“Live slowly enough to be able to think deeply about God.” – J.I. Packer
This epigraph prefaces Slow Theology: Eight Practices for Resilient Faith in a Turbulent World by A. J. Swoboda and Nijay Gupta. This book was released three days after the serious orthopedic injury I sustained while camping in the Nantahala Forest. I had been unexpectedly slowed down, so I purchased the book the week after my surgery. As I slowly healed, I let their words sink in.
God works slowly, they argue.
God could have created everything in a single breath. Yet in Genesis, Creation unfolds in stages — day by day — and then God rests. The pattern of creation itself teaches rhythm: work and rest, action and pause, creativity and Sabbath. God does not rush. God delights. God lingers long enough to call each part “good.”
Swoboda and Gupta describe “slow theology” as a countercultural rhythm of faith in which resilience is built not through speed or certainty but through steady spiritual practice. We live in a turbulent world of instant reactions, constant headlines, social media outrage, and quick theological takes. Faith formed in that environment can become shallow and fragile — easily shaken.
The authors suggest something different: a theology paced by patience, rooted in Scripture, practiced deliberately, and lived in community.
In many ways, our church embodies this truth. Community is one of our greatest strengths. We support and help each other. We laugh, cry, pray, celebrate, and work together. Here, you can be known and come to know others in ways that deepen both life and faith. In the natural ebb and flow of community life, we say goodbye to some members and welcome others. The community shifts and changes — and yet we still stand.
In fact, as others have observed, we function like a much larger church than we are. There is an adage called the 90/10 rule: ninety percent of the work in any organization is done by ten percent of the people. That may be true in many places, but it is not true here. Of the roughly sixty adults who participate regularly or occasionally in worship, more than a third are actively engaged in volunteer or leadership roles. That is unusual. It is a sign of commitment, shared ownership, and love for this community.
And yet, there is a shadow side to such generosity. Small churches carry unique challenges. We have big hopes, creative ideas, and faithful hearts — but a modest operating budget, three part-time staff members, and about twenty-five active volunteers. There is always more we could do. More outreach. More Christian formation. More programming.
Busyness can feel like faithfulness.
But busyness also carries risk. It risks confusing activity with spiritual depth. It risks burnout. It risks fatigue. Some of you are tired. I was tired too. I needed a break (oh the irony!), so I scheduled two weeks’ vacation but did not return for three months.
Eugene Peterson once observed that busyness overburdens Christian leaders and distracts them from their true contemplative calling. What might it mean for us — not just individually, but collectively — to embrace slow theology?
Slow theology does not mean doing less for the sake of doing less. It means rooting what we do in sustained attention to God. It means listening before planning. It means trusting that faith is formed over years, not weeks. It means believing that resilience is built through steady practices — prayer, Scripture, worship, fellowship — rather than through urgency and certainty.
Slow theology begins with the recognition that God’s purposes for us unfold over time.
When we slow down, we begin to notice God’s presence in ordinary moments. We discern purpose rather than simply pursue activity. We begin to ask not only, “What can we accomplish?” but also, “What is God cultivating among us over time?”
Our strength lies in our shared life — in showing up for one another, in welcoming new faces, in sustaining ministries with quiet devotion, in trusting that God is at work even when progress feels slow.
Swoboda and Gupta tell the story of the biblical scholar Dwight Peterson during his final days in hospice. In a moment of vulnerability, he confessed to a friend, “I can’t find my faith.” His friend responded gently, “It’s okay. We have it for you.” The story echoes the friends of the paralytic in Mark 2, who carried their companion to Jesus, even tearing open a roof to bring him there. They did not lecture him about belief; they bore him there.
That is the wild grace of community — the gift of having others carry your faith when your own feels fragile.
In our creeds, we say “we believe,” not “I believe,” because faith is not meant to be lived alone. We share one baptism. We partake of one bread. We are joined to one another in Christ. When one of us grows weary, others carry the faith. When one doubts, others hold steady. When one cannot pray, others intercede.
Slow theology teaches us to trust that God is shaping us over the long haul. That our congregation’s story is unfolding in seasons — planting, pruning, resting, blooming. That resilience comes not from quietly listening and steady faithfulness.
So perhaps the question before us is not, “How can we do more?” but “How can we move at the tempo of grace?” And perhaps, in this season, it is our purpose as a community — to be a people who trust the long patient, and faithful work of God among us.
Peace and blessings,
