I just returned from a marathon trip to seven cities, meeting with leaders across industries and sectors — from grassroots advocates to executive directors. While contexts varied, a common thread emerged: exhaustion, burnout and quiet gloom about the future.
In every room, I heard the same refrain:
“We’re stretched too thin.”
“The uncertainty feels endless.”
“It’s hard to plan, let alone dream.”
Most troubling: Many leaders no longer feel they have permission — or capacity —to play, to imagine. They feel stuck in survival mode.
It’s understandable. We are living in a time of polycrisis — a tangle of social, cultural, spiritual, ecological and economic pressures. It all feels too fast to track and too big to solve. These come wrapped in polarities of urgency and inertia, growth and grief. Leaders are asked to hold it all.
At New Generation3 (NG3), we haven’t been immune. Earlier this year, I noticed similar signs in our team — waning creativity, fatigue, fear for our well-being, the impact of lost funding and targeted attacks on our community. We were so busy putting out fires that we drifted from one of our core values: we give from overflow, not from scarcity.
Our team is deeply aware that we are called to sacred work that affects lives. We can’t afford to do it without the right mindset, spiritual grounding, team unity and holistic well-being. So we did what we often coach others to do — we paused. We came together to think through how to get ourselves unstuck, reconnect with one another, expand our perspectives and remember the future we are shaping.
We pivoted — drawing from our grounding in research, theology, culture and leadership frameworks. In that process, the Spirit reminded us in the face of despair and injustice, leaders must play and celebrate.
Most of us at NG3 have roots in Latin American and Indigenous cultures. Shaped by histories of colonization, we’ve become experts at joyful, playful resistance. In our communities, it’s common to poke fun at misfortune, throw parties amid chaos, and hold feasts from nearly empty pantries. This isn’t idiosyncratic — it’s communal theology and ancestral wisdom in motion. Joy doesn’t ignore pain; it metabolizes it. It reclaims time, space and dignity through celebration.
Liberation and decolonial theologies remind us that joy and play are not optional — they are defiant acts of dignity. As Brazilian theologian Rubem Alves wrote, “What is joy if not resistance to death?” These practices don’t distract from leadership; they deepen it, keeping us human, humble and anchored in hope. As Christians, we’re called into that rhythm: a people not only of fasts, but of feasts.
When we create, laugh, dance and eat together — especially in times of crisis —we’re not being frivolous. We are proclaiming that the Spirit is still moving, still liberating, still raising up dry bones (Ezekiel 37:1-14).
Scripture invites us into this rhythm. We are people of celebration — called to remember, rejoice and hope. From feasts to dancing before the Lord, the Bible is full of joy amid suffering. Psalm 30 promises that “Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning.” Meanwhile Isaiah envisions a feast of rich food, of well-aged wine, where God wipes away every tear (Isaiah 25:6-8).
