✨ This Time, It’s Not a Comeback — It’s a Reconciliation
A pastor, a past, and the strange grace of coming full circle.
This one’s a bit longer than usual.
It’s part spiritual memoir, part public reconciliation with my past and it sets the tone for what this space will be from here on out. If you’re new here, welcome. If you’ve been around for a while, thank you. Either way, I’m glad you’re here.
If you’ve been subscribed to this Substack for a while, bless you. You’ve endured a whole saga of “Hey friends, I’m back!” posts, each followed by a couple earnest essays, then… silence. Tumbleweeds. Digital cobwebs. Then rinse, wash, repeat.
I’ve rebooted this space more times than I can count. Each time, it felt like yanking the pull cord on an old lawn mower. It would cough to life, sputter hopefully, and die again.
This isn’t because I don’t love writing (I do!) or because I don’t have anything to say (I have too much!). It’s because the ground beneath me has been shifting in major ways for the past several years and I haven’t known how to write from the middle of the landslide.
🫶 A Week Off. A Deep Breath. A Return.
This past week, I took some time off. Not a vacation. I didn’t go anywhere. We were supposed to go camping, but our trip got canceled. (Which I’m totally fine with… No tent stakes or sleeping on the ground. I count that as a win.)
So it turned into just a quiet, unstructured week at home. During the day, my wife, Alex, was upstairs in her office doing her thing. My daughter, Rory, was at school. And me? I was just... being… for the first time in a long while.
There were no appointments, no sermons to write, no pastoral emergencies. Just time. And in that space, something surprising emerged. Not a new idea, but an old thread I thought I’d lost.
It began when I picked up the work of Finnish Lutheran theologian Tuomo Mannermaa a few weeks ago (whose name, let’s be honest, sounds less like a theologian and more like a guy you’d meet in a sauna) whose work opened a door into something I didn’t know Lutheranism had: mysticism.
Mannermaa showed me that Luther wasn’t just a 16th-century protester with a hammer, some nails, and 95 grievances. He pointed to a Luther who spoke of union with Christ, not just as metaphor, but as reality. Not just a verdict from a sky deity on high (“forgiven!”), but a mystical participation in the divine life, here and now.
For someone like me, a guy who had spent years in the non-traditional spiritual world, swimming in the deep end of mysticism and metaphysics, Mannermaa became a bridge. A way for all those pieces of me to meet in one place.
😬 Yes, That One...
That bridge led me, perhaps inevitably, back to A Course in Miracles.
Now, if you're a Lutheran or any thoughtful Christian, just mentioning ACIM might cause your inner catechism teacher to clutch their pearls. I get it. It’s "channeled." It’s associated with Marianne Williamson (whom I genuinely admire, even if she occasionally says things that make me wish the internet had a gentle "Are you sure?" button). On the surface, it reads like a metaphysical fever dream.
But when I picked it up again—not as a spiritual seeker, but as a Lutheran pastor steeped in Word, sacrament, and grace—I didn’t find conflict. I found resonance. Familiarity. Echoes of what Mannermaa, the mystics, Luther, and even the Apostle Paul were getting at all along.
And it wasn’t the first time it had met me in a tender place.
ACIM had been a companion during a couple of difficult, disorienting seasons of my life when traditional forms of faith felt hollow or inaccessible. It gave me language for mercy when I couldn’t find it in the church. It helped me stay in relationship with God when I wasn’t sure what I believed about God anymore.
It kept the candle flickering until I was ready to find the sanctuary again.
I’m not saying ACIM is Scripture. I’m not suggesting it’s perfect or that it should replace the New Testament. I don’t hold it as canon.
But I’m also not afraid of it anymore.
🫵 New Thought, Old Ache
Before I found my way into the Lutheran tradition, I spent years in the New Thought movement. I even moved across the country to help launch a spiritual center. It was exciting, earnest, and filled with good intentions.
But over time, the message shifted. Not because the tradition was inherently flawed, but because I was still working out my own stuff. My ego got involved. My longing for security dressed itself up in spiritual language. I was trying to manifest my way out of my story instead of letting grace meet me in it.
Eventually, the performative edge of it all became too much. I stepped away, not in bitterness, but in exhaustion. And underneath that exhaustion, there was still a longing.
A longing for something older. Deeper. Truer.
⚓ A Home with Candles and Grace
I found myself drawn to the ancient rhythms of Christian liturgy. First through the beauty of Catholic mystics, and eventually, through the surprisingly grace-saturated theology of the ELCA.
The first time I visited a Lutheran church, I felt like I’d stumbled into a hidden room in the house of faith. It had everything I loved about liturgical Christianity but without the shame. It felt like coming home to the symbol system of my Roman Catholic childhood, but with the volume turned down on fear and up on mercy.
And as a girl-dad, the ELCA’s ordination of women mattered deeply. Even if my daughter never steps into a pulpit, I want her to know it’s not off-limits to her. That the voice of God might sound like her own someday.
🔇 When the Words Went Quiet
When I started seminary, I deleted my old blog that had over 70,000 subscribers and 1,000+ posts. It felt like a clean break. A fresh start. But it also left me without a familiar place to return to.
That’s when I launched this Substack. I was in-between worlds; not quite New Thought anymore, not yet fully Christian. I was scattered. Dis-integrated. Trying to write my way into wholeness.
So if this space has felt like a moving target, it’s because that’s exactly what I’ve been.
🤝 This Isn’t a Comeback. It’s a Reconciliation.
This past week gave me the stillness to see it clearly: I don’t need to erase my past to be faithful to my present. The mystic in me and the pastor in me are not at odds. They’re companions.
This space, Along the Way, is now a home for theological honesty, mystical resonance, and spiritual integration.
Here’s what I’ll be writing about:
Lutheran theology with a mystical spine
A Course in Miracles (and other unconventional texts) through a grace-saturated, gospel-informed lens
Pastoral life in a spiritually pluralistic world
Affirmative prayer reimagined through Lutheran proclamation
Weird books, real grace, and the God who meets us in both
Yes, I’ll lean into the woo (I live in Santa Cruz, for crying out loud!).
But I pray I won’t lose my theological footing.
I’m not interested in floating away. I’m interested in digging deeper.
I trust that God’s grace is sturdier than our theological sorting systems.
So… welcome (again). Whether you’ve followed my writing for years or just stumbled in from the wilderness, I’m glad you’re here.
This space is for the curious, the disillusioned, the reconciled, and the still-reconciling.
More soon.
This time, from a place of peace, joy, and clarity.
Here’s to sacred tension, luminous mystery, and the God who holds it all.
Still Along the Way,
Jonas
💬 P.S. – I’d love to hear from you.
Did anything in this post strike a chord? Or raise a question?
Drop a comment below or just say hey. It’s always a gift to know who’s here.
"I was trying to manifest my way out of my story instead of letting grace meet me in it." This resonates Big Time. Like you, I've been a seeker for as long as I can remember.
As a little boy baptized as a Roman Catholic, I recall asking my parents to take me to church. Mind you, in those days it was in Latin and as a little guy, I didn't understand a word that was being said, which turned out to be a good thing.
I would run up to the front pew and sit there in Awe. All I knew was that I resonated with something I strongly connected with. Maybe it was the music, the magnificent artistry of the stained glass, the image of Jesus with the little lambs and children. All I know is that it wasn't intellectual; I was having an experience. And it felt, well, beautiful.
As I got older and had my First Communion, I didn't understand why I had to go to a priest for confession. Why couldn't I talk to God directly? And that question took me away from the Roman Catholic Church.
At 13 I saw a bunch of kids who seemed really happy, which was in direct contrast to what I was experiencing at home. Turns out they were born-again Christians. They told me if I accepted Jesus as my personal saviour, I would be guaranteed a seat in heaven for all eternity. That seemed like a pretty good deal to me. That, and I've always felt a strong connection to Jesus, someone I wanted to be around.
So I became "that guy" in school who carried around his bible with my other textbooks. I became familiar with scripture, went to a Methodist church 3 days a week, sang in the youth choir, plus a bible study on Tuesday nights. There I was, quoting scripture and handing out "tracks" on street corners, preaching the "good news" with all the sincerity of my 15-year-old self. I was saved, and I wanted others to be saved too. How sweet is that?
And in those years, I was saved. I was given a place to go where others cared about my well-being, gave me direction and loving support, along with something to believe in.
When I would listen to the minister, I resonated with the sermons, for the most part. The thing is, I was taking on someone else's interpretation and beliefs about the Bible, as my own. I recall feeling that some of what I was hearing didn't quite feel right. It felt almost hypocritical, though well-intentioned.
It was all going along pretty well until I found myself falling in love with the other tenor in the youth choir. Needless to say, all hell broke loose inside. How could God, whom I loved with all my heart, condemn these two innocent 17-year-olds who sincerely fell in love with each other? The conflict became too great inside, and once again, I chose to leave and seek answers to that question.
Enter new thought, metaphysics. I'm not going into all the variations on that theme; suffice it to say the journey continued. With each discovery and insight, and with great enthusiasm, I would say to my friends, "Hey, look, I found the answer," and proceed to buy them the book as well. Eventually, I got the message from them saying, "We're happy for you, but we don't need any more books."
And I began to realize that this was my journey.
When I discovered the Course in Miracles, it was revelatory. I felt like someone had given me back the Bible, but with a new perspective. One that resonated. I could not find any hypocrisy. I also knew this was for me, where I am in my own development regarding awareness and consciousness.
My journey continues, and given that we are eternal in nature, I suspect will be ongoing indefinitely. I have made peace with the idea that there is no finish line, no Super Bowl or Academy Award to win. Simply more expansion in consciousness, compassion, curiosity and love.
Speaking of, this is why, in my own experience, I resonate with you. My respect for your ongoing soul's evolution, the way you embrace your humanity and that of those around you, touches my heart deeply. I can see us way back when, standing together on a hillside, listening to the sermon on the Mount, and sharing our joy at the wisdom being spoken.
You, are my brother, as I am yours. And it continues to be my joy, privilege, and honor to walk this path along the way, with you.
Welcome back, Jonas. I’m in. I love reading about your journey as a fellow Lutheran and mystic. I haven’t read “A Course in Miracles” but will give it a try. By the way, the Jesuits have been calling to me lately. Try listening to the audiobook “Cherished Belonging” by Jesuit priest Father Gregory Boyle. You won’t regret it. :)