📚 Did You Hear the One Where the Lutheran Pastor Walks Into the Metaphysics Aisle?

A gentle integration of two seemingly opposite spiritual worlds.

Grace Between the Lines: A New Series Begins

This is the first post in a new series I’m calling ‘Grace Between the Lines’—a journey through the beautifully strange overlap between Lutheran theology, mystical spirituality, and the books and ideas that have shaped me along the way. Whether you’ve been with me since the early days or you’re just arriving at this odd little corner of the internet, I’m so glad you’re here.

Each post in this arc will explore a thread in my spiritual story—sometimes surprising, occasionally side-eyed by the canon police, but always grounded in grace. And this one? This one begins, as many sacred things do, in the back corner of a used bookstore.

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A couple of months ago, I wandered into the metaphysics section of our local used bookstore. Nothing fancy. No crystals. No incense. Just a modest table in the back, lined with spiritual gems—the kind of books that don’t usually survive garage sales or TikTok trends.

And there it was—A Course in Miracles. Again.

It had been about five years since I last picked it up. Ever since coming back to Christianity.

Every time I returned to that shop, it was still there. Same copy. Same spot. I’d flip it open, read a few lines, and think, “Seriously? This is just so good.”

I wasn’t planning to revisit it. I wasn’t trying to stir the theological pot (or summon an old identity like a spiritual Ouija board). But it kept nudging me. And when I finally had some time off a couple of weeks ago, I gave in—and went deep.

Not as a seeker. Not as a spiritual influencer trying to find a brand.

Just as me. A guy who’s now a Lutheran pastor—but who still remembers what it felt like to need a God I could breathe around.

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🤫 A Quick Confession

Here’s the thing: I used to live in that world.

Not just the metaphysical bookstore aisle—but the whole worldview.

I once helped launch a New Thought spiritual center. I was steeped in affirmations, energy work, manifestation talk, and spiritual self-help with a metaphysical twist. I didn’t just browse that section—I was an evangelist for it.

And honestly? A lot of it was beautiful. It gave me language for things I’d never had words for. It helped me name my longings. It gave me hope when traditional Christianity had felt too brittle, too punitive, too... small.

But it also came with pressure.

There was an expectation to stay high-vibe, relentlessly positive, and energetically “aligned.” Eventually, it started to feel like I was doing spiritual performance art. Like I had to keep selling the freedom I was quietly losing.

(If I had a dollar for every time I “trusted the Universe” through gritted teeth, I could’ve manifested a shelf-stable kombucha empire—or at least a Himalayan salt lamp with a dimmer switch - I always wanted one of those.)

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🧠 The Theological Tension

I don’t resent that chapter of my life.

The hunger that led me there was real: I wanted to experience God, not just study doctrines about God. I wanted mystery, not certainty. I wanted healing, not guilt. I longed for beauty, connection, transcendence.

And to its credit, the metaphysical world made space for all of that.

The language was poetic. The teachings felt empowering. There was a sense of spiritual agency I hadn’t known before.

But over time, it became heavy. Spirituality became another self-improvement project. Grace was replaced with “alignment.” Transformation started to feel like a personal obligation instead of a divine gift.

It became spirituality as hustle. And I was tired.

(Which, ironically, made me feel guilty. Which meant I had more work to do. You see the trap.)

What I didn’t know—what no one told me—is that Christianity has its own deep wells of mystery. That there’s a mystical stream in this ancient tradition, one that doesn’t bypass the cross or try to outshine the pain, but meets us right in it.

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✝️ Lutheranism as an Unexpected Resolution

I didn’t find Lutheranism because I was looking for it.

Honestly, I didn’t even know it was an option.

I grew up Catholic, so I knew the beauty of liturgy—the candles, the quiet, the rhythm. But the theology I inherited was often punitive. God was holy, yes—but also mostly angry. Jesus felt less like a shepherd and more like a human shield.

So I walked away. For a long time.

I thought those were my only options: Christianity that punished, or no Christianity at all.

What I didn’t realize is that there was this whole tradition—rooted in the ancient church, alive with liturgy, and drenched in grace—that had been quietly waiting for me.

When I stumbled into the ELCA, it felt like discovering a hidden room in a house I thought I’d already moved out of.

The music was familiar. The calendar, the structure, the prayers—they brought me back. But the theology? That was new. And it floored me.

No spiritual ladder to climb.
No emotional tone I had to maintain.
No pressure to "manifest a better version of myself."

Just a crucified and risen God who meets us in our mess and offers mercy we didn’t earn and can’t lose.

It was mystical without being vague. Grounded without being rigid.
It didn’t erase my longing for transcendence—it baptized it.

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♾️ Where the Two Still Meet

When I left New Thought ministry and entered Lutheran seminary, I thought I had to choose:

Either I was a mystical, metaphysical, slightly woo-leaning spiritual wanderer...
Or I was a grounded, confessional, sacrament-loving Lutheran.

But I’ve come to see: those aren’t opposites. They’re two sides of my spiritual story. And they can speak to each other when I stop trying to silence one in favor of the other.

That’s why I still read A Course in Miracles. And Wayne Dyer (my gateway drug to new Thought - I'll share the story of this sometime). And Martha Beck.
Not as scripture. Not as doctrine.
But as voices that once kept the fire going when everything else felt cold.

And now, thanks to theologians like Tuomo Mannermaa—who taught me that union with Christ isn’t just metaphor but mystical reality—I can see how those longings were always pointing toward what the Church already had.

They didn’t call me to ministry. But they affirmed I’d landed in the right tradition.
I just hadn’t seen it yet.

I don’t need A Course in Miracles to be theologically airtight.
I don’t need Lutheranism to resolve every cosmic question.

I just know that, in wildly different ways, both helped me remember I’m not alone—
and that the grace of Jesus isn’t picky about where He shows up.

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💬 Closing Thought

Maybe you have a spiritual past you’re not quite sure what to do with.
Maybe it’s full of things you’ve outgrown—or things that still glow quietly in the background.
Maybe you’ve carried some guilt about it. Or some pride. Or both. (Spiritual adolescence: now available in adult sizes!)

Here’s what I’m learning: You don’t have to throw it all away.
You also don’t have to drag it all with you.

The invitation is integration—not erasure.
To ask: What was I longing for then?
And where might that longing still be holy now?

If grace is real—and I believe it is—then it’s been tracking with you this whole time.
Through every shelf. Every sermon. Every detour.

Even the weird stuff.
Especially the weird stuff.

So if you ever find yourself, like I did, standing in the metaphysics aisle of a used bookstore with a copy of A Course in Miracles in your hands—you’re not lost.

You might just be coming full circle.

The path that brought you here wasn’t a mistake.
It was holy ground—even the weird parts.

Your past doesn’t need to be erased.
It’s already been redeemed.

The grace of the Holy Spirit was never waiting for you to get it right—
It was with you the whole way through.

God has already held the tension.
God has already woven the story.
God has already called it beloved.

You don’t have to choose between mystery and mercy.
In Christ, they’ve already chosen you.

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P.S. I’d love to hear how your story has twisted, turned, or circled back.
What old spiritual paths are still whispering to you?
What parts of your journey are asking to be reconciled, not rejected?
Feel free to share in the comments—or just reply quietly to say, “Yep. Me too.”