Lifestyle
Pastor pushed out after parishioners complain about focus on racial justice
Pastor Benjamin Boswell, who was pushed out as the senior minister at Myers Park Baptist Church, is seen Sunday, Jan. 26, in Charlotte, N.C.
Sam Wolfe for NPR
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Sam Wolfe for NPR
CHARLOTTE, N.C. — The Sunday after Donald Trump won a second term, Pastor Ben Boswell took to the pulpit at Myers Park Baptist, a liberal church in Charlotte, and delivered the sort of blunt, provocative sermon for which he is well known.
Boswell likened the moment to what he called the “gathering dark of Hitler’s rule.” He added that Trump’s election would lead to the “crucifixion” of immigrant families as well as transgender and nonbinary people.
“But our faith also teaches us … that every crucifixion needs a witness,” Boswell said. “The fight is not over, it’s just beginning.”
The congregation, including the board of deacons, the church’s governing body, gave Boswell a standing ovation.

Several weeks later, the board met on Zoom. They voted 17-3 to ask Boswell to step down. NPR obtained the audio.
It provides a rare window into the debate within an organization when the tone of its social or political messaging clashes with its business model.
Conversations we rarely hear
Marcy McClanahan, then head of the board, said the first reason Boswell needed to go was plunging attendance. Myers Park had gone from average weekly attendance of about 350 when Boswell arrived in 2016 to about 150 last year.
“Ben has been given every chance to change his words and actions to appeal to a broader audience,” McClanahan said, “but has not been successful in doing so.”
Myers Park Baptist Church has a rich civil rights history and sits in one of Charlotte’s wealthiest neighborhoods.
Sam Wolfe for NPR
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Sam Wolfe for NPR
Fellow Deacon Robert Dulin was more direct.
“We have got to put more butts in the seats, butts in the seats,” he said.
In a statement later, Dulin said he personally loved what he called Boswell’s “powerful prophetic preaching.”
The problem, he said at the meeting, is that too many other parishioners didn’t. Dulin said many people who had left the church in recent years had complained about the 44-year-old pastor’s heavy focus on social and racial justice.
“Indicted because I’m white”
Dulin paraphrased what he said he had heard over and over from those who had quit the parish: “I am tired of being indicted because I am white. I am tired of being banged over the head every week about immigrants and LGBTQ, and I just want to come to church and be encouraged.”
Carol Pearsall, who is 73 and a longtime church member, said she heard the same thing from outgoing parishioners and knew what they meant. “I was ready for less guilt-trip and more love,” said Pearsall, who added that she remains a fan of Boswell’s and never considered leaving.
Asked if the pastor’s removal was an attempt to save Myers Park, she responded: “Absolutely.”

Boswell says the conflict at Myers Park is part of a much bigger national trend to roll back diversity, equity and inclusion programs. He thinks the country is in a pivotal moment, when “that work is coming with a cost, and people are getting tired and backing off.”
Nicholas Rhyne, who grew up in the church and is a Boswell supporter, says the divisions in Myers Park reflect those in the Democratic Party writ large. He’s 30 and says people in his generation came of age during the global financial crisis, climate anxiety and the polarized politics of the past decade, and were excited and inspired by Boswell to make change. Meanwhile, he says, some older members of the congregation prefer to take a slower, more measured approach.
“There’s a group of us who are younger and more passionate and maybe a tad more progressive who are fed up with just being told to wait, don’t worry,” said Rhyne. “There’s definitely a generational divide.”
Nicholas Rhyne, 30, grew up in the church and says he supports former Pastor Ben Boswell. He says the divisions in Myers Park reflect those in the Democratic Party writ large.
Sam Wolfe for NPR
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Sam Wolfe for NPR
“Sacred cows make the best hamburgers”
McClanahan, the former head of the board of deacons, told NPR that Boswell was not pushed out over politics or his preaching. Instead, she said, the church needed to focus more on other areas of its strategic plan, including faith development, the church community and sustainability.
“Ben’s an excellent preacher,” she told NPR, “but there’s more to leading a church than preaching.”
For instance, some say Boswell focused too much on social justice and not enough on tending the flock.
Bob Thomason, a former chairman of the board of deacons, said most or all of the congregation supports social justice. “But for some people, being able to focus on social justice … would be a welcome luxury because they have alcoholic spouses,” he said. “They have children that are addicted. They have cancer. They have these personal needs.”
Thomason, who said he was speaking as a longtime church member, said Boswell wasn’t great at the pastoral part of the job.
“We were basically taking care of ourselves as best we could,” he said.
Boswell disagrees and says he supervised a staffer who was devoted to pastoral care full time.
During his nine years at Myers Park, Boswell says he pushed the church to confront what he called its whiteness. Several years ago at an anti-racism seminar, he said Myers Park needed to change its wedding policy, which had been described as “WASPy,” and decolonize its interior space as part of what he called a “whiteness audit.”
Boswell says he ran into resistance from congregants who, for instance, told him to take down Black Lives Matter signs at the church. Boswell persisted.
“I like to joke [that] churches have sacred cows,” Boswell said during the anti-racism seminar. “Sacred cows make the best hamburgers.”
Myers Park Baptist Church is a mostly white congregation known for its focus on racial and social justice.
Sam Wolfe for NPR
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Sam Wolfe for NPR
Declining attendance and giving
But as people left Myers Park, their contributions left with them. Since 2020, the church budget has shrunk by nearly a quarter, according to McClanahan.
Declining giving and church attendance are a national phenomenon, but some on the board of deacons saw it as an existential threat.
“Ben needs to leave in order for our church to take a different direction and grow because we are dying on the vine,” Dulin told his fellow deacons during the board meeting.
Myers Park is an overwhelmingly white church in a neighborhood where mansions can sell for up to $4 million. It has a proud civil rights history and wears its inclusivity on its red brick walls. One giant sign on the front of the church reads: “80 years of inclusivity, community, spirituality and justice.” Another reads: “Open to all, now and forevermore.”
In the board meeting, then-Deacon Allen Davis warned that getting rid of Boswell would make it difficult to sell that message.
“What will come out is that we’ve snatched the keys from the … minister who had been pushing us to confront whiteness to challenge racial justice in our community,” said Davis, one of three deacons who resigned in protest after the vote.
Allen Davis, who quit as a deacon at Myers Park, says the removal of Pastor Ben Boswell makes it much harder for the church to sell its message of inclusivity.
Sam Wolfe for NPR
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Sam Wolfe for NPR
McClanahan insisted to NPR that the church will continue to advance racial and social justice. “One person’s leaving does not change that path at all,” she said.
“The church betrayed me”
Some congregants are skeptical. Bruce Griffin is a warehouse worker in Charlotte who joined the church more than five years ago. He says Boswell created a wonderful, welcoming community. Now, he’s bitter.

“I feel the church betrayed me,” said Griffin, standing outside the church during a meeting called to address the turmoil over Boswell’s departure. He said the meeting was all business.
“There was no hugging,” he said. “There was no fellowship.”
When asked about the fact that some white congregants said they felt beaten down by Boswell’s continued emphasis on social and racial justice, Griffin responded that as a Black man he felt beaten down every day.
Griffin said he planned to leave Myers Park.
Elizabeth Peterson, on the other hand, said she was attending for the first time in years. She said Boswell divided the church, which she said seemed more focused on people of color and LGBTQ+ folks than on white women in their 60s like her.
“I wished that he could have brought his energy for diversity and for change of the culture of the church and included us to come with him,” said Peterson, who said she might return to Myers Park.
Elizabeth Peterson, a parishioner at Myers Park who drifted away in recent years, says the church seemed more interested in people of color and LGBTQ+ folks than older, white women like her.
Sam Wolfe for NPR
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Sam Wolfe for NPR
Boswell has heard this criticism before. He says when someone has been part of the dominant culture for so long, the focus and attention on anyone who’s been marginalized feels like a slight.
He knows some people think he made a mistake by focusing so much on racial and social justice, but he said he’d do it again.
“My feeling is that as a progressive congregation, as a progressive pastor, our job right now is not to back away,” Boswell said, “but to double down.”
Lifestyle
Mundane, magic, maybe both — a new book explores ‘The Writer’s Room’
There’s a three-story house in Baltimore that looks a bit imposing. You walk up the stone steps before even getting up to the porch, and then you enter the door and you’re greeted with a glass case of literary awards. It’s The Clifton House, formerly home of Lucille Clifton.
The National Book Award-winning poet lived there with her husband, Fred, starting in 1967 until the bank foreclosed on the house in 1980. Clifton’s daughter, Sidney Clifton, has since revived the house and turned it into a cultural hub, hosting artists, readings, workshops and more. But even during a February visit, in the mid-afternoon with no organized events on, the house feels full.
The corner of Lucille Clifton’s bedroom, where she would wake up and write in the mornings
Andrew Limbong/NPR
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Andrew Limbong/NPR
“There’s a presence here,” Clifton House Executive Director Joël Díaz told me. “There’s a presence here that sits at attention.”
Sometimes, rooms where famous writers worked can be places of ineffable magic. Other times, they can just be rooms.
Princeton University Press
Katie da Cunha Lewin is the author of the new book, The Writer’s Room: The Hidden Worlds That Shape the Books We Love, which explores the appeal of these rooms. Lewin is a big Virginia Woolf fan, and the very first place Lewin visited working on the book was Monk’s House — Woolf’s summer home in Sussex, England. On the way there, there were dreams of seeing Woolf’s desk, of retracing Woolf’s steps and imagining what her creative process would feel like. It turned out to be a bit of a disappointment for Lewin — everything interesting was behind glass, she said. Still, in the book Lewin writes about how she took a picture of the room and saved it on her phone, going back to check it and re-check it, “in the hope it would allow me some of its magic.”
Let’s be real, writing is a little boring. Unlike a band on fire in the recording studio, or a painter possessed in their studio, the visual image of a writer sitting at a desk click-clacking away at a keyboard or scribbling on a piece of paper isn’t particularly exciting. And yet, the myth of the writer’s room continues to enrapture us. You can head to Massachusetts to see where Louisa May Alcott wrote Little Women. Or go down to Florida to visit the home of Zora Neale Hurston. Or book a stay at the Scott & Zelda Fitzgerald Museum in Alabama, where the famous couple lived for a time. But what, exactly, is the draw?

Lewin said in an interview that whenever she was at a book event or an author reading, an audience question about the writer’s writing space came up. And yes, some of this is basic fan-driven curiosity. But also “it started to occur to me that it was a central mystery about writing, as if writing is a magic thing that just happens rather than actually labor,” she said.
In a lot of ways, the book is a debunking of the myths we’re presented about writers in their rooms. She writes about the types of writers who couldn’t lock themselves in an office for hours on end, and instead had to find moments in-between to work on their art. She covers the writers who make a big show of their rooms, as a way to seem more writerly. She writes about writers who have had their homes and rooms preserved, versus the ones whose rooms have been lost to time and new real estate developments. The central argument of the book is that there is no magic formula to writing — that there is no daily to-do list to follow, no just-right office chair to buy in order to become a writer. You just have to write.
Lifestyle
Bruce Johnston Retiring From The Beach Boys After 61 Years
Bruce Johnston
I’m Riding My Last Wave With The Beach Boys
Published
Bruce Johnston is riding off into the California sunset … at least for now.
The Beach Boys legend announced Wednesday he’s stepping away from touring after six decades with the iconic band. The 83-year-old revealed in a statement to Rolling Stone he’s hanging up his touring hat to focus on what he calls part three of his long music career.
“It’s time for Part Three of my lengthy musical career!” Johnston said. “I can write songs forever, and wait until you hear what’s coming!!! As my major talent beyond singing is songwriting, now is the time to get serious again.”
Johnston famously stepped in for co-founder Brian Wilson in 1965 for live performances, becoming a staple of the Beach Boys’ touring lineup ever since. Now, he says he’s shifting gears toward songwriting and even some speaking engagements … with occasional touring member John Stamos helping him craft what he’ll talk about onstage.
“I might even sing ‘Disney Girls’ & ‘I Write The Songs!!’” he teased.
But don’t call it a full-on farewell tour just yet. Johnston made it clear he’s not shutting the door completely, saying he’s excited to reunite with the band for special occasions, including their upcoming July 2-4 shows at the Hollywood Bowl as part of the Beach Boys’ 2026 tour. The run celebrates both the 60th anniversary of “Pet Sounds” and America’s 250th birthday.
“This isn’t goodbye, it’s see you soon,” he wrote. “I am forever grateful to be a part of the Beach Boys musical legacy.”
Lifestyle
On the brink of death, a woman is saved by a stranger and his family
In 1982, Jean Muenchrath was injured in a mountaineering accident and on the brink of death when a stranger and his family went out of their way to save her life.
Jean Muenchrath
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Jean Muenchrath
In early May 1982, Jean Muenchrath and her boyfriend set out on a mountaineering trip in the Sierra Nevada, a mountain range in California. They had done many backcountry trips in the area before, so the terrain was somewhat familiar to both of them. But after they reached one of the summits, a violent storm swept in. It began to snow heavily, and soon the pair was engulfed in a blizzard, with thunder and lightning reverberating around them.
“Getting struck and killed by lightning was a real possibility since we were the highest thing around for miles and lightning was striking all around us,” Muenchrath said.
To reach safer ground, they decided to abandon their plan of taking a trail back. Instead, using their ice axes, they climbed down the face of the mountain through steep and icy snow chutes.
They were both skilled at this type of descent, but at one particularly difficult part of the route, Muenchrath slipped and tumbled over 100 feet down the rocky mountain face. She barely survived the fall and suffered life-threatening injuries.

This was before cellular or satellite phones, so calling for help wasn’t an option. The couple was forced to hike through deep snow back to the trailhead. Once they arrived, Muenchrath collapsed in the parking lot. It had been five days since she’d fallen.
”My clothes were bloody. I had multiple fractures in my spine and pelvis, a head injury and gangrene from a deep wound,” Muenchrath said.
Not long after they reached the trailhead parking lot, a car pulled in. A man was driving, with his wife in the passenger seat and their baby in the back. As soon as the man saw Muenchrath’s condition, he ran over to help.
”He gently stroked my head, and he held my face [and] reassured me by saying something like, ‘You’re going to be OK now. I’ll be right back to get you,’” Muenchrath remembered.
For the first time in days, her panic began to lift.
“My unsung hero gave me hope that I’d reach a hospital and I’d survive. He took away my fears.”
Within a few minutes, the man had unpacked his car. His wife agreed to stay back in the parking lot with their baby in order to make room for Muenchrath, her boyfriend and their backpacks.
The man drove them to a nearby town so that the couple could get medical treatment.
“I remember looking into the eyes of my unsung hero as he carried me into the emergency room in Lone Pine, California. I was so weak, I couldn’t find the words to express the gratitude I felt in my heart.”

The gratitude she felt that day only grew. Now, nearly 45 years later, she still thinks about the man and his family.
”He gave me the gift of allowing me to live my life and my dreams,” Muenchrath said.
At some point along the way, the man gave Muenchrath his contact information. But in the chaos of the day, she lost it and has never been able to find him.
”If I knew where my unsung hero was today, I would fly across the country to meet him again. I’d hug him, buy him a meal and tell him how much he continues to mean to me by saving my life. Wherever you are, I say thank you from the depths of my being.”
My Unsung Hero is also a podcast — new episodes are released every Tuesday. To share the story of your unsung hero with the Hidden Brain team, record a voice memo on your phone and send it to myunsunghero@hiddenbrain.org.
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