I’ve been sitting with some news this past week—a new IRS statement that suggests churches may now be able to endorse political candidates without penalty. For decades, the Johnson Amendment—part of the U.S. tax code—created a clear boundary: nonprofit organizations, including houses of worship, were not to directly support or oppose political candidates. The idea was to maintain a separation that would protect both faith communities and democratic institutions from manipulation.

But now, that line is being blurred. Or perhaps erased altogether.

At first glance, it might seem like a minor legal update. But if you’ve ever worked with structures, you know what happens when a boundary shifts—even a little. Things that were built to carry weight start to lean. Walls begin to buckle. And eventually, the whole thing is at risk of collapse.

This isn’t just about legalities. This is about identity. This is about witness. This is about what kind of church we are called to be.

So let me say this plainly:
Bothell United Methodist Church will not be endorsing political candidates.

Not because we don’t care about what happens in the world—we absolutely do.
Not because we’re afraid to speak up—we’re not.
Not because we want to play it safe—we refuse to.

We don’t endorse candidates because our allegiance is to the Kingdom of God. Not to a party, a politician, or a platform.

We don’t endorse candidates because our task is not to baptize political power, but to speak prophetically to it. To challenge it when it distorts the image of God. To call it to account when it betrays the poor and marginalizes the vulnerable. To remind it—and ourselves—that no empire lasts forever, but the justice of God endures.

We don’t endorse candidates because the gospel cannot be reduced to a vote. It is not a slogan. It is not a campaign. It is not a short-term victory. The Gospel is a way of life. A way of justice. A way of love.

And if that sounds bold, if it sounds risky, if it sounds like we’re stepping into something uncomfortable—it is. But it’s not new.

Church, I wonder if we’re in a season when we are called to be modern-day prophets in a world that desperately needs them…

When we talk about prophets—especially in church settings—it’s easy to imagine someone else. Someone ancient. Someone extraordinary. Someone with a robe, a booming voice, maybe a burning bush or a vision in the sky.

But the biblical prophets were not superhuman. And they weren’t always clergy. They were ordinary people who saw what others refused to see—and had the courage to say something about it.

They weren’t professionals. They were farmers, poets, workers, wanderers. People who were going about their lives when something disrupted them—something holy. Something urgent.

That’s what calling is, isn’t it?

It’s not a job title. It’s not a seminary degree. It’s not a press release.

It’s that moment—quiet or loud—when you realize you can’t stay silent anymore. When the gap between what is and what should be becomes unbearable. When the truth burns in your bones and you have to speak.

To be a prophet is not about predicting the future. It’s about being so deeply grounded in God’s justice and compassion that you can name what’s misaligned right now.

And that’s what makes Amos such a compelling voice.

Amos tells us upfront: “I am not a prophet. I’m not part of the guild. I’m not in this for a paycheck. I’m just a herdsman. I take care of trees.” See, he wasn’t part of the inner circle of religion or power. He was a shepherd. A landscaper. A man from Tekoa—a small town in the southern kingdom. He did not sign up for this work.

But he looked around at the world he lived in, and he could no longer stay silent.

Israel, in the 8th century BCE, was thriving. The economy was strong. The borders were secure. The people were worshiping. Life was comfortable and everything they thought it would be. And from the outside, it looked like God's promises had finally come true.

But Amos saw beneath the surface.

He saw a society where wealth piled up in the hands of a few while the poor were trampled. He saw a nation claiming holiness while normalizing oppression. He saw worship that was loud on Sabbath and silent the rest of the week. And he saw the widening gap between God's preferred future and the people's reality.

Then God gives Amos a vision:
A plumb line—this simple tool used in construction to measure whether a wall is truly upright and aligned. And God says: “I am setting a plumb line in the midst of my people Israel; I will never again pass them by.”

In other words: I'm measuring you. Not your performance. Not your praise songs, but I’m measuring your alignment. Your justice. Your integrity. Your hearts.

And Amos is called to proclaim this vision—not just to individuals, but to the entire system. And not everyone wants to hear it.

As soon as Amos speaks, he is confronted by Amaziah, the priest of Bethel. A man whose job it was to maintain the temple, to oversee worship, to care for the religious life of the people.

But Amaziah doesn’t take Amos’s message to prayer. He doesn’t discern. He doesn’t ask for repentance.

He reports Amos to the king.

And then he tells Amos: “Go back home. Go back to Judah. You can prophesy there if you want—but don’t ever speak like this again at Bethel.”

We don’t know exactly where Bethel is, but it was certainly near the southern boundary of the Northern Kingdom of Israel, about ten miles north of Jerusalem. And if the name Bethel sounds familiar, it’s because Bethel was significant to the people of Israel beginning all the way back to their ancestors. It carries deep spiritual memory for the people of Israel.

Bethel is where Abram first built an altar to the Lord when he left everything familiar and set out in faith. Bethel is where Jacob had his dream of the ladder reaching to heaven—where God promised, “I am with you and will keep you wherever you go.” It was a place of covenant. A place of promise. A place to remember that God meets people in the wilderness, in exile, in transition—and gives them a future.

And now? Now Amaziah calls it “the king’s sanctuary.” Now it's “a temple of the kingdom.”

A place that was once a witness to God's faithfulness has become a mouthpiece for national power. A space that once signaled divine encounter has been repurposed to reinforce political stability. The altar is still there—but the allegiance has shifted.

And that’s the tragedy.

Because when the sacred is co-opted by the State, it still looks like religion. The songs are still sung. The rituals are still practiced. But the truth—the prophetic truth—is no longer welcome.

This is what happens when religion loses its prophetic voice. This is what happens when the church trades courage for comfort. This is what happens when the sanctuary becomes an extension of the State.

Amaziah isn’t concerned about God—he’s concerned about order. He’s concerned about optics. He’s concerned about protecting the relationship between religion and regime.

But Amos? Amos isn’t a politician. He’s not trying to build a brand or protect his reputation. Remember, he says: “I’m not a prophet. I didn’t go to school for this. I’m a herdsman. But the Lord took me.”

The Lord took me.

That’s how calling begins. Not with qualifications, but with conviction.

Church, we are not all Amos—but we are all called to confront.

To confront the systems and structures that keep us out of alignment with God. To confront the ways the church has cozied up to power, even when it means silencing the prophets. To confront injustice, even when it’s legal. Even when it’s profitable. Even when it’s normal.

We are not called to endorse—We are called to examine. We are called to discern. We are called to challenge. We are called to be prophetic.

Because God is still holding up a plumb line in our nation, in our churches, and in our lives.

And the question is not: Are we thriving? Are we secure? Are we comfortable? Are we respected?

The question is: Are we aligned with God’s justice?

Last Sunday, about 25 of us gathered for our first Pasta with the Pastors, an opportunity for some of our newer folks to connect more with each other and with the church, and as we were sitting down for dessert, Pastor Kristin and I opened it up for some questions. And I remember being challenged by two questions in particular. 

The first was this: If I punch myself in the face and it hurts, am I weak or strong? I wasn’t quick enough to think of something clever, so I sort of ignored it and moved on…

The second, though, was this: What does the church need? 

I thought about this, because an easier question would’ve been: What does the church want? And I’m sure all of us could come up with lists upon lists to respond to that question… but what does the church need? 

Here’s what I eventually came up with. I said something like this, and I now challenge all of you as well: 

The Church needs to be a place where all are welcome and all belong, and the Church needs people who not only believe it, but are willing to invite those hurt by the church and hurt by the community into it. 

The Church needs people unashamed of their faith and their religious affiliation and people to speak out about it, because the dominant Christian narrative in our country and in our communities is one of White Christian nationalism built on fear, control, and exclusion. 

And the Church needs people who are bold and can challenge those narratives, even when it’s hard. For those of us who claim progressive Christianity, I wonder if we are so nice, too nice even, that we want everyone to be heard to the point where we are afraid to challenge toxic Christianity because it might make us appear intolerant. 

The church needs you and me to be modern-day prophets in a world that desperately needs them.

Here are your three action items for the week:

1. Practice Prophetic Discernment
Here’s what I mean by that: Take time to reflect on the question: Where am I called to speak up? Pay attention to where you see injustice, silence, or distortion—whether in public life, the Church, or your own spheres of influence. Ask: What would alignment with God’s justice look like here? And don’t dismiss your voice—Amos was a herdsman. You don’t need a platform to be a prophet.

2. Challenge Toxic Christian Narratives
Choose one way to resist the dominant voices of exclusion, nationalism, or fear-based faith. That might mean correcting misinformation, sharing a post or article rooted in love and justice, or having a brave conversation. Don’t confuse kindness with complicity—truth-telling can be a form of care.

3. Invite Someone Hurt by the Church
Think of someone who has been harmed, silenced, or excluded by religion. Reach out with care. Share that Bothell UMC is trying to be different—a place where belonging is not conditional, where questions are welcome, and where justice is part of our discipleship. The Church doesn’t just need programs—it needs prophets who build community by invitation and integrity.

So, Church—may we not be silent when truth needs to be spoken. May we not trade courage for comfort. And may we not forget that God is still calling prophets—not just in scripture, not just in history, but now. Today. Among us. The world doesn’t need more chaplains to empire. It needs witnesses to justice. May we be the kind of community where the plumb line of God still matters. Where the altar is not for a king, but for the Kin-dom. Where we speak—not to preserve power, but to proclaim love. 

The Church needs prophets. And maybe—just maybe—it’s us.