Hi! I’m Meghan.

Thanks for stopping by, and welcome to Planting Sycamore Trees. Feel free to pull up a chair, grab a cosy mug of your favorite tasty beverage, and join me in my own little corner of this space; it’s not much, but I pray it always bids you welcome and reminds you to take a breath and lean into whatever in your being is beckoning you to turn your attention toward.

Let’s see, a few things I should share… oh yes, on the title!

Many years ago, I found an article about two great theologians at the SBL (Society of Biblical Literature) Conference in 2011. The article detailed a powerful moment at the gathering, stemming from Craig Bartholomew’s morning quiet time in the Gospel of Luke. The time came for Bartholomew to teach, but before he started, he stood and sadly shared that he was deeply lamenting the similarities he saw between modern-day theologians and the crowds in the story of Zacchaeus; both operating in a way that blatantly obstructed others from gaining a clear view of Jesus. Whoa. The room was hushed, the moment a holy admonition.

After he spoke, N.T. Wright rose to walk up to the podium for his session. But before he taught, he added a follow-up comment that has now shaped the way I articulate my vocational calling: that a theologian and minister’s true role ought not to block others, but instead help plant more sycamore trees so that other folks may actively climb and see Jesus for themselves.

I believe that the desire to “plant sycamore trees” has always been with me, starting with an early love I had of the story of God as a little girl. This love for stories has driven my life; the telling of quests & castles & terrors I did with childhood friends in the Northwoods of Minnesota has morphed into the work of trying to story-tell the goodness of God amidst the current questions & sorrows & kingdoms of our day. For me, story is how we make sense of all that is and all that we are and can be; it is our birthright… and one of the only ways then in which we can pick up our shovels and get to work.

But doing work with story and words is a daunting thing that will surely be my life-long task: beholding them, wrestling with them, being humbled by them, and learning how to dance with them in a way that allows the beauty that we all intrinsically know in our bones to be more clearly seen, understood, felt, known.

So I write because I do not know how to live without this way of being in the world. I write because I am a slow learner, and the Maker of words is ever so patient with me through this discipline and practice. I write because the act allows me to encounter the Love of God in ways few other places will provide. I write because I ache for a world where the mystery of Love and what it requires is a collective comfort rather than an avoidant fear. I write because for me, it is as needed as the breath that fills my lungs.

You can read more about me here, but just know that I’m so grateful to do the hard work of *attempting* to paint with words the goodness of God’s Cosmos and what was intended for it — all while learning from so many others of you who are brilliantly doing those very things here, too.

So cheers to doing this writing work together; it is all gift.

Be well,