Barefoot Trails

“The Kingdom of God defies any and all worldly standards” – whether a follower of Christ believes this statement or not can be seen by the way they deal with prestige, success, and influence. (This article was originally published in the German magazine Aufatmen in May 2026).

We were tired. Disappointed and uncertain—but above all, tired. Decades of professional Christian ministry—four years in missions in India, leading Bible schools in India and Switzerland, and working with international church leaders—had led us into spiritual exhaustion.

Our Christian journey had followed a radical, but presumably not unusual, pattern: conversion, enthusiasm, commitment (for me, to an evangelical-charismatic Bible school in Colorado, where I also met my husband). This was followed by a courageous step as newlyweds into a “life of ministry,” in our case, mission work in India. A work that was successful, that showed results—but that also raised the question of what criteria we were actually using to measure “success.”

Such questions don’t get any smaller the more black-and-white your thinking becomes. Over the years, we began to question the term “successful Christianity”, a path that ultimately led us away from missionary work and toward the realization that neither a dogmatically narrow nor a materialistically pragmatic Christianity can withstand the hardships, questions, and contradictions of real life.

And so we changed the trajectory of our spiritual lives. Many factors played a role in our decision—not the least the unease we felt in our role as “professional Christians.” Another factor was the unspoken expectation that we were to report and talk about successes and growth—when what we felt most at home with were unanswered questions and unorthodox ideas.

“A Different Kind of Map”

In the TV series “The Chosen,” there is a fictional dialogue between Matthew and Jesus as he prepares for the Sermon on the Mount. “I want to create the kind of map that shows how people can find their way to me,” Jesus reveals, and dictates to Matthew the famous words of a kingdom that resembles an inverted pyramid—the poor receive heaven, the meek the inheritance, the hungry the bread. He paints a picture of a society that was as unfamiliar to Matthew as it is to us today. Accordingly, the disciple wonders: “How is that a roadmap to you?” And Jesus answers: “If anyone wants to find me, they must surround themselves with people who live this way.” A life according to the principles of the Sermon on the Mount—that’s not only difficult, but seems diametrically opposed to the model of success, growth, and persuasiveness to which a growing number of theological movements have committed themselves to.

In the Southern U.S., where we lived for nearly ten years after returning from the mission field, we’ve been observing the rise of such theologies for years. They seek to slow the secularization of society using the exact same means of that society. They buy political influence, preach a “us versus them” philosophy and promote a religious war rhetoric exactly opposing the Sermon on the Mount. This development hasn’t spared Europe either. For our family, it became so toxic that over the years we gradually distanced ourselves from Bible school, our work, and the evangelical community as a whole.

But not from Jesus. For the map that Jesus proposes—quiet, elusive, and hard to put into practice—is worth the journey. The more we turned away from the loud rhetoric of militant Christians, the more grateful we became of communities in which we encountered mercy, peacefulness, and the power of weakness.

The reluctancy to embrace weakness becomes evident, for example, in how quickly some congregations rush from Good Friday to Easter Sunday. In their theology, the cross is a necessary evil to get to the actual message, that of Jesus’ victory. They love to imagine Jesus, cleansed and with his enemies under his feet, reigning at the right hand of God. The cross an unpleasant memory slowly fading.

Yet from the Church Fathers of Catholic and Orthodox traditions we learn that the cross was by no means a detour to the goal. The American author and pastor Brian Zahnd says: “Christ does not reign by overcoming the cross—Christ reigns from the cross.” Christ didn’t allow a short time of weakness, like a disguise, so that he could later reign with all the more strength. Rather, he has shown us how true strength reigns from the cross, in compassion and love for your neighbor, in indignation toward injustice, and in mercy toward the weak.

Barefoot Role Models

I personally experienced this in encounters with people who are living out the map of the Sermon on the Mount in their own lives. William Paul Young, the author of The Shack, for example. He taught me that God doesn’t want to just heal us so we can serve him more fully and build his kingdom. Young rather believes it is God’s intention to invite us to play. To be children. To be carefree, without an agenda, and with exuberant joy.

It’s also an invitation to discover the sacred ground of other people’s stories. It’s a place where I have no task to complete, no one to convince or recruit, and instead am allowed to encounter the one in front of me, walk alongside them and empathize with them. Instead of the military boots of God’s army, I get to walk barefoot, like Moses did, treading gently on the sacred ground of another person’s story. Feeling their pain, hearing their questions, understanding their doubts, and truly seeing them. I do not try to solve problems, but to be present. And through this presence, quietly and unobtrusively, God weaves a tapestry of His grace even in the most unspectacular encounters.

Another role model for me is Rachel Held Evans, who speaks of “Epic Failures.” Evans invites us to show our most unsuccessful side—because not only does this make us more approachable, but shows those around us that failure doesn’t disqualify from following Christ. Those of us whose daily business involves being a Christian often seem to find this invitation particularly difficult.

“My grace is sufficient for you. My strength is made perfect in your weakness.” For many years, I understood these words from 2 Corinthians 12:9 to mean that admitting my own inadequacy clears the stage for God’s mighty deeds. Yet this perspective also assumes that what is to be sought is strength and success—now no longer through ourselves, but through God instead.

But what if strength isn’t the goal at all? What if the fruit of our lives lies not in overcoming weakness, but in recognizing its value? What if God isn’t interested in successful people, but rather in those through whose weakness and inadequacy he can reveal his heart to us? What if his words to us are:

Blessed are they which have no answers, for answers were never the goal.

Blessed are they which weep before me, for I meet them deeply in their pain.

Blessed are they which let the loud ones have the last word, for their unspoken words are precious to me.

Blessed are they which find themselves longing for a better world, for I myself have placed this longing in their hearts.

Blessed are they which would rather be defeated than resort to violence. Their cross stands upright beside mine.

Blessed are they which have learned to hold the things of the world with open hands. Their trust and their humility are precious in my eyes.

Seeing the Whole Picture

A personal example of such a “theology of mercy” again has to do with the author Paul Young. I had met him through mutual friends and attended various events where we got to know each other better. These encounters birthed a very personal written correspondence between us in which we exchanged thoughts on loss, pain, and the hope that sustains us.

Over time, I realized I wanted Paul not only to know the person I am today—the author, blogger, mother, wife, and all the roles I fill in my life—I wanted him to see me during the most difficult time of my life: at fifteen. Navigating my parents’ recent divorce, and feeling insecure and uncomfortable in my own body and with every aspect of my teenage life. I hadn’t looked at a picture of myself from that time in years. Shoved that time into the bottom drawer, cleaned up my act, and grew up.

But my deepest wish was to be seen in my weakness and vulnerability. I wanted the people who matter to me to see not just the Judith who’s got it under control now, but also the one who is still driven by insecurity and the need for affection. So I attached the—to my eyes—most embarrassing, ugliest picture from my teenage years to my next email to Paul, introducing him to the 15-year-old Judith who still lives inside of me so he could get to know “both of us.”

Living from our weakness opens the space for the overwhelming beauty of imperfection. The Kingdom of God is exactly like that: an upside-down pyramid of trusting surrender, unconditional acceptance, and merciful love that makes absolutely no sense in this world.

Although it repeatedly eludes our understanding, we are invited to embrace this mystery and let ourselves be swept away by it. Not only in moments of special closeness to God, but in everyday life: in pictures from our toughest teenage years, in the carefree days of childhood, in understanding the stories of those around us, in accepting our own inadequacy.

I’m invited to shape this trail map by taking off my military boots and walking barefoot toward mercy.

To see the original German version of this article, visit www.aufatmen.de