The 24 Rhythms of Hearth & Hinterland: Live Incarnationally
Words on living a faith that is rooted in right practice & presence instead of right thought & theology.
And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us…
(John 1:14)
We like our theology clean.
Neat lines. Quiet footnotes. Verses underlined in different colored pastel highlighters. Cross-referenced commentaries. Verses curated for Instagram posts with framed candles and praying hands.
But the Word wasn’t recorded on ink and paper to be debated and systematized.
It became flesh.
It got dust between its toes. It bled on cedar beams. It was spat on and laughed at and laid to rest in a tomb that didn’t belong to it only to rise to people who didn’t recognize him.
Incarnational living is what happens when theology breaks its bones, wipes the blood off its knuckles, brushes off its knees, and keeps walking anyway.
The Word was never a doctrine. It was, and is, a human body.
The Word Must Move In
In the old language, John’s Gospel says the Word came and tabernacled among us.
He set up a tent in the wilderness. He moved into the neighborhood.
Celtic Christians called this theological idea, thin places. The idea that Christ didn’t just visit earth, he infused it with presence. The veil between heaven and earth got thinner the moment a baby wailed from a borrowed feeding trough.
Our Eastern Orthodox brothers and sisters teach us of theosis—God becoming human so that humanity might become god. Not in might or pride, but in radiant union. Not by leaving our bodies, but by learning to live fully inside them. It’s where John Wesley formed the idea of sanctification—something I call theosis light.
And the Anabaptists, they were persecuted because they kept trying to make the Church visible not in buildings, but in people.
Lived faith. Local witness.
Small communities who didn’t just talk about Jesus—they resembled Him.
Embodied Truth in a Bruised World
I think there’s a dynamic difference between knowing scripture, even believing scripture with your mind, and embodying it.
You can be convinced of Jesus and still be contained. You can believe in healing and still cross the street when someone’s bleeding. You can preach forgiveness and still hoard your grudges like a 100 year old scotch. You can know a hundred names for Jesus and never say his name with your life.
But if you live incarnationally, your theology shows up in your body.
In how you treat the woman crying in the Kroger parking lot because her card was declined.In how you handle the zoning meeting at the courthouse when a halfway house is approved in your neighborhood.In whether or not your dinner table ever has an extra chair at it when you’re having steak.In the way you treat the person you silently believe has the least chance of entering the Kingdom of God because of your worldview.
If Christ is alive in you …
Your neighborhood should feel it. Your workplace should feel it. Your children should know the taste of it in how you approach them at their most frustrating. Your enemies should know it by the way you don’t flinch from their name and story. Your table should echo the Upper Room where bread is broken, sinners are seated, and betrayers are met with grace and hospitality.
Not Universal Truths. Local Practice & Presence.
Lived faith doesn’t follow templates. It follows footsteps. But still, we keep looking for universal formulas.
The “biblical” model of sexuality and marriage.
The “right” way to do church and life.
The “real” politics and cultural positions of true Christians.
But Jesus never taught in universal models. He taught in parables. He didn’t hand out clear blueprints. He told stories rooted in fields, fishermen, yeast, vineyards, and mustard seeds. He didn’t start a global campaign. He healed whoever was right in front of Him.
And He never traveled more than about one hundred miles from the place he was planted.
Incarnational living demands a contextual theology and leadership model. Truth isn’t truth if it’s divorced from the place it’s meant to heal.
The widow on fixed income doesn’t need a lecture on stewardship—she needs her light bill paid and food in her cupboards.
The former addict in recovery doesn’t need a purity pledge—he needs someone to walk beside him at the Dollar General when the shame gets loud. The kid with a dead father doesn’t need a seminar on heavenly adoption, he needs someone to show up at his ballgame.
Jesus didn’t wait for people to come to the temple. He walked their roads. He asked for their water. He sat at their tables and blessed their crumbs. Incarnational living means we do the same.
Incarnation is Mutual
One of the mysteries of the Incarnation is that Jesus wasn’t just “God in a man-suit.”
He learned obedience (Hebrews 5:8). He grew in wisdom (Luke 2:52).
He wept, bled, ached, and hungered. He allowed Himself to be shaped by the people He came to save. He asked questions. He listened. He waited.
To live incarnationally is not to show up as the expert with the answers. It is never shaped by humans with a savior complex. It’s to be formed by the needs of the land and people you serve.
It’s why monks in the Celtic tradition would make vows to their particular village, to anchor themselves to a place—not as overlords, but as kin.
It’s why Orthodox icons don’t just depict Christ—they are meant to become windows to Christ, infusing even painted wood with presence and memory.
And it’s why, in the Anabaptist way, your neighbors, not your seminary degree, ought to be the ones who call you a pastor—it is a rank earned, not bestowed.
The Risk of Real Proximity
Here’s the trouble. Once you start living this way, you’re going to get hurt. It’s inevitable.
You’ll get your hands dirty, and your heart broken.
You’ll stand up for someone or something and lose friends over it.
You’ll make meals for people who never say thank you and don’t return your casserole dish.
You’ll give your hard earned money to someone and they’ll waste it on harmful things.
You’ll have to repent in public when you get it wrong, but no one else will.
But Christ didn’t just become flesh. He suffered in the flesh. And somehow, by His wounds, we are healed.
So don’t be afraid of the wounds, brothers and sisters. Don’t be afraid to bleed a little for the place you’re in. You aren’t meant to stay sterile and safe anyway. You’re meant to become a living altar in the middle of the field.
Presence Over Performance
The world doesn’t need more flashy sermons. It needs more present people.
It needs people who show up when the crops fail. It needs people who know how to sit in silence when grief comes. It needs people who take PTO when floods ravage their community.
It needs eople who don’t run from tension, but walk toward it like Christ walked toward Jerusalem, knowing it would cost Him, and going anyway.
Your life preaches louder than your words ever will. And your body—your actual body—is the place where that sermon will live or die.
How to Begin
Start small.
Incarnational living doesn’t begin with a ministry plan—it begins with breakfast. Walk your street with intention. Know the names of your neighbors and forgotten alleys. Say grace out loud at the table, even at Taco Bell. Show up late to Bible study if it means walking your neighbor home. Spend your tithe at Dollar General if that’s what love demands that day.
Bless the land. Speak peace to your block. Write a psalm for your town.
Let the Word become you in such a way that someone might say, “I never picked up a Bible, but I feel like I’ve met this Jesus you speak of already.”
Let the Word Take You Over
The Incarnation wasn’t a one-time event. It’s an ongoing miracle.
It’s what happens when you quit trying to “apply” scripture and start living it.It’s when right practice sets the agenda for right belief and not the other way around.It’s when your life smells like Jesus.It’s your faith becoming feral mercy.
Your place is waiting.Your people are watching.
And the Word still wants to become flesh.So hand it over. If the Holy Spirit wants a body, let it be yours.