Duck.Duck. Jeep
A Jeep tradition with something to say to the rest of us.
If you’ve ever driven a Jeep, you know about the Jeep Wave — that friendly little hand gesture between drivers that says, I see you. We’re in this together. It’s a simple, silent connection. An unspoken, open-armed welcome.
But a few years ago, that wave got some company — in the form of rubber ducks.
Have you ever seen a rubber duck perched on a Jeep — or a whole flock of them riding shotgun on the dashboard — and wondered what in the world they’re doing there? Whether you're a Jeep enthusiast or just duck-curious, the story behind those little plastic passengers is one worth hearing.
It all started in July 2020. Allison Parliament had just moved to a new town and bought a Jeep Wrangler. After a particularly tough day, she spotted another Jeep parked outside a store and, on a whim, grabbed a rubber duck she’d just bought, wrote “Nice Jeep” on it with a marker, and left it on the windshield.
Just as she was finishing, the Jeep’s owner, whom she described as a “burly, scary-looking, 6-foot-5 guy,” came out and asked what she was doing. She showed him the duck. He laughed. He loved it. He encouraged her to post it on social media.
She did — and that one small act of kindness took off faster than a Wrangler on a dirt trail.
Under the hashtag #duckduckjeep, Jeep owners across the country (and then the world) began buying rubber ducks, dressing them up in silly outfits, and leaving them on strangers’ Jeeps as surprise gifts — little tokens of joy, connection, and community. “Nice ride.” “You belong.” “Here’s something to make your day.” Jeep dashboards became “duck ponds,” and people smiled a little more.
It’s quirky. It’s fun. It’s ridiculously wholesome. And it’s built entirely on kindness — no strings attached.
Last Friday night, at a local Pride event, the company I work for gave out rainbow-hearted ducks. Same spirit, different crowd. It struck me that these tiny, cheerful ducks — given without condition — say something big:
I see you. You matter. You belong.
Wouldn’t it be something if we all lived like that? Not just Jeep people. Not just companies during Pride Month. Not just churches when it’s convenient. All of us. All the time.
Because here's the truth: far too many people — especially in the LGBTQ community — have been made to feel like they don’t belong. They've been asked to tone it down, fit in, hide parts of themselves, or earn their way into acceptance. The Church has often been one of the worst offenders. We’ve wrapped exclusion in soft phrases like “love the sinner, hate the sin,” but love can’t thrive when someone feels they have to hide who they really are just to be accepted.
Jesus never operated that way. He didn’t make people qualify for love. He welcomed the overlooked, the outsider, the ones pushed to the edge. He made room at the table. He waved first. He shared his ducks freely, metaphorically speaking.
So what if we did the same?
What if we turned our dashboards into duck ponds — reminders to choose kindness over judgment, joy over gatekeeping, welcome over fear?
What if we waved more, loved louder, gave freely, and stopped acting like there’s a limited number of seats at the table?
So, if you see me out on the road, feel free to wave. Come say hello. I just might have a duck or two to share. Because sometimes, grace shows up in the quirkiest of places. A gas station parking lot. A Pride festival. A church pew. Or sitting on the dash of a muddy Jeep.
That’s the heart of this blog — finding the sacred in the everyday. A rubber duck as an Unlikely Altar. A silly little moment that points to something holy.
Because belonging is holy. Kindness is holy.
And every time we choose love — especially when it’s unexpected —we build one more altar in this world where grace can rest.
My friend is a hero of mine. Not because he wears a cape. Not because he speaks in lofty words or quotes Scripture from memory. Not because he’s got his life together. (He’d be the first to laugh at that idea.) But because he shows up. He shows up when people are hurting. He shows up when something needs fixing or someone needs lifting. He shows up with hugs, silence, stories—whatever the moment calls for. He serves without fanfare. He listens without judgment. He gives without needing to be noticed. And lately, he’s tired. Bone-tired. Soul-weary. The kind of tired that doesn’t go away with sleep. The other day, he read something I wrote about Old Fashioneds. I wanted him to read it—because he's in recovery, and I trusted him enough to be totally honest with me. He was. And that opened a deeper conversation. He told me he’s looking for something. A rhythm. A ritual. A way to keep going when everything feels heavy. He didn’t call it a prayer. He didn’t call it church. He just said he needed something. A breath. A pause. A bit of meaning to lean on. I think a lot of us are looking for that. Some people find it in Scripture or a sanctuary. Others find it in walking their dog, or washing dishes, or sitting on the porch and watching the world not ask anything of them for a while. We don’t always need big answers. Sometimes we just need one quiet moment that doesn’t ask anything of us—except to be exactly as we are. My friend isn’t big on organized religion—too many walls, too much noise, too many people talking about God while forgetting to be kind. And yet, the way he lives—his compassion, his presence, his stubborn hope—tells me his faith is real. Maybe more real than most sermons. So, today, this post is for him. And maybe for you, too. If you're feeling tired. If your body is worn and your soul feels bruised. If your faith is hanging by a thread. If you’re not sure what you believe, but you still want to believe in something. I see this kind of weariness everywhere lately. My manager is working fifteen-hour days, pushing himself beyond what feels human, trying to keep everything from falling apart. The weight she carries isn’t just in the hours—it’s in the constant pressure, the never-ending to-do list, the silent worry no one sees. I think of a woman I met who stayed by her husband’s side in the ICU for more than two weeks. There were no visiting hour limits for her—she hardly ever left. Day after day, night after night, her presence was the only comfort he had in a place where hope felt fragile and time slowed to a crawl. Others are grieving, burned out, holding it together on the outside while falling apart on the inside. And some can’t even name what’s wrong. They just know that everything feels heavier than it used to. This isn’t just the tired that comes from a long day or a short night of sleep. It’s the exhaustion that lives in your bones, in your spirit. It’s the kind of tired that accumulates over time—from caregiving, from chronic stress, from holding in emotions, from showing up for others while neglecting yourself. It doesn’t clock out when your shift ends. It follows you home. It wakes up with you. A nap won’t fix it. A weekend off won’t touch it. Even sleep can feel like it doesn’t reach the place that hurts. Because this kind of tired isn’t just physical—it’s emotional, mental, even spiritual. It's weariness that comes from meaningful things: loving people through crisis, holding others’ pain, carrying grief, trying to be strong for too long. What helps isn’t always a fix. Sometimes what heals is simply being seen. It’s someone looking at you with quiet understanding and saying, “I know you’re carrying a lot.” It’s being allowed to stop pretending you’re okay. Sometimes the most sacred thing isn’t a solution—it’s someone who stays. Someone who doesn’t try to fix you, just chooses to sit beside you and offer grace and peace. Sometimes the holiest thing we can do is admit we’re tired. Not fix it. Not push through. Not pretend we’re fine. Just tell the truth. That’s what my friend did the night we talked. And thankfully, I didn’t rush to fill the silence. I just listened. And as I ended the call, I was reminded how much we all need room to be human. Sometimes faith doesn’t look like certainty. Sometimes it looks like showing up anyway. Sometimes it looks like a car ride for someone who needs to get to the doctor. Sometimes it looks like silence. Sometimes it looks like asking for a breath of meaning when you’re too worn out to pray. Sometimes, we’re all just tired. I know that I am. If that’s where you are, I hope these words help you breathe. I hope they remind you that even your weariness is seen. I hope you remember that your doubt is not disqualifying. And that silence and pauses are part of the prayer. May you find rest in unexpected places. And may the sacred sneak up on you— right where you are. Sometimes the altar isn’t built of stone. No candles. No hymns. Just this moment. Just this breath. Just this—your Unlikely Altar.
I want to be crystal clear about something—because life is too short, and love is too important, to be vague. If you can’t accept my LGBTQ friends as they are—if you can’t recognize the full humanity, dignity, and worth of my chosen family—then I’m not sure how we can keep calling each other friends. I know that sounds harsh. I know some will say, “ But I love the sinner, just not the sin. ” To which I respond: “That’s not love. That’s branding.” Nobody feels loved when they’re being quietly (or loudly) disapproved of. And nobody feels safe around someone who prays for them to be someone else. My partner Dale is a beautiful human and a fierce, protective mom to two amazing kids who are part of the LGBTQ community. And I’m not just speaking up for them - - after all, I love them as my own. I’m also speaking up for Rick, John, MacMichael, Danny, and every other friend who calls the LGBTQ community family. Because they are family. To me. To each other. To God. So how could I possibly say I love them—and then cozy up to people who think they’re an abomination? How could I claim to follow Jesus and still treat some of God’s children like second-class citizens? Being an ally means making hard decisions. Not just about what I believe, but about who I stand with. And who I won’t stand against just to keep the peace. Now, a little history lesson for those of you who like a good Reformation-era mic drop: In 1521, a German monk named Martin Luther was hauled before a council of religious authorities and asked to recant his writings—writings that called out corruption in the Church and insisted that grace couldn’t be bought or earned, only received. Faced with pressure, threats, and the full weight of the religious establishment, Luther reportedly replied: Here I stand. I can do no other. God help me. It wasn’t just theological defiance. It was moral clarity. A refusal to deny what he knew to be true. A statement that sometimes faith means standing your ground—even when it costs you. So here I stand. Now listen, I’m not comparing myself to Martin Luther. Yes, we technically share a name, but only one person ever called me “Martin”—and that was my mother, and only when I was in deep trouble. You’ve never truly felt conviction until you’ve heard your full name shouted from the kitchen in a tone that could part the Red Sea. So no, I’m not a 16th-century reformer with a hammer and a list of 95 grievances. I’m just someone with a laptop, a good cup of chai or Mountain Dew, and a deep conviction that love should never be up for debate. I’m not saying we have to agree on everything. We can disagree about the best barbecue, whether it’s pronounced “pee-can” or “puh-cahn,” or whether the Mets will ever win another World Series. ( Let’s just say I’m praying without ceasing. ) But we can’t disagree about this: every single person—gay, straight, trans, nonbinary, questioning, closeted, out and proud—is a beloved child of God, deserving of dignity, belonging, and full inclusion. Not despite who they are. But because of who they are. So, if you’re unwilling to see that—if you cannot bring yourself to welcome my friends, my family, Dale’s kids, and so many others into your world with open arms—then I’ll be honest: I don’t think we’re walking the same path anymore. That doesn’t mean I hate you. It just means I choose them. Because choosing them is choosing love. Choosing them is choosing Jesus. Choosing them is choosing to bless what God already calls good. So again—here I stand. Not in judgment, but in solidarity. Not with bitterness, but with resolve. Not with fear, but with love. And if that makes you uncomfortable… maybe that discomfort is holy ground. Maybe it’s an unlikely altar. Maybe it’s exactly where God is waiting.
There are moments in ministry that stay with you—not because you got it right, but because you didn’t. This is one of those moments. I’ve long considered myself an ally of the LGBTQ+ community. In private conversations, in my own theology, and often from the pulpit, I preached a gospel of grace and inclusion. I said it plainly and often: In Christ there is no Jew or Greek, no left or right, no red or blue, no straight or gay. We baptized the children of LGBTQ+ couples. We welcomed same-sex families into our churches. I tried to live and lead in ways that embodied the wide embrace of God’s love. But lately I’ve been asking myself the question that won’t leave me alone: Was it enough? Should I have done more? Because while I preached inclusion, I also sometimes softened my language to avoid division. I tried to hold tension, to nudge hearts gently. I didn’t always name the harm being done to LGBTQ+ people by the Church—not boldly enough, not clearly enough. I tried to keep the peace, even when peace was a luxury the most vulnerable couldn’t afford. And the answer I’ve come to is: No. It wasn’t enough. Because belief isn’t always enough. Preaching isn’t always enough. Quiet welcome isn’t always enough. Not when queer and trans people are being excluded, erased, vilified—by churches, by policies, by people who claim to speak for God. Some of the churches I pastored later chose to leave the United Methodist Church and align themselves with the Global Methodist Church—a move rooted, in no small part, in opposition to LGBTQ+ inclusion. That breaks my heart. I grieve that my time among them didn’t shift their trajectory. I grieve that my efforts at inclusion, while sincere, may not have gone far enough to counter the pull of exclusion. I didn’t always speak up when I should have. I didn’t always name the sin of institutional silence or the damage of doctrinal rejection. And I know now that silence is not neutral. Silence protects the status quo. Silence leaves others to do the fighting alone. To the LGBTQ+ community: If you ever wondered where I stood—please know I was with you. But if you ever felt unsupported, unsafe, unseen—I am so sorry. I should have done more. I am trying to do more now. This blog is called Unlikely Altars because I believe the sacred often shows up in uncomfortable places—in the truth we’d rather not face, in the prayers we don’t know how to pray, even in regret. Maybe this moment is an altar too: a place of repentance. A place to begin again. To be clear: I believe your love is holy. Your lives are sacred. Your families are real and beautiful and blessed. You have always belonged—in the Church, in the heart of God, and in the story of grace we are still trying to tell. I can’t change the past, but I can choose the future. I can commit to being louder in love, bolder in solidarity, clearer in conviction. I can use whatever voice I have left to say what should have been said long ago: You are beloved. You are not a disruption to the gospel—you are a living witness to it. If I have ever failed you with my silence, I hope these words become something more than just an apology. I hope they become a turning point. This is my altar—not of wood or stone, but of silence laid down and truth picked up. Here, I offer my regret, my good intentions, and my fears. And I make this commitment: to speak with love, to stand with courage, and to never again mistake quiet for faithful. A Prayer God of mercy, Forgive the silence that protected me and not the ones who needed shelter. Heal the wounds I helped cause by what I left unsaid. Let this confession be more than words— Let it be a turning, a re-forming, a re-commitment to love boldly and live truthfully. Make me braver. Make your Church kinder. And may all your beloved children—of every orientation and identity—know they are seen, safe, and sacred in your sight. Amen.