faith – Salt: Seasoned Theology

I’ve long believed that silence can speak.
That justice can unfold in contemplative realms.
That theology can be made not only with words and books
but with breath, bread, and bone.

Over the past few months, I’ve been reshaping drdeacondog.com, listening for how to let it hold the fullness of what I now understand my work to be at this time in my life and vocation.

As a professor in her 60s with over 25 years of experience in theological education, I have begun to embody my work as a poetic theologian.

Neither word in this pair is new. Even their partnership dances in ballrooms with other artists, theologians, and leaders.

What is new is my energy for embracing the pair in my work and life.

Poetic theology is the practice of attending to theological questions not only with the mind, but with breath, body, metaphor, and silence.

In the ancient sacred book of Proverbs, we glimpse Woman Wisdom calling out from the threshold of her house. Down the street, another woman stands at her threshold, named in the text as “the strange woman.” My threshold as a poetic theologian emerges somewhere between these two figures as a place where I listen beyond texts and words for beauty and truths that reside in quiet, less-seen, less-acknowledged spaces.

Today, I’m relaunching DrDeacondog.com, not as a platform but as a threshold, a space for reflection, creative engagement, and communal accompaniment.

At this threshold, you’ll find:

A page that introduces poetic theology as a way of being and writing
A curated section of featured projects and essays
An archive of seasonal reflections and poems (with more to come)
A vision for the months ahead, including a forthcoming book and workshop offerings

I invite you to visit, read, and pause.

And if something you find there resonates, I hope you’ll stay awhile so we can listen together.

With gratitude,

Jill

I am an ordained ministry and a worship professor at a School of Divinity. This week for our Maundy Thursday chapel service, I was the preacher and communion presider. For the first time in my 30 years of ministry, I dropped half of the loaf of communion bread on the floor. Yes. I dropped the bread. I was mortified, but after an awkward silence, we nevertheless partook of the holy meal. The experience was profound for me.

That day in chapel we remembered Jesus’ last night with his friends. In the two days since Thursday, I have been remembering—all of the fallen bodies I keep reading about in the news. What a broken world this is—and how urgent it is that we remember the fragilities and possibilities of our humanity.

this is my body

no one expected
such unrehearsed irreverence
least of all me
after many and myriad
maundy thursdays of
breaking
blessing
sharing
holy bread

but there i stood
by the table
grabbing
for the bread of life as it
slipped from my hands and
with awkward acrobatics
tumbled
down
down
to the unhallowed
stony
feet-trampled
sanctuary
floor

the loaf was heavy that day
a body resisting
being broken
until—
something startled
my struggling hands and
i was left
holding half a whole
of a body
fallen

who can take
fractured tomorrows
bless them
and not bear the scars
in aching palms

i knelt down and
took up the remains
all of us
ate
together

this is my body
remember