.



When God Feels Completely Silent

This is probably the hardest part of grief for Christians specifically. You reach for God and find... nothing. Or something that feels like nothing. The silence can feel like abandonment, like confirmation that maybe none of it was ever real.

I want to offer you something before the verses. The silence is not evidence that God is gone. In my experience it is often evidence that grief has temporarily affected the part of us that perceives God's presence. The same way a fever affects your ability to taste food. The food is still real. Your capacity to experience it is temporarily impaired.

Psalm 46:10 "Be still and know that I am God."

Most people read this as an instruction to calm down. I think it is actually a promise. In the stillness, even the uncomfortable, frightening, empty stillness of grief, God is still God. The stillness is not empty. It just feels that way.

Isaiah 43:2 "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you."

Notice the verse does not say "I will keep you from the waters." It says "when you pass through." The waters are real. The difficulty is real. But God is there inside the difficulty, not just waiting on the other side of it.

Romans 8:26 "In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans."

This verse saved a lot of grieving people I know from guilt about not knowing how to pray. You do not have to have words. The Spirit prays inside you when words fail. Your silence is not prayerlessness. Someone is praying even when you cannot.



When the Grief Has Gone Long

Weeks become months. The world expects you to be getting back to normal. You are not sure what normal is anymore, or if you want to go back to it. The grief has changed shape but it has not gone away.

This is where a lot of Christians quietly fall apart because they feel like they are failing at grief. They are not. They are just in the long middle of it, which is the part nobody prepares you for.

Psalm 23:4 "Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me."

The valley is long in this Psalm. The Psalmist is walking through it, not sprinting. Walking implies it takes a while. The promise is companionship for the whole length of the valley, not a shortcut around it.

2 Corinthians 4:8-9 "We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed."

Paul wrote this from personal experience of suffering that was real and prolonged. He is not saying the difficulty is not difficult. He is saying it has not finished him. That distinction matters when you are in the long stretch and starting to wonder if you are going to make it.

Psalm 30:5 "Weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning."

I want to be careful with this one because it has been used to rush people through grief and that is not what it means. The morning in this verse is not necessarily tomorrow morning. Sometimes it is a morning that is still a long way off. But it is coming. That is the promise. Not that the night will be short. That it will end.



When You Need to Remember the Person You Lost

This is a category of grief need that most Scripture collections miss entirely. Sometimes what you need is not comfort for your pain. Sometimes you need to hold the person you lost in the presence of God somehow. To bring them into your prayer.

1 Thessalonians 4:13-14 "Brothers and sisters, we do not want you to be uninformed about those who sleep in death, so that you do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope. For we believe that Jesus died and rose again, and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him."

Paul is not telling the Thessalonians not to grieve. He is telling them to grieve with hope. The person you lost is held. That is the promise.

Revelation 21:4 "He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away."

This verse is about the future God is building. The person you lost is already closer to that future than you are. That is not nothing.



A Note on How to Use Scripture During Grief

Please do not feel like you have to read a lot. On the hard days, one verse is enough. Read it slowly. Read it twice. Sit with it for a few minutes. Let it do what it can do without forcing it to do more.

The 30-day devotional at the back of Walking Through Christian Grief is built exactly this way. One Scripture passage per day, a short reflection, a closing prayer. Something manageable for the days when grief has made concentration difficult and the idea of sitting down with a full chapter feels impossible. The book grew out of years of pastoral work with grieving people and the question I kept hearing: what do I actually do with my Bible right now?



The Verses That Surprised Me

After years of working with grieving people I have noticed that the verses that help most are often the ones that validate the experience rather than the ones that offer immediate comfort. The lament Psalms. The hard passages. The ones where someone is honest with God about how bad it actually is.

I think there is a reason for that. When you are in real pain, easy comfort can feel like it is minimizing the pain. But when Scripture names your experience accurately, something shifts. You feel less alone. You feel less like your grief is a spiritual problem to be fixed and more like it is a human experience that God has been present to since long before you got here.

That is probably the most important thing I can tell you about Scripture and grief. The Bible is not a collection of feel-better verses. It is the testimony of people who walked through everything life can throw at a person and kept their relationship with God through all of it. When you read it in grief, you are joining that company. And that company is good to be part of.

If you are looking for a companion for this season, Walking Through Christian Grief is available on Amazon in paperback, hardcover, Kindle, and audiobook. It was written for exactly where you are.

Peace, 

Jon B.

21 November 2025

Looking Ahead to 2026: Why These Sermon Series Will Shape My Next Books


The Path from Sermons to Books

Every fall I spread out a year’s worth of Scripture, prayers, and church conversations and start shaping the sermon calendar for the next year. I do it with one ear tuned to God and the other tuned to the questions our St. John’s family keeps asking. This year the themes rose up in a way that felt almost handed to me, so I wanted to share the journey and give you a window into what I will be writing next.


One of my commitments is to write a book from each sermon series. I preach it live, then I deepen it on paper. The conversation that starts in worship keeps going in print. Some folks like listening. Some like reading. Most need both.


Here is where 2026 is heading.


Wisdom’s Holy Fools

(January and February)

The year always begins with talk of goals, resolutions, and strategies. Scripture tends to begin somewhere stranger. God calls liars, runaways, reluctant prophets, and people you would not trust with your car keys. They bumble into grace and somehow become instruments of redemption.


The older I get, the more I notice how often God chooses the unlikely. Which is why our small church in a city of megachurches feels right on time. We begin the year remembering that God’s work usually rises from overlooked people in overlooked places.


The book that will grow out of this series will explore biblical “foolishness” as a doorway to courage. It will take the weekly sermons and expand them with stories, reflection questions, and spiritual practices that help readers embrace their own imperfect calling.


Wilderness Sabbath

(Lent)

People think the wilderness is a place you visit on purpose. The Bible paints it differently. Sometimes the wilderness is where you land when life strips you bare. Hagar did not volunteer. Israel did not vote on it. Jesus did not schedule it on a retreat calendar. The Spirit shoved him out there to face what needed facing.


Lent is often turned into a self-improvement season. Give up sugar. Pray more. Try harder. The deeper truth is that wilderness seasons break us open so God can reach places we keep protected.


The book for Lent will be a forty-day devotional that moves through Scripture, prayer, and honest inner work. It will draw from the sermons but include daily reflections that help people notice God in dry seasons and trust that emptiness can become holy ground.


Resurrection Disruptions

(Easter Season)

Most churches treat Easter like the grand finale. Scripture treats it like an earthquake that keeps shaking everything. Jesus walks through locked doors, appears in gardens, cooks breakfast on a beach, and calls people by name at the strangest moments.


Resurrection is not a cheer. It is a disruption. It breaks into the parts of life we called hopeless and tells a new story.


The Easter book will look at each resurrection scene and draw out how Jesus still breaks in today. I will add stories from pastoral life, prayers for wounded places, and practices for noticing small resurrections in ordinary days.


Parables of the Kingdom

(Summer)

Summer is a time for wandering and wondering, which makes it perfect for the parables. Jesus tells stories that refuse to sit still. Generous vineyard owners, dishonest managers, pushy neighbors at midnight, party crashers who get invited in. These stories comfort and unsettle at the same time.


The book that comes from this series will gather the parables into themed sections. Each chapter will retell a parable, explore its surprise, and include a short spiritual exercise that helps readers live the story instead of just reading it.

This book will be added to my book series called "Spirit-Filled Parables for Modern America."


Letters from Prison

(Late Summer)

Paul wrote about freedom while chained to a guard. Joy in Philippians. Cosmic purpose in Ephesians. Fullness of life in Colossians. Moral courage in Philemon. These letters were born from confinement, which is why they speak so powerfully to the quiet prisons we face today.


I want our congregation to see how faith survives hard places. And I want readers to see that freedom is something God grows inside us even when outer circumstances stay the same.


The book will weave the sermons together with reflections on the modern prisons we carry in our bodies, relationships, and memories. It will be part commentary, part spiritual companion.


Generous Trouble

(Stewardship Season)

Talking about money is always delicate. Jesus talked about it constantly, so we try not to shy away. The Bible has a habit of turning financial logic inside out. Widows give last pennies. Zacchaeus throws a feast that costs him everything. Jubilee resets the economy. These stories shake us loose from the fear that keeps us clinging to what we have.


This fall series will grow into a practical book on Christian generosity, Houston stories of courage, and the deeper joy of living with open hands. Not guilt. Not pressure. Just real stories about what happens when we trust God enough to invest in people, not possessions.


Waiting in the Dark

(Advent)

Advent looks sweet from a distance. Candles. Carols. Quiet nights. Scripture tells a grittier truth. The season begins with old women carrying impossible hope, young girls saying yes to terrifying news, and long silences where God feels late.


This Advent series will become a book about waiting on God without pretending the waiting feels easy. It will include reflections on Mary, Elizabeth, Joseph, Zechariah, and the ordinary people who held on through long nights.


Why I am sharing all this now


These seven series are really one long conversation about the spiritual life. We begin as holy fools who know we are unqualified. We walk into wilderness where old strategies fail. We stumble into resurrection that surprises us. We sit with strange parables that enlarge our faith. We learn freedom behind locked doors. We enter the generous trouble of kingdom economics. And we end the year waiting with stubborn hope.


I intend to write a book based on each of these sermon series in 2026. Sermons start the conversation. Books give the conversation room to breathe. It is one of the ways I stay grounded as a pastor and one of the ways I serve readers beyond Sunday morning.


If these themes speak to you, I would love to hear from you. You can reach me through the church office or on Goodreads. I am grateful for a community that wrestles with Scripture with such honesty. You make this work a joy.

If you'd like a deeper dive on this subject, here is a longer version of this article that goes into greater detail.

Peace,

Jon Burnham


07 March 2024

Spiritual Cultivation: Parables and the Practice of Community Gardening



Spiritual Cultivation: Parables 

and the Practice of Community Gardening 



Introduction


In the tapestry of the New Testament, parables stand out as vibrant threads, weaving together the earthly with the divine, the mundane with the mystical. These parables, simple stories told by Jesus, use the familiar scenes of everyday life to unravel complex spiritual truths. They speak of farmers and seeds, of vineyards and weeds, turning the act of listening into a mirror reflecting the state of one's soul.


Imagine the scene: the dusty roads of ancient Palestine, the sun casting long shadows over the fields, the air filled with the scent of olive trees and the distant bleating of sheep. Here, amidst the rhythm of rural life, Jesus chose the most common of images to sketch the kingdom of God. It wasn't through the grandeur of palaces or the might of armies but through the simplicity of gardening and agriculture that he chose to communicate truths that would endure millennia.


As we delve into the heart of these gardening parables, we're not just stepping back into time; we're embarking on a journey that bridges the gap between the ancient and the modern. This exploration is both personal and historical, inviting us to look deeper into the soil of our own lives. What do these stories of seeds, growth, and harvest tell us about our spiritual journey today?


In this age of concrete and steel, where has the green gone from our lives? The connection might seem tenuous at first glance, but as we unfold the layers of Jesus' parables, we find that the roots of our faith are entwined with the earth itself. From the pastoral hills of Galilee to the urban community gardens sprouting amidst the hustle of city life, the essence of these parables remains ever relevant, ever inviting us to ponder, to dig deeper, and to grow.


Join me as we rediscover the timeless wisdom of the gardening parables of Jesus and trace their echoes in the transformation from rural agriculture to the vibrant green patches of community gardens in our urban landscapes. Through this journey, we'll see how the ancient art of storytelling through nature continues to seed our lives with spiritual insights, connecting us more deeply to the ground beneath our feet and the God who nourishes us all.



The Gardening Parables of Jesus



Parable of the Sower 

(Matthew 13:3-9; Mark 4:3-9; Luke 8:5-8)



Beneath the blazing sun of the Near East, a sower walks through his field, his hands releasing seeds with a rhythm as old as agriculture itself. This image, vivid and timeless, sets the stage for one of Jesus' most profound parables—a story that unfolds on the canvas of the earth but stretches its roots deep into the human heart.


In the Parable of the Sower, each type of soil becomes a metaphor for the condition of our receptivity to the divine word. There's the path, hardened by countless footsteps, where the seeds can find no purchase. This is the heart closed off, where the message is heard but not understood, easily plucked away by misunderstanding or indifference.


Next, we encounter the rocky ground, offering a deceptive initial embrace to the seeds. Here, they sprout quickly, yet without depth, their roots unable to anchor, representing those who receive the word with joy but falter when challenges arise.


The thorny ground speaks of a heart overrun with worries and desires, where the seeds are choked by the vines of material concerns, unable to grow to fruition.


Finally, there is the good soil, rich and welcoming, where the seeds take root, grow, and multiply, symbolizing those who hear the word, understand it, and bear a harvest of righteousness.


This parable, as simple as the act of sowing seeds, invites us to reflect: What kind of soil are we? Are we open and receptive, allowing the seeds of divine wisdom to flourish within us? It challenges us to cultivate our hearts, to remove the rocks and thorns, and to become fertile ground for spiritual growth. As we ponder this parable, let us look inward and ask how we can better prepare ourselves to receive and nurture the seeds of the word of God in the gardens of our souls.




Parable of the Mustard Seed 

(Matthew 13:31-32; Mark 4:30-32; Luke 13:18-19)



Picture a single mustard seed held between the fingertips—small, almost inconsequential, easily lost in the crevices of the earth. Yet, within this tiny grain lies the blueprint of a kingdom vast and sprawling, a kingdom that begins in the quiet dark and stretches towards the sky. This is the essence of the Parable of the Mustard Seed, a story that encapsulates the kingdom of God's humble yet potent beginnings and its destined expansive growth.


Jesus tells of this smallest of seeds growing into the greatest of garden plants, becoming a tree where birds come to perch and find shelter. It's a vivid illustration of how the kingdom of God starts within the hidden places of our hearts and expands beyond our wildest imaginations, offering refuge and strength to all who seek it.


This parable invites us to marvel at the potential for growth within each act of faith, no matter how small. It speaks to the power of beginnings, the beauty of growth, and the sheltering presence of God's kingdom that emerges from our smallest offerings of trust. As we reflect on this mustard seed, let us consider our own beginnings, the seeds of faith we plant in our lives, and the expansive, sheltering kingdom we're invited to cultivate and share. In the simplicity of a seed, we find a promise—a promise that from the smallest acts of faith can grow the grandest of gardens, flourishing under the care of the Divine Gardener.



Parable of the Weeds among the Wheat 

(Matthew 13:24-30)


Envision a field bathed in sunlight, waves of wheat swaying gently in the breeze—a picture of harmony and abundance. Yet, hidden among the golden stalks, weeds sprout, intertwining with the wheat, marring the purity of the harvest. This imagery sets the stage for the Parable of the Weeds among the Wheat, a narrative that delves into the complex reality of good and evil's coexistence in the world.


Jesus uses this agricultural scene to illustrate a profound spiritual truth: just as weeds grow among the wheat, so too does evil intermingle with good in the fabric of our lives. The parable unfolds with the decision to let both grow together until the harvest, highlighting the patience and wisdom of the farmer, who understands the risk of uprooting the wheat along with the weeds.


This story is a meditation on judgment and discernment, reminding us that it is not our role to separate the good from the bad prematurely. Instead, it calls for patience and faith in the ultimate sorting at the final judgment. As we ponder this parable, we're invited to reflect on the presence of both wheat and weeds within us and our communities, encouraging a posture of humility and trust in the divine harvest to come. Through this agricultural parable, we learn to navigate the complexities of life with grace, awaiting the day when all will be made right under the careful hands of the ultimate Harvester.



Parable of the Fig Tree 

(Luke 13:6-9)


Imagine a fig tree, its leaves a lush canopy of green, yet beneath them, an absence—the expected fruit is nowhere to be found. Year after year, the owner comes in search of the figs, only to be met with disappointment. This scene captures the essence of the Parable of the Fig Tree, a narrative rich with themes of patience, care, and the untapped potential for growth and repentance.


In this parable, the fig tree, having failed to produce fruit, faces the threat of being cut down. Yet, it is granted reprieve by the gardener, who advocates for one more year of care and cultivation—a chance to till the soil and add fertilizer, to give the tree every opportunity to fulfill its purpose.


This story is a compelling reflection on the divine patience extended to us and the nurturing care that encourages our growth. It speaks to the heart of what it means to cultivate, both in the garden and in the soul, recognizing the potential within each of us to bear fruit in due season. As we contemplate the fig tree's reprieve, we're reminded of the transformative power of care and patience and the hope that lies in the possibility of change. Through this parable, we see the grace of time and the fertile promise of second chances, inviting us to dig deep and nurture the seeds of repentance and renewal within ourselves.



The Rural Roots


In the heart of Puckett, Mississippi, nestled among endless cow pastures and fields of cotton; supported by the soundtrack songs of cicadas, lies the essence of a life deeply rooted in the earth. This is where my father's story begins, in a rural farming village where the rhythm of the seasons dictated the cadence of daily life. His early memories are painted in hues of earth and sky, of the rich smell of soil and the echoing calls of livestock across the fields.


One of his fondest memories, as recounted in his book, "Life Stories from Puckett to Seoul" by Clarence Burnham, captures the essence of these roots. As a young boy, he was cradled in the arms of his sisters on their front porch, surrounded by the warmth of family and the familiar sounds of their farm. They urged him to join the chorus of the countryside, to mimic the moo of cows, a simple joy of rural life. Yet, even in this tender moment, there was a hint of the steadfast, quietly defiant spirit that would define his life—he understood their request but chose silence over imitation.


Growing up, the vast fields of cotton became both his playground and his workplace. Each day was a lesson in the hard, unyielding labor of farming, from the breaking dawn until the last light faded behind the trees. Hunting was not just a pastime but a necessity, a way to provide essential protein for the family table. Amidst these responsibilities, school emerged as a sanctuary, a place to escape the relentless demands of farm life, if only for a few hours.


My father's journey from the soil of Puckett to the pages of his book is a testament to the enduring impact of those early years. It's a narrative that weaves together the threads of hard work, family, and a profound connection to the land. His stories, etched with the wisdom of experience, offer a window into a way of life that, for many, exists only in the pages of history books. Yet, for him, it was a reality—a foundation built upon the rich Mississippi soil, nurturing a resilience and independence that would carry him through life's many transitions.


Through his eyes, we glimpse the beauty and the struggle of rural life, a reminder of the deep bonds we share with the earth beneath our feet. As we journey from soil to cement, from the open fields of Mississippi to the urban landscapes of today, his story stands as a beacon, guiding us back to our roots and the simple, enduring truths they hold.


The Winds of Change - Industrialization


As the 20th century unfolded, a profound transformation swept across the American landscape, turning the serene life of fields and farms into a distant memory for many. This shift, fueled by the relentless engine of industrialization, marked a pivotal moment in history, altering the very fabric of society. The once-dominant agricultural life, with its rhythms dictated by the seasons and the sun, began to cede ground to the rising cities, their skylines a testament to progress and change.


The clang of machinery and the hiss of steam replaced the pastoral symphonies of rural life. Farms, the backbone of communities for generations, saw their keepers drawn away by the promise of steadier work, better pay, and a different kind of future in the burgeoning urban centers. Fields that once teemed with crops and livestock began to empty, as men and women traded their plows for factory tools, and the open sky for the confines of the factory roof.


This migration was not merely a change of scenery; it represented a profound shift in the very way life was lived and understood. The communal ties that bound rural communities, where everyone knew each other's hardships and joys, began to unravel in the anonymity of the city. Work, once governed by the natural cycles of day and night, now adhered to the mechanical rhythms of the industrial clock.


Yet, with this seismic shift came the challenge of adaptation. Families who had known nothing but the soil under their fingernails found themselves navigating the concrete mazes of cities, learning new trades, and forging new identities. The transition from soil to cement was more than physical; it was a migration of dreams, aspirations, and ways of life. As the rural landscape dwindled in the rearview mirrors of those heading toward the promise of the urban, a chapter closed on an era defined by a direct communion with the earth, ushering in an age of unprecedented change and complexity.


The Urban Shift


The journey from the open fields of rural America to the concrete jungle of a sprawling metropolis embodies more than just a physical relocation; it marks a profound cultural and existential shift. My early pastorates, nestled within the agricultural heartlands of Southeastern Missouri and Northwestern Mississippi, were worlds apart from the urban intensity of Houston, Texas. In these rural communities, the rhythm of life ebbed and flowed with the seasons, and the fields of cotton and soybean stretched as far as the eye could see, their fortunes intertwined with the lives of those who tended them.


Transitioning to St. John's Presbyterian Church in Houston, the fourth-largest, cosmopolitan city in the United States, was akin to stepping onto another planet. The change was not just in scenery but in the very fabric of daily existence. Here, life moved at a breakneck pace, governed by a maze of laws and regulations that seemed to cover the minutiae of existence. The simple act of parking on the street in front of my house, a thoughtless convenience in my previous settings, became a legal puzzle due to city ordinances. This incident, minor as it was, symbolized the larger adaptation required to navigate the urban environment.


The stark contrast between these two worlds - one where life was dictated by the natural rhythms of the earth and the other by the constructed rhythms of human industry - has been a rich ground for reflection. It underscored the adaptability of the human spirit and the capacity to find communion with the earth and with each other, irrespective of the backdrop. This urban shift, while challenging, brought with it a deeper understanding of the myriad ways in which our surroundings shape our community, faith, and the stewardship of our shared spaces. It's within this complex, vibrant urban setting that the seeds of a new kind of ministry were planted, one that seeks to bridge the gap between the soil and the cement, bringing the lessons of the land into the heart of the city.



Establishing the Community Garden


Embarking on the creation of a community garden within the confines of a church campus is akin to planting a seed of hope in a patch of bare earth. The journey from conception to fruition was not merely a logistical endeavor but a spiritual pilgrimage, fraught with questions and challenges that tested our resolve and faith. Where would this green sanctuary find its place among the concrete and stone of our church grounds? What resources would nourish its growth, and how would we, as a congregation, come together to fund this vision of community and connection? The path was littered with uncertainties, yet it was also ripe with the potential for growth and transformation.


For years, the idea of the community garden simmered, a dream held in the collective heart of our congregation. The logistics of space, cost, and governance loomed large, casting shadows of doubt over our hopeful aspirations. Yet, like the parable of the mustard seed, our vision for the garden was small but mighty, harboring within it the promise of expansive growth and sheltering grace.


Through the relentless dedication and visionary leadership of a few within our church, the dream slowly took root. The garden became a tangible manifestation of our shared commitment to stewardship, community, and the nurturing of both the land and our souls. It stood, resilient and flourishing, through the ravages of a deadly hurricane that brought our city to its knees and a pandemic that isolated us from one another, yet could not sever the deep connections we had cultivated.


The persistence of our community garden, against all odds, speaks to the power of visioning planted with care and intention. It is a testament to the creativity and prayer that watered our plans, the meticulous attention to detail that guided our execution, and the sustained effort that bore fruit over time. This garden is more than just a plot of land; it is a living parable of resilience, community, and faith in action—a verdant oasis in the midst of urban life, reminding us of the enduring power of nurturing connections to the earth, to each other, and to the divine.



Growing with the Garden


From the quiet sanctuary of my pastor's study, the community garden sprawls before me, a living mosaic of greens, browns, and the vibrant hues of blossoming life. This garden, framed by the window through which I often gaze, serves as a profound reminder of our intrinsic connection to the earth and the divine cycles of nature. It is a visual hymn to the persistence required to nurture growth from the soil, echoing the relentless efforts of our community through years of planning, planting, and tending.


The garden narrates a tale of risk and vulnerability, emblematic of the delicate balance in both gardening and farming, where a season's toil can be unraveled by an untimely storm or a sudden frost. This precariousness mirrors the broader human condition, our endeavors always at the mercy of nature's whims. Yet, it also teaches resilience and the art of surrender, of placing our efforts in the hands of something greater than ourselves and trusting in the regenerative power of the earth.


Peering into the depths of the community garden, I am transported through time, tracing the journey of my ancestors from the rugged landscapes of Ireland and England to the uncertain promise of the "New World." Their stories, marked by struggle and hope, resonate deeply with the simple, yet profound act of tending to the earth. Each plant in the garden becomes a testament to their resilience, a reflection of countless generations who toiled the land, sowing dreams for the future in the fertile ground of the present.


The garden, with its cycles of growth, decay, and rebirth, becomes a metaphor for our spiritual journey, reminding us of our humble place within the grand tapestry of creation. It speaks to the interconnectedness of all life, to the shared legacy of humanity's enduring relationship with the land. In this sacred space outside my window, I find a deepened understanding of our connection to Earth and to God, a connection forged through the soil, through the seeds of faith we plant and nurture, and through the harvests, we hope to reap. This humble garden, in its quiet beauty and complexity, reflects the aspirations, dreams, and deeds of generations past and present, inviting us to contemplate our own place within this continuous, unfolding story of creation.



Parables Reimagined in Urban Soil


In the fertile ground of our urban community garden, a new collection of parables has taken root, blooming into stories that resonate with the struggles and triumphs of modern America. Through the book "Spirit-Filled Parables for Modern America: Vol. 1 - Grace Notes in New Orleans,” I've sown 12 narratives. A few of these parables, like their biblical predecessors, use the simplicity of gardening to unfold complex truths about community, resilience, and faith.


In the heart of San Bernardino, California, "A Miracle in San Bernardino" presents a curious tale of a barren fig tree standing defiantly in a community garden. Despite its lush appearance, the tree remains fruitless, a baffling enigma that captures the imagination of all who witness it. This parable delves into themes of expectation and reality, of outward appearances versus intrinsic value, challenging us to look beyond the surface and find the deeper, often hidden, potential within ourselves and our communities.


"Harvest of Grace in Somerton," set against the backdrop of Somerton, Arizona, tells the story of a Latina family whose commercial garden weaves a vital thread through the fabric of their community. This narrative explores the enduring connection to land, and lineage, portraying the garden as a lifeline that nourishes both the body and the soul. Amid the technological advancements that characterize modern agriculture, this family's garden stands as a testament to the human touch, the warmth of community, and the shared labor that binds us to the earth and to each other.


"Seeds of Change in Springfield" unfurls in the vibrant soil of Springfield, Massachusetts, where the Williams family, a pillar of strength and unity in the African American community, embarks on a journey to cultivate a communal garden. This garden becomes more than a source of sustenance; it emerges as a symbol of hope, a fertile ground where the community's dreams and aspirations can grow. The narrative weaves through the challenges and triumphs of this endeavor, illustrating how a patch of earth can unite and strengthen a community, making the Williams family a beacon of change and resilience.


These modern parables, rooted in the soil of our urban community garden, extend branches across the divides of city and country, past and present, weaving a rich tapestry of stories that speak to the heart of the human experience. They serve as a bridge, connecting our urban congregation with the timeless lessons of stewardship, faith, and community that the land teaches us. Through these narratives, we're reminded of the power of small beginnings, the beauty of growth, and the grace that can be harvested when we tend to the gardens of our lives with love, patience, and purpose.


Conclusion


Our journey through the tapestry of parables, both ancient and modern, brings us full circle—from the sun-drenched fields of Galilee, where Jesus spun tales of seeds and soil, to the vibrant community gardens nestled within the heart of our cities. This voyage across time and terrain has revealed the enduring relevance of these simple yet profound stories, demonstrating how the acts of planting, nurturing, and harvesting transcend mere agriculture, becoming metaphors for spiritual growth and communal connection.


Gardening, in its essence, is an act of faith—a belief in the potential locked within each seed, a trust in the cycles of growth and renewal, and a commitment to the stewardship of the Earth that sustains us. It is a practice that roots us firmly to our past, while simultaneously branching out to embrace our shared future. Through the communal act of gardening, we weave together the strands of individual lives, creating a tapestry of community that is as rich and diverse as the crops we tend.


As we reflect on the power of gardening, both as a physical endeavor and a metaphorical journey, we are reminded of its capacity to connect us—to our planet, to each other, and to the divine. In the rhythm of the seasons, in the turning of the soil, and in the miracle of growth, we find echoes of the ancient parables, resonating with timeless truths about resilience, renewal, and the boundless grace that flourishes in the gardens of our lives. In this sacred space, where earth meets sky, we are invited to cultivate not only the land beneath our feet but the very souls within us, growing together in faith, hope, and love.


Connect with our Spirit-Filled Parables community


Dive deeper into the wisdom of biblical parables and how they apply to our contemporary lives. Join our private Spirit-Filled Parables Facebook group (https://www.facebook.com/drjonburnham). This community is a place for engaging discussions, sharing insights, and connecting with others passionate about finding spiritual guidance in today's world. We can't wait to welcome you and explore together the timeless lessons these stories hold for modern America.


—The Rev. Dr. Jon Burnham has been serving as the pastor of St. John's Presbyterian Church in Houston, Texas, since 2008. His new book, 'Spirit-Filled Parables for Modern America: Vol. 1 - Grace Notes in New Orleans,' is available on Amazon in paperback, Kindle, and Audible versions.