The Holy Trouble-Maker
For Pope Francis, who found God in the margins—and reminded us we could, too.
Word is, Pope Francis has gone home to God.
And while the world mourns the passing of a spiritual giant, I can’t help but picture heaven trying to get him to slow down. St. Peter probably met him at the gates saying, “Francis—rest.” And Francis, grinning, replying, “Rest? There’s still work to do.”
Because that’s who he was.
A holy trouble-maker. A pastor who smelled like his people. A man who traded red shoes for orthopedic ones and golden vestments for the grit of real life. He was more interested in carrying the wounded than in being carried on anyone’s shoulders.
As a United Methodist elder who grew up Catholic, my memories of the Church are stitched with sacred things: the quiet weight of the rosary in my mother’s hands, the heavy sweetness of incense, the silence of Good Friday that somehow said everything. I may wear a different stole now, but that tradition still lives in my bones. It taught me to reverence the mystery.
And when Jorge Mario Bergoglio stepped onto that Vatican balcony and chose the name Francis, it didn’t just feel like a name. It felt like a signal. A shift. A turning toward the dirt and the poor and the birds and the broken.
He was invoking the barefoot saint of Assisi—the one who kissed lepers, talked to sparrows, and prayed with his feet. And just like his namesake, this Francis pointed again and again to the margins and said, “That’s where Christ is.”
Not in palaces. Not in power. But in the places where people ache and sweat and scrape by. In refugee camps and rehab centers. In storm drains and soup kitchens. In the lives that don't make the news but make up most of the world.
His theology? It wasn’t flashy. Which made it radical.
Love the poor.
Welcome the stranger.
Protect the earth.
Tear down walls.
Build longer tables.
That’s not just doctrine. That’s dinner-table gospel. That’s altar-in-the-wild kind of holiness. We Methodists call it social holiness—faith that doesn’t stay put in pews, but goes walking. Pope Francis lived it. Preached it. Modeled it. Over and over again.
And now? It’s our turn.
We may not be able to canonize him (yet), but we can canonize his way. In our kitchens and classrooms. In voting booths and food banks. In how we listen, how we serve, how we show up and stay put.
We pick up the torch. We live the prayer of St. Francis until it becomes the rhythm of our steps and the shape of our days.
Lord, make us instruments of peace.
Of joy.
Of holy mischief.
Rest well, Francis.
You found the sacred in the unlikely places.
Now it's our job to keep looking.
A couple of weeks ago I attended a Jewish wedding. The music was lively, the laughter contagious. But what caught my attention first wasn’t the dancing or the glass. It was the chuppah—the canopy under which the couple stands. Four simple poles, cloth stretched above, open on all sides. The chuppah isn’t just there for decoration. It is one of the most important symbols of the ceremony. It recalls the story of the Exodus, when a cloud led God’s people by day and fire by night. The Hebrew word shekinah describes that presence—not just glory, but the very dwelling of God among the people. Standing under the canopy, the couple is reminded that they are not alone in this covenant. Their love is sheltered, covered, surrounded . But the canopy carries more meaning still. Some rabbis say its four open sides recall Abraham’s tent; a home always open to strangers. In that sense, the chuppah is about hospitality—marriage as a space of welcome, a household where others are received. Others say it represents the sky itself, stretched above the couple like creation’s ceiling. Either way, the chuppah whispers that love is not private property. It is held within something larger, and it is meant to spill outward in welcome. And if the canopy over their heads spoke volumes, so did the calendar on which the day was marked. John tells us the wedding at Cana happened on “ the third day .” For first-century Jews, that wasn’t a throwaway detail. Weddings were often held on the third day of the week—Tuesday—because in the creation story, Tuesday is the only day God called good twice. A double blessing. Even today, some Jewish couples choose Tuesday for that reason. But “ the third day ” carried even more resonance. Again and again in Hebrew scripture, the third day was the day God showed up. Abraham saw Mount Moriah on the third day. God descended on Sinai on the third day. Esther put on her royal robes and went before the king on the third day. To say something happened on “the third day” was to say: expect God to arrive, expect deliverance, expect blessing. So John knew what he was doing when he set the Cana story on that day. It wasn’t just about the calendar. It was a signal: this is the kind of moment when heaven leans close. And when heaven leans close, the ordinary becomes charged with meaning. Even the wine. Wine is central at Jewish weddings, not just as refreshment but as covenant. The ceremony begins with blessings over the kiddush cup, sanctifying the marriage. Wine marks both betrothal (kiddushin) and marriage (nissuin). It’s more than a drink—it is joy, covenant, and abundance poured into a single cup. That’s why running out of wine at Cana wasn’t just awkward. Without wine, the celebration itself felt incomplete. So when the jars were filled and the steward tasted new wine, it wasn’t just about quenching thirst—it was about joy restored, covenant renewed, abundance overflowing. What I love most is that wine in Jewish tradition always carries both sweetness and seriousness. It’s laughter and gravity in a single sip. The sweetness of joy, the weight of commitment. Every toast raised holds both—celebration and promise mingled together. ( And really, it’s one of the few times in life when no one complains about being poured a second glass. ) All these details—the canopy overhead, the blessing of the third day, the wine in their hands—remind me that weddings were never just social events. They were sacred rehearsals of older stories, echoes of covenant, reminders that life itself is stitched together with meaning. Which brings me back to the wedding in Cana. John could have begun with something more dramatic: a healing, a resurrection, a thunderous sign. Instead, he begins with a wedding. A family gathering. A table that was about to run dry. It turns out he knew that the extraordinary often hides inside the ordinary. That the presence of God shows up not just in miracles, but in music and laughter, in promises and canopies, in glasses lifted high. Standing there that night, watching this couple under the chuppah, I realize the altar doesn’t have to be stone or wood. Sometimes it’s laughter under a canopy. Sometimes it’s a circle of dancers clapping to the beat. Sometimes it’s a blessing whispered in Hebrew, or a glass of wine raised in joy. And sometimes, for those who remember the old stories, it’s a promise that echoes even deeper: “I go to prepare a place for you.” Like a bridegroom building an addition onto his father’s house, love prepares room for another. That’s the heart of covenant—making space for someone else, not just in your home but in your life. A wedding. Some wine. And a promise. An unlikely altar, reminding us that love’s promise is always to prepare a place.
Lee Corso made a career out of three little words: “Not so fast!” Delivered with a grin, a wag of the finger, and just enough mischief to keep everyone guessing, it was part joke, part interruption, part blessing. When he said it for the final time on his last ESPN College GameDay , it struck me that those words might be the sermon we all need. Because if we’re honest, most of us are living way too fast. We rush through conversations, multitask our way through meals, scroll past sunsets we barely notice, and plan the next big thing while overlooking the small, holy things happening right now. We’re always sprinting toward “what’s next,” which means we rarely pause long enough to savor what is. In my work with grieving families, I hear a truth again and again: when someone we love dies, it isn’t the big occasions we miss most. It’s the little things . The way he’d whistle while cooking breakfast on a Saturday morning. The way she’d slip her hand into his during a TV show. The sound of her laugh carrying through the house. Those are the things that stick. The everyday moments we barely noticed while they were happening—until suddenly, they’re gone. And only then do we realize how sacred those little things really were. I miss my Saturday football bets with my stepdad—something we did almost every Saturday for years. It wasn’t about the money (there wasn’t much of that anyway). It was the rhythm: the calls, the smack talk, the friendly second-guessing of coaches who would never hear us. A ritual stitched together one autumn at a time. This year, I’m starting that ritual with my two grown sons. Different Saturdays, same heartbeat. Scores and spreads, sure—but mostly a reason to show up for each other. To hear their voices. To make the small thing big again. And I miss Scrabble games with my mom—the quiet competitiveness, the eye she’d give me when I “accidentally” used a questionable word. I miss her laugh most of all. That sound was its own benediction over an ordinary evening. Kids grow up too fast. Parents pass away too early. The calendar insists we keep moving. But Corso’s raspy little reminder pushes back: Not so fast, my friend. The Bible names this rhythm Sabbath—a weekly way of saying not so fast. Rest. Breathe. Remember you are more than what you produce. Jesus lived with that same unhurried attention: lilies, sparrows, children, a tax collector in a tree. He didn’t rush past them. He saw them. He made the little moments holy. I think that’s the secret inside Corso’s catchphrase. It interrupts our certainty and our speed. It creates a pocket of time where we can notice again—be it a goofy mascot head or the person sitting across the table. When we slow down, the little things become altars : The phone call that doesn’t have a “point” beyond hearing a familiar voice. The grandchild’s drawing stays on the fridge longer than the calendar says it should. The first sip of coffee before the house wakes up. A well-worn game board and a laugh that fills the room. These aren’t headlines. They’re sacraments of the everyday. And if we’re going too fast, we’ll miss them. Lee Corso’s farewell wasn’t just about football or mascot heads. It was about a life spent showing up, savoring the moment, and never taking himself too seriously. That’s what he gave us, week after week—a reason to laugh, to pause, to notice. And maybe that’s what made his catchphrase feel like a benediction. So maybe that’s the blessing we carry forward: Not so fast, my friend. Not so fast when grief feels like it should be over. Not so fast when joy seems too small to matter. Not so fast when life pushes you to hurry past the wonder of an ordinary day. Slow down. Breathe. Call your people. Place your tiles on the board. Make your silly bets. Laugh in the kitchen. The altar might already be right in front of you.
True confession: when I bartended my way through college, I hated cleaning the frozen margarita machine. Hated it. Sticky, messy, impossible to get right. I used to slip the busboy an extra tip just so he’d clean it for me. Maybe that’s why to this day I still don’t care much for frozen margaritas. But even beyond that, it took me a long time before I’d drink a Margarita at all — even on the rocks. Too many painful memories of the bar. Too many nights when the clink of glasses was covering up loneliness, or when laughter at the counter didn’t quite reach the heart. And then there were the Wednesday nights. At one bar I worked, it was “upside-down margarita night.” Ugh. Messy, noisy, and honestly, kind of humiliating. Tips usually sucked. Maybe that’s part of why the Margarita carried more sting than sweetness for me. So for me, the Margarita isn’t just about refreshment — it’s about redemption. A Margarita on the rocks, with a salted rim and freshly squeezed limes, became something different. Something honest. A reminder that joy can be real, not forced. That sweetness can hold its own, even alongside the sour. That salt doesn’t have to ruin the glass, but can frame it. Because the Margarita isn’t just a party drink — it’s a paradox in a glass. Sweet and sour. Joy and sting. Celebration rimmed with salt. It’s laughter with friends while tears are still fresh. It’s the reminder that life doesn’t come to us neat and tidy, but mixed — with both the ache and the joy in the same moment. I think about that every time I hear the phrase “ Celebration of Life .” That’s what we used to call funerals. And I’ll be honest — I chuckle to myself whenever I read that title. Because the truth is, very few people are celebrating in those moments. There are still plenty of tears, because someone we love is no longer with us. When my mom died, and later my stepdad, in many ways it was a blessing. They had both been sick for a while, and I was grateful their suffering was over. But did I celebrate? No. It was sad in so many ways. There were tears and stories and laughter, yes — but celebration? That word didn’t quite fit. I see it often when I lead funerals. Laughter breaks out as the stories are shared, as we remember the quirks, the good times, the little moments that made someone who they were. And then, just as quickly, the tears come. Because those same memories remind us there’s now an empty seat where they once sat, a silence where their voice used to be. It’s both at once — laughter and tears, sweetness and salt. And maybe that’s what the Margarita reminds us: life is mixed. You can’t sip only the sweet and ignore the sting. You take them together. And when you do, you discover even the salt rimmed around the glass has its place. Isn’t that life? Always both. The good and the bad, the sweet and the sour, the joy and the sadness. And if this were a country bar instead of a cocktail post, this is probably where someone would cue up Garth Brooks. Because he said it best in The Dance : “ I could have missed the pain, but I’d have had to miss the dance .” We don’t get one without the other. The tears prove the love was real. The ache shows us the joy was worth it. Grief, after all, is just love with nowhere to go. Or, as Winnie the Pooh so simply put it: “How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” May the salt on your lips remind you of the tears you’ve shed. May the sweetness on your tongue remind you of the joy that still lingers. May the stories you tell bring both laughter and ache — and may you know that even in the mixture of grief and gratitude, grace has a place at the table. Bar Lore Like many classic drinks, the Margarita’s exact origin is a little blurry. Some say it was first poured in Tijuana in the 1930s. Others claim it was invented for a Dallas socialite named Margarita. Another story points to Juárez in the 1940s. But what most agree on is this: it belongs to the “daisy” family of cocktails — a classic formula of spirit, citrus, and liqueur. In fact, “margarita” is Spanish for “daisy.” From its hazy beginnings, the Margarita grew into a worldwide favorite. Today it’s one of the most popular cocktails in the U.S. — whether served frozen (God help the poor bartender cleaning that machine) or shaken fresh over ice. Recipe: The Margarita 2 oz tequila (blanco or reposado) 1 oz Cointreau (or triple sec) 1 oz fresh lime juice Salt rim (optional, but highly recommended) Shake with ice, strain into a rocks glass with a salted rim. Garnish with lime. Zero-proof option: swap in non-alcoholic tequila and orange liqueur alternatives with fresh lime. A Note of Care: If you’re in recovery, please know this post is never meant to romanticize alcohol or overlook its very real dangers. The sacred can be found in tea, water, coffee, or stillness just as surely as in a cocktail glass. If drinking brings harm rather than healing — to you or to those you love — may you feel zero shame and full freedom to find your altar elsewhere. What matters isn’t what’s in the glass, but what opens your heart.