Dear Substack Community,
We are living in a clarifying moment—a moment that calls us not to escape, but to turn toward one another with care. Every unsubscribe and every new subscription is part of the story we are telling together. Thank you for staying curious. Thank you for choosing to lean in. What we are building here is not just a newsletter—it is a rebellion of care, a poetics of becoming, a trace of another possible world.
Each Saturday, I write from a place of freedom. Not from polish, not from performance. Just presence. These letters are not content—they are communion. They are my effort to be honest in a world obsessed with spectacle. They are stitched with a belief that story can still be sacred.
Some say I give too much away. But I believe that what we give freely has the power to reweave the torn fabric of our collective lives. While there is no ethical consumption under capitalism, your support—your proverbial cup of coffee—lets me live into an economy rooted not in extraction, but in mutuality.
If you’re new here, welcome. Since arriving in rural New York, I’ve been emerging slowly. After the whirlwind of 2023, I took time in 2024 to rest, organize, and root. That rooting is starting to bear fruit.
Brian and I are preparing to launch The Unfinished Ascent podcast this fall—an invitation into theological depth, wonder, and collective meaning-making. Stay tuned also for The Unfinished Feast, a project shaped by storytelling, table fellowship, and the wisdom of shared longing. We’re still working our way through the whiskey list at the local bar, testing bridges of belonging in a world thirsty for repair.
This morning, Brian texted me: “What do you think about the new Pope?” I laughed—usually I’m the one asking theological questions, but he beat me to it. So this one’s for you, Brian.
(Also—let it be known—librarians and trans women are saving my life these days.)
Like many of you, I’m curious about the new Pope’s upcoming encyclical on Labor and the Poor. I’m the kind of nerd who reads encyclicals not for piety, but for power: I want to know what’s shaping the soul of empire. Because, let’s be clear: American religion has largely become an expression of empire logic—hoarding, hierarchy, and harm.
4,500 churches closed last year. That’s 13 a day. What if the Pope called churches not to cling tighter, but to divest? To let go of property and power and return to the people? What if the church joined the labor movement, not as moral police, but as kinfolk in the wisdom economy?
My friend and agent, Cathleen Falsani, will be covering the Papal events for the Chicago Sun-Times. A White Sox fan covering a Pope who also loves the Sox? There’s poetry in that. Awe, even. Awe that attends to the underside of history. Awe that, according to studies at UC Berkeley and UCLA, has the power to expand moral awareness, heighten humility, and bind us across difference.
We need awe. We need leaders who understand wonder is not weakness—it is a gateway to wisdom.
Right now, I don’t see many moral leaders. I see a lot of people undermining democracy in both subtle and spectacular ways. But I also see people waking up. People refusing to perform status quo. People choosing care. Choosing curiosity. Choosing life.
As Gloria Anzaldúa reminds us: I change myself, I change the world. The Jewish call to Tikkun Olam—repairing the world—begins with self. Jesus spent 91% of his life simply being: eating, walking, resting, listening. Only 9% in doing. What if that’s the blueprint? What if being is our greatest form of resistance?
This week in the Counting of the Omer, we focus on foundation in endurance. It has me asking: what are the foundations beneath my feet? What systems am I entangled with that do not let me thrive? What relationships nourish my roots?
After years on the road, after violence and upheaval, I finally have stable housing. I finally have space to discern. My nervous system is recovering. I am unfurling.
And this land—this land is alive. The forests of New York take me back to my earliest memories in East Texas: pine trees, soft soil, spring’s gentle whisper. Not nostalgia. Wonder. Not sentimentality. Sacredness.
One day last year, I stopped to rest while walking a steep hill. A woman approached, gently offering me water. She shared her own story of vulnerability, and in that moment, two strangers became kin. There is still social trust in this world. There is still goodness. I see it every time a lifelong atheist reaches out to build community.
I’m committed to a world beyond religion and empire. My friend Kirsten Bombdiggity is making me shirts that say: no religion; just community. That’s the work. Repairing ourselves. Repairing the world. Practicing sacred resistance at the edges of empire.
In the coming weeks, you’ll notice a few changes to this Substack. Josh Gilbert is producing a series of “Conversations”—the first with Ryan Cagle, and the second with a New Testament scholar unpacking the Book of Revelation. These will be free for two weeks, then archived for subscribers. If you’re curious, stay with us. If you’re moved, join us.
Because in the end, this isn’t just a newsletter. It’s a rebellion of care. A small thread in a much larger tapestry. A place to practice awe in the face of erasure. And a place to remind ourselves:
We are still becoming.
And we are not alone.
With wonder and resolve,
Roberto Che Espinoza+
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