 Our culture preaches a gospel of radical autonomy wearing the mask of freedom: “My life, my business. If no one gets hurt, what’s the harm?” We like to imagine our sins are private — personal, contained, no one else’s concern. As long as a sin stays hidden or feels small, we feel no urgency to name it.
But Scripture tells a different story. Sin is never only your problem. What we keep in the dark doesn’t stay hidden — it festers, and it does not stay contained to the one carrying it. This is Law-work, and I want to be honest about that before going any further: this piece isn’t going to tell you how to fix it. That’s not what the Law is for. The Law’s job is to tell the truth about what’s actually happening when we sin — and the truth is harder, and stranger, than “I made a mistake.” The Illusion of Radical Autonomy Someone will object: “You’re telling me that some stranger’s sin halfway across the world lands on me? That if I lash out at my spouse, I’ve somehow wounded people I’ve never met?” Yes! That objection is exactly the autonomy the Law is here to expose. You are not your own. You were bought with a price. You were baptized into a Body — not a symbol, not a metaphor, but the actual crucified and risen Body of Christ. And in that Body, Paul writes, “if one member suffers, all suffer together” (1 Corinthians 12:26). That is not poetic exaggeration. It is the most literal thing Paul says about the Church. When you sin, the wound is not contained to your own conscience. It is a tear in the communion of saints. Our connection in Jesus is not sentimental — it is, as St. Cyril of Alexandria put it, that we are “blended together with one another and with God.” (In Jo. ev., 11,11:PG 74,561.) Picture a family gathered for a meal, and one member is down with the flu — coughing, sharing the serving spoon. Only one person is sick, but everyone at that table is affected. The mood shifts. Others may catch it. The celebration is marred, whether or not anyone names why. That’s a rough picture of what unrepented sin does inside a congregation: it doesn’t announce itself, but it changes the air everyone is breathing. The Weakest Link and the Air We Breathe Paul makes the same point to the Ephesians from the other direction, urging them to “preserve the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace” (Ephesians 4:3) — as though unity were something that has to be actively guarded because it is just as actively threatened. A chain holds only as well as its weakest link. Ninety-nine sound links don’t save the chain when the hundredth gives way. In a congregation, the sins we think of as small or private are those fraying links. They erode trust slowly, but just as surely:
The High Cost of Hidden Sin Jesus prayed that his followers “may be one... so that the world may believe that you have sent me” (John 17:21). That means our disunity isn’t a private failing either — it’s evangelically costly. The world is watching whether the people who claim to be one Body actually act like it. And the sin of one member doesn’t stay isolated even when it stays hidden, because, as St. Paul warns the Galatians, “a little leaven leavens the whole batch of dough” (Galatians 5:9):
This is what St. Augustine meant when he called the Church the Corpus Christi mysticum — the mystical Body of Christ — and preached to his congregation, “You are the body of Christ and his members... Be what you see; receive what you are” (Sermon 272). That sermon was preached at the altar, about the bread they were about to receive. It was not a pep talk about trying harder. It was a description of what they already were, true whether they felt it that morning or not. So here, for now, is where this has to sit: you do not get to sin privately, because there is no private compartment in the Body of Christ for it to stay in. That is simply true, whether or not it feels fixable. Next time, the other half of this: what the Body does with a wound it cannot heal by trying harder — which is not nothing, and is not what you’d expect. How have you seen seemingly “private” actions shift the spiritual air in your own communities? Let’s discuss in the comments below. Rev. Dr. Steve Stutz Ordained Lutheran Pastor · Intentional Interim Minister · Certified Spiritual Director La Porte, Texas · Houston Area [Contact] · [LinkedIn] · [The Marginal Note on Substack]
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 There is a kind of faith the church doesn't know how to talk about.
Not the faith of the triumphant testimony — the dramatic conversion, the answered prayer, the healing that arrived on cue. Not the faith of the theologically confident, who can articulate what they believe and why. The Gospels not only make room for this kind of faith; they name it and celebrate it. But there is another type as well. The faith that has been worn down by twelve years of bleeding, silence, and shame until it's barely recognizable as faith anymore. The faith that cannot make it to the front of the room. The faith that reaches sideways, invisibly, for the hem. That faith is all over our congregations. We mostly do not see it because we are not looking for it in the right places. The Woman and the Number Twelve Matthew 9 places two healing stories in deliberate parallel. A woman who has been hemorrhaging for twelve years reaches for the hem of Jesus's robe in a crowd. A twelve-year-old girl — the daughter of a synagogue leader named Jairus — is dying. One has lived her whole adult life in suffering. The other has barely had a chance to begin. The number is not accidental. Twelve is the number of the tribes of Israel. Twelve is the whole people of God. Matthew is making a structural argument: these two individuals represent everyone. The ones who have been sick longer than they can remember, and the ones cut off before they could begin. The exhausted and the barely-started. Both belong to the Twelve. Jesus goes to both of them. The woman's situation is specific and worth unpacking. Under the purity codes of her day, her condition made her ritually unclean. Anyone she touched became contaminated. She could not enter the Temple. She could not sit in community worship. She could not be held. For twelve years, the way the purity system was functionally applied in her context marked her as a problem to be managed from a distance. So she does not approach Jesus directly. She cannot. What she does is push through the crowd — invisibly, without permission — and reach for the kraspedon: the ritual fringe, the tzitzit (the blue-tasseled fringes commanded in Numbers 15 as a daily physical reminder of God's commandments). It is a theologically suggestive act of faith. A woman told for twelve years she was outside the covenant reaches out and grabs hold of a visible sign of that covenant. She is not reaching randomly. She is reaching for a sign that she still, somehow, belongs. What Jesus Does with What the World Calls Inadequate Faith Under the Law, contact with an unclean person should have made Jesus unclean. Instead, the logic of the Kingdom takes over: his cleanness spreads to her rather than her uncleanness spreading to him. This is the atonement in miniature. In Matthew 9, Jesus repeatedly crosses lines he was not supposed to cross — eating with tax collectors and sinners, allowing an unclean woman to touch him, taking the hand of a dead girl. Each time, the same thing happens: uncleanness does not transfer to him. His life transfers to them. Jesus stops. He turns. He does not ask how she ended up here. He does not make her explain the twelve years. He does not tell her to come back when she is cleaned up. He looks at whatever scraped-together, desperate, last-scrap faith she dragged to him — the faith that could not even make it to his face, the faith that reached sideways and invisible — and he calls it enough. Then he names her publicly. "Daughter." In front of everyone. He is not just healing her body. He is ending her exile. He is restoring her to the community that had classified her as a contaminant for twelve years. The word he uses — tharsei, "take heart," "take courage" — is a word of commissioning. She is not just healed. She is sent back in. Hesed Against the System This radical re-integration is the flesh-and-blood fulfillment of Israel's prophetic hope. What Hosea names, Jesus enacts in real time on a body the system had excluded. Seven hundred years before this moment, Hosea named the same tension. God's people had run through the cycle of faithlessness and consequence until the silence of God felt like abandonment. And into that silence Hosea speaks: "Come, let us return to the Lord. For it is he who has torn, and he will heal us. He has struck down, and he will bind us up." The God who tears also heals. The God who strikes also binds up. This is the shape of hesed — not a passing feeling, but a stubborn covenant loyalty that does not break. It is the love that holds fast regardless of the other party's condition. It is loyal love that goes all the way to the cross. Jesus brings this hesed into direct conflict with the religious metrics of his day. When the Pharisees object to his eating with sinners, he quotes Hosea: "I desire steadfast love and not sacrifice, the knowledge of God rather than burnt offerings." The system, as she experienced it, treated her as a contamination risk. God's hesed says otherwise. What This Means for Pastoral Care The people who approach God sideways are not doing it wrong. They are doing exactly what the hemorrhaging woman did. They cannot come boldly. Years of suffering, or shame, or silence have made boldness unavailable to them. What they can do is push through the crowd and reach — invisibly, without permission — for whatever part of the Word they can get their hands on. The pastor who knows this will build communities differently. Consider these practices:
The question is whether you can see it. If your ministry is calibrated to recognize visible, articulate, participatory faith, you will likely miss it. It often looks like a brief prayer at a food pantry table. A quiet presence in the back pew. A hospital room where someone can only whisper the name of Jesus. That is last-scrap faith — and it is met, again and again, by hesed with skin on. What Is Your Twelve Years? So, what is the thing that wakes up with you? The thing that drains you quietly, day after day. The thing you have stopped telling people about because nothing has changed and you are tired of looking disappointed. Twelve years of trying to stay sober. Twelve years of leading a congregation that will not turn. Twelve years of praying the same prayer against the same silent ceiling. He stopped for her. He went to that house. If all you can do is reach sideways, reach. If all you can reach is the hem, reach for the hem. He has already stopped. What is your twelve years? I'd love to hear where you're reaching for the hem these days — leave a comment below. Rev. Dr. Steve Stutz is an ELCA-rostered intentional interim minister and congregational consultant based in the greater Houston area, with fifteen years on the faculty of the FIND School for Spiritual Direction in the Episcopal Diocese of Texas. He writes on congregational transition, spiritual formation, and the theology of the unseen at The Marginal Note on Substack. [Contact] · [LinkedIn] · [The Marginal Note on Substack]  Image: freepik.com Every Pentecost I return to the same question that has shaped my ministry for more than twenty years: does the Holy Spirit still distribute extraordinary gifts to the Church — healing, prophecy, words of knowledge — or did those things end with the New Testament era?
Most Lutherans don't formally deny it. They just don't expect it. I've spent a long time with that assumption. What does Scripture teach? There is no kill switch in the New Testament. No moment where the promises are marked temporary. No sunset clause on the gifts of the Spirit. Cessationism is not derived from careful exegesis followed by a reluctant conclusion. It is constructed after the fact, to explain an absence already present in the church's experience — and then the inference passages are recruited to provide the biblical rationale. It is not primarily an exegetical position. It is an apologetic one. Which raises the uncomfortable prior question: what kind of church life produces that absence in the first place? A congregation whose calendar is organized around activities requiring no particular intervention from the Holy Spirit is unlikely to encounter such intervention. You don't need a word of knowledge for a bake sale or discernment of spirits for a car wash. The absence of the gifts and the absence of expectation are not independent phenomena. They produce each other. Here's the Lutheran angle that I find most compelling: we confess that Jesus is genuinely, bodily present in the bread and wine of communion — not symbolically, not in memory, but actually. If Jesus is genuinely present in the bread, we should be slow to argue that He is absent from the suffering body brought in prayer before that same altar. Real Presence, properly understood, is not a fence. It is a door. I've had almost thirty years of parish experience pressing on this question — three Alpha courses a year at Good Shepherd Lutheran in Pasadena back in the mid- 2000’s, a traveling team that went from Houston to Canada, a trip to Uganda in 2007 where deliverance ministry looked exactly like Mark 1:21-28 on an ordinary day in an ordinary place, and a recent healing evening at Light of Christ Lutheran a person's impaired vision was restored to 20/20 and has remained so. I'm not building doctrine on experience. I'm arguing that cessationism provides the least adequate theological account of what the Church continues to witness — and that what Lutherans already believe about Real Presence points somewhere more interesting than we usually follow it. None of this is an argument for religious enthusiasm. The gifts are for the neighbor, not for spiritual self-promotion. Not everyone is healed — suffering is a real participation in Jesus, not a failure of faith. Word and Sacrament remain the Church's sure and certain means of grace, and nothing supersedes them. A direct word to preachers: on Pentecost Sunday you will read 1 Corinthians 12:3-13 from the lectern. Someone in your congregation will hear that passage and feel something move — a recognition, a hope they've been carrying quietly for years. They will look at you to find out whether it means anything. You don't have to have all the answers. You do have to have thought it through. "The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor… to set at liberty those who are oppressed." (Luke 4:18) Come, Holy Spirit. The full version of this argument — with exegesis, Lutheran theological framework, global witness, and parish testimony — is available at The Marginal Note on Substack. Look for “There is No ‘Kill Switch.’” Rev. Dr. Steve Stutz is an ordained ELCA minister, spiritual director, and intentional interim specialist based in the greater Houston area. [Contact] · [LinkedIn] · [The Marginal Note on Substack]  Image: freepik.com Most people who contact me about this topic start the same way. They apologize first. They say something like, “I know this probably sounds crazy,” or “I don’t know if this is even a real thing,” before they get to what they actually called to say. And what they actually called to say is usually some version of this: something is wrong in my house, and I don’t know what to do about it.
I want to say clearly: it doesn’t sound crazy. And yes, it is a real thing. The Christian tradition has always understood that places are not neutral to us. Because of the Incarnation—the fact that God became flesh in Jesus—we know that the physical world matters deeply to Him. What has happened in these spaces continues to affect those who dwell there: through memory, through relationships, and sometimes in ways we do not fully understand. This is not because places themselves hold some independent power, but because God’s creation, though good, is not untouched by sin, suffering, and history. For that reason, blessing and consecration matter—not as magic, not as superstition, but as the church’s practiced response to the reality that the physical and spiritual are not as neatly separated as modern Western culture assumes. When the church blesses a space, we are speaking God’s Word into it, naming it as belonging to Jesus and placing it under His promise. A blessing properly done does truly set a place apart. It becomes more than a mere building; it is consecrated—rightfully reclaimed and marked as holy ground for the life of the family and the glory of God. The ancient church blessed homes, fields, ships, tools, and thresholds. The medieval church developed rites for the reconciliation of spaces marked by violence or desecration. Martin Luther retained the practice of blessing and the liturgical tradition has never entirely lost it. In practice, this often looks like a pastor moving through the rooms of a home, speaking Scripture aloud, praying specifically over each space, and anointing doorposts and thresholds with oil—a physical, unhurried act of reclaiming territory for the Lord who already owns it. What the church has mostly lost is the pastoral fluency to talk about it plainly. So let me offer a framework. These are not steps to diagnose a phenomenon, but ways of listening carefully so that what is needed can be brought to bear. The Weight of History First, I want to understand the history involved. What do you know about what happened in this space before you arrived? Not because every difficult history produces spiritual disturbance, but because history matters. Sin and trauma leave what we might call a “social debt” in a space—a residue of what has taken place that continues to shape the life of those who dwell there, both visibly and in ways harder to name. We look at the past to see where the peace of Christ needs to be specifically applied. Discerning the Experience Second, I want to understand what is actually being experienced. There is a significant difference between a vague sense of unease, a pattern of relational conflict tied to a space, recurring nightmares, a sense of presence, and phenomena that are more difficult to categorize. I am not interested in sensationalism. Many presenting problems are explainable in the physical or psychological realm—structural issues, environmental factors, or even the heavy lingering fog of personal trauma and grief. (I recently saw a meme that showed a guy with a flashlight exploring his attic with the words, “Homeowner relieved to discover disturbing sounds in attic to be ghosts and not structural issues he can’t afford to repair.”) But I am going to take your report seriously, helping you discern whether what you are feeling is a matter for a home handyman/contractor, a counselor, or a pastor. The Spiritual Landscape of the Heart Third, I want to understand the spiritual condition of the people in the space. This is not a judgment—it is a pastoral question. A Christian is not defenseless; you belong to Jesus. But where we turn away from Him—toward things that promise control, knowledge, or power apart from God—we can place ourselves in a state of confusion and vulnerability. We must be honest about the fact that such vulnerability is rarely left a vacuum. Jesus himself describes malicious spirits as creatures who, finding themselves wandering through arid places, are perpetually looking for a place to rest (Matthew 12:43–45)—and they are more than happy to take up residence where the door has been left unlatched. When we seek spiritual agency outside of Jesus, we inadvertently offer a standing invitation to forces that exploit our desire for control. This is not to say that suffering is always the fruit of one’s own choices, but that the doors we open matter. Our interior lives shape both what we perceive and how we bear it; therefore, the remedy is not just “clearing” a room, but a return to the protection and presence of the Lord. The Church’s Provision Fourth, and most importantly, I want to point toward what the tradition actually offers. There is no space in which Jesus is not already Lord. The question is not whether He is present, but whether His presence is being trusted, spoken, and received. Theologically, we live in the “between time.” Because of Good Friday and Easter, the decisive victory has been won; the cosmos is redeemed. In military terms, D-Day has passed and the outcome is certain, yet we have not yet reached VE Day. In this tension, there is still resistance, suffering, and “groaning” as we await the final fulfillment of that victory. While the greater strategic battle is over, skirmishes remain in the shadows. The church has specific resources for this reality: prayer, the formal rite of blessing, the speaking of the Word into the space, anointing, and the presence of the community. These are not folk remedies or spiritual placebos. They are the church’s concrete, practiced response to the reality that Jesus Christ is Lord of every space, every history, and every power that operates within creation. We are simply applying the victory of the King to the territory He has already claimed. Now what? This is not paranormal investigation. I am not interested in evidence of the supernatural for its own sake. I am a pastor. My concern is for the people who are suffering and for bringing to bear the gifts Jesus has given His church. This is not something you are meant to carry alone or solve privately. If you are carrying something like this and don’t know where to bring it—and I understand that making that first contact can feel as awkward as the apology you rehearsed before calling—the contact page is the place to start. Rev. Dr. Steve Stutz Ordained Lutheran Pastor · Intentional Interim Minister · Certified Spiritual Director La Porte, Texas · Houston Area [Contact] · [LinkedIn] · [The Marginal Note on Substack]  I came home from a retreat at Mustang Island Conference Center with a bag of blessed St. Benedict medals—and a theological problem I had not expected. The problem was simple: what, exactly, is a Lutheran pastor supposed to do with them? Let me tell you how I got into this strange position. The Anglican Order of Preachers—the Dominican community to which I belong as a life-professed friar—is, as the name suggests, a preaching order. Like many mainline religious communities, we are strongest in prophetic witness and social justice. What we are less practiced at is the simple, one-on-one conversation with people who have never heard the Gospel and have no particular reason to listen. So we decided to address that gap. We invited a deacon from the Archdiocese of Galveston–Houston who practices street evangelism—not the aggressive, confrontational variety, but the kind that begins with genuine human contact and grows from there. He spent a day training us: classroom instruction, some role-playing, and then an hour on the streets of Port Aransas speaking with strangers about things that matter. Afterward we gathered for dinner and a long conversation about what we had experienced. During the training, the deacon explained how his team uses sacramentals—rosaries, medals, prayer cards—as conversation starters and simple gifts. Not as magic. Not as luck. Rather, as physical anchors for a spiritual reality the Church has always insisted upon. He brought samples, and we took them with us onto the street. At the end of the evening there were leftovers. The deacon did not want to haul them home, but since the group was mostly Episcopalians, he correctly assumed we were unlikely to make much use of them. I, however, grabbed a bag of blessed St. Benedict medals and brought them back to La Porte, TX where I live and serve the TX LA Gulf Coast Synod (ELCA) as an intentional interim pastor. My first thought was to give them to my Thursday night Bible study group at Light of Christ—a scrappy, lean, no-frills, refreshingly honest crew made up mostly of recovery alumni and people who know the margins of life firsthand. They are exactly the kind of people for whom a physical object that says you are not alone in this fight might matter. In a moment of craving or despair—when faith feels abstract and distant—the cold weight of a medal in the palm can provide a kind of sensory grounding. Then it occurred to me that they would have no framework for what they were holding. The medal bears Latin inscriptions on both sides, including the potent Vade Retro Satana (“Begone, Satan”). It carries a theological tradition stretching back fifteen centuries. At its core, the medal is a scriptural invocation in metal—the Name of Jesus set against the dark. So I wrote a teaching document—but before I could teach it, I had to work something out for myself: what does a Lutheran do with this? Lutherans are not sacramental in quite the same way Roman Catholics are. We have a more narrowly defined set of Sacraments and a less developed theology of sacramentals. We reject any notion that an object works “by the mere performance of the ritual” (ex opere operato) as a mechanism of automatic grace apart from faith and the Word. We are often suspicious—sometimes rightly—of anything that appears to locate spiritual power in a thing rather than in the Word and the Name. Martin Luther himself was emphatic: it is the Word that makes the Sacrament. Without the Word, the element is simply matter. Yet Luther also blessed things. He retained the renunciations, the exorcism, and the exsufflation in the baptismal rite—a reminder that the early church never imagined the Christian life as spiritually neutral terrain. He wrote and sang about spiritual warfare as a present and serious reality. More to the point, Luther understood that God uses material means—water, bread, wine, spoken words—to deliver real promises. The Lutheran tradition has always insisted that the boundary between the physical and spiritual worlds is far more porous than Western modernity is willing to admit. Given that background, there is a precedent, if not a full theological system, for the careful, non-superstitious use of physical signs, properly understood. The St. Benedict medal is not a lucky charm. It promises nothing automatically. It is best understood as a material confession of Jesus’s victory. Its power is entirely His—invoked through faith and prayer, and grounded in the scriptural commands inscribed on its surface. The medal is not a battery of power; it is a sign that points the Christian back to their Baptismal identity. What the medal does is give the person holding it something to hold: a physical anchor in a moment of spiritual pressure. A reminder, pressed into the palm, that the Name of Jesus has already won the ground being contested—not by residing in the object, but by being confessed and trusted in faith. For someone in recovery—someone who knows in their bones what it means to be pulled toward destruction by something that sounds almost reasonable—that is no small thing. People who have lived close to darkness do not need to be convinced that darkness is real. What they need is a theological framework for what they have already experienced—and clarity about what to do when the pressure returns. The full teaching document--The Warfare of Things: A Guide to the Sacred and the Profane—is available as a free download here. It explores the theology of blessed and cursed objects through a Lutheran lens, explains how the St. Benedict medal may be used as a prayer aid, discusses how to identify and remove spiritual footholds in a living space, and argues—concretely and pastorally—that the Church’s tradition of blessing and consecration is not superstition, but pastoral common sense. If you are working with people in recovery—or serving a congregation that has never been given a framework for this territory—the guide was written for precisely that situation. Because sometimes the most pastoral thing the Church can offer is not a new theory, but an old tool placed back into the hands of people who need it. Image: https://www.freepik.com/ Rev. Dr. Steve Stutz Ordained Lutheran Pastor · Intentional Interim Minister · Certified Spiritual Director La Porte, Texas · Houston Area [Contact] · [LinkedIn] · [The Marginal Note on Substack] |
