Somewhere along the way, a lot of Christians learned to be afraid of the future. Not just uncertain about it — afraid of it.

Afraid of the end. Afraid of the return of Jesus. Afraid of getting the timeline wrong. Afraid of being left out, left behind, exposed, surprised, judged, or caught spiritually unprepared because we had one ordinary human day at exactly the wrong time.

For some of us, the future was preached less like good news and more like a threat. It became a way to scare people into decisions, a way to make children anxious, a way to keep believers tense, a way to turn hope into a chart, a warning, an argument, or a religious weather report where everything was always getting worse.

I do not want to make light of that. Religious fear can get into the nervous system. It can linger long after the sermon series is over and the prophecy conference banners have been put away.

But when Paul writes to the Thessalonian church about death, grief, the return of Jesus, and the future of the world, his tone is not panic. It is comfort. That matters.

The church in Thessalonica was rattled. Someone had died. Maybe more than one person. These were new believers, still young in faith, still learning how to make sense of life and loss in light of Jesus.

So Paul writes to them, not so they will stop grieving, but so they will not grieve as people who have no hope.

That is such a tender distinction. He does not say, “Do not grieve.” He does not tell them tears are a sign of weak faith. He does not shame them for feeling the ache of death. He does not hand them a doctrine and ask them to become emotionally impressive by Tuesday. He gives them hope.

Grief is permitted. Tears are assumed.

The shape of grief changes because death no longer gets to tell the whole story. That may be one of the most healing things Christian hope can say: you can have wet eyes and steady feet. You can tell the truth about loss and still believe love is not wasted. You can ache and still hope. You can stand at a grave and refuse to call the grave final.

In the old language of the church, the burial place became a cemetery, a sleeping place. That does not make death cute or harmless. Jesus did not pretend death was gentle. Jesus faced death at full strength. But because of the promise of resurrection, Christians learned to speak of death differently.

This is the part I wish more of us had inherited: not speculation as the center of Christian imagination, not fear as the engine of obedience, not arguments over timelines as the proof of seriousness.

Hope.

Paul does not seem interested in giving the Thessalonians a complete tour of the afterlife. He does not answer every question. He does not satisfy every curiosity. He does not give them a map detailed enough to keep religious debates running for centuries, though we have certainly done our best to help him out.

He keeps bringing them back to a person. We will be with the Lord. That is the comfort.

Not that we understand every detail. Not that we can predict every moment. Not that we have mastered the future. Simply, that we will be with the Lord.

And if that is true, then the future is not finally a trap. It is not finally a threat. It is not finally the collapse of everything good. It is the arrival of the One who has already entered death and come out the other side carrying life.

That does not mean we become naive about the world. Paul is not telling people to drift off, numb out, or pretend everything is fine. He talks about wakefulness. Sobriety. Faith. Love. The hope of salvation. But this is important: the opposite of end-times panic is not apathy. It is wakeful, sober, hopeful love.

People of hope do not have to live at a frantic pace. We can pay attention without being consumed. We can grieve without surrendering to despair. We can resist the false promises of empire, power, and control without needing to become cynical. We can live as children of light in a world that keeps trying to sell darkness as wisdom.

I wonder how many people have rejected Christianity not because it was too hopeful, but because it did not sound hopeful, because they heard a version of faith that seemed pessimistic, suspicious, anxious, angry, or obsessed with being right about everything going wrong.

What if Christian witness sounded more like hope? Not sugary optimism. Not denial. Not the refusal to grieve. Not a soft-focus spirituality that cannot face suffering.

Real hope — the kind that can stand in the dark and still say, “This is not the whole story.” The kind that can tell the truth about death and still believe resurrection. The kind that can look toward the future without flinching because the future belongs to Jesus. The kind that makes us more tender, not more argumentative. The kind that helps us love this world more faithfully because we believe God has not abandoned it.

That kind of hope is compelling. It steadies people. It makes room for grief. It softens fear. It helps faith sound like good news again.

Maybe that is what some of us need to recover. Not certainty about every detail. Not a louder opinion. Hope.

Hope for our beloved dead. Hope for our tired bodies. Hope for a world that groans. Hope for people who have heard too much fear and not enough gospel. Hope because Jesus died and rose again. Hope because the future is not empty. Hope because the end of the story is not panic, but presence.

If this reflection met you in a place where faith, fear, and hope are all tangled together, I keep a short Amazon list of books on prayer, meditation, and spiritual disciplines that may be worth exploring: Prayer, Meditation, and Spiritual Disciplines.

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash.

A church I worked with had a good process for connecting new people. Someone filled out a card, the card went to the office, the office passed it to a small group coordinator, and the coordinator made contact.

Four steps. All assigned. All working.

They just could not tell me where the process was written down.

It lived in three people’s heads, and it had lived there for six years, and it worked because those three people talked to each other every Tuesday.

That process works for thousands of organizations quite well, until someone moves away.

Nothing about that was a failure of care. It was a communication breakdown.

One of the mistakes we make is treating communication like a department.

In reality, the website is communication. The email is communication. The meeting, the sermon, the announcement, the follow-up, the form, the hallway conversation, the ad, the staff memo, the volunteer handoff, the welcome process, the giving page, the music, the signage, the tone of a reply, and the way a leader explains a decision are all communication.

Not because everything is marketing.

Because everything communicates.

That distinction matters. When I talk about communication, I am not mainly talking about pushing a brand harder, chasing attention, gaming algorithms, or making a church, nonprofit, or business sound slicker than it really is.

I am talking about something much older and more basic. Leadership has always required communication. Mission has always required communication. If people cannot understand what is happening, why it matters, and what they are being invited to do next, then the work gets heavier than it needs to be.

Communication is how clarity travels.

And the breakdowns rarely look like communication breakdowns at first.

For churches, it shows up in the gap between Sunday’s announcement and Wednesday’s confusion. The event was mentioned, but nobody knew where to register. The care request moved through three sets of hands before anyone was sure whose job it was. The sermon invited people toward a next step, but the pathway was not clear enough for anyone to take it.

For nonprofits, it shows up when the mission is compelling but the donor journey is vague. People care, but they do not know what giving accomplishes. Volunteers are interested, but the next step feels hidden. Supporters hear stories, but no one ever closes the loop with gratitude and impact.

For small businesses, it shows up when the service is strong but the public explanation is muddy. Prospects are interested, but the offer is hard to understand. Leads arrive, but follow-up depends on memory. The website says one thing, the email says another, and the real process lives in someone’s head.

The problem is rarely just the words. It is the whole path.

This is why a website project so often becomes a much deeper conversation than anyone expected. We start with pages, navigation, photos, and calls to action. Pretty soon we are talking about mission, workflow, ownership, trust, and follow-up.

The site did not create those questions. It revealed them.

Here is one place to start: pick something your church or organization said publicly in the last month. An announcement, an invitation, an appeal, a next step from a sermon, a form on the site. Then trace what happened after somebody responded to it.

Where did their response go? Who received it? What did they do with it? Where does the path get fuzzy?

Walk it anyway.

You will almost always find one handoff that never quite got assigned to anybody. That is a good day. Unassigned handoffs are the cheapest thing in the world to fix once you can see them.

I wrote the fuller version at BrandonAcox.com for leaders, pastors, communicators, and mission-driven teams trying to make the work clearer.

Read the full article

There is a kind of hope that looks impressive from a distance.

It is loud.

It is confident.

It knows what is going to happen next and exactly how everything will work out.

I have known that kind of hope before. I have preached it, quoted it, sung it, posted it, and tried very hard to feel it on command.

And sometimes, by the grace of God, I have actually had it.

But that is not the only kind of hope.

There is also a quieter kind.

The kind that does not feel especially confident. The kind that does not have a five-year plan. The kind that cannot explain the whole map, defend every mystery, or make the facts hurt less.

It is the kind of hope that simply says, “I am still here.”

Still breathing.

Still listening.

Still willing to do the next loving thing.

Still refusing to become hard just because life has been heavy.

That counts.

I think some of us are tempted to disqualify our hope because it does not feel strong enough. We assume that if we were really hopeful, we would feel lighter, brighter, clearer, more visibly upbeat.

But sometimes hope is not brightness.

Sometimes hope is the decision not to let darkness have the final word in your interior life.

Sometimes hope is telling the truth without letting the truth make you cruel.

Sometimes hope is taking a nap, answering one message, making one apology, drinking some water, stepping outside, or whispering one honest prayer that is not polished enough for anyone else to hear.

Sometimes hope is not the ability to say, “Everything is fine.”

Sometimes it is the courage to say, “Everything is not fine, but I am not giving up on love.”

I have written before about being stubbornly hopeful, and I still believe in that phrase. But stubborn hope is not the same thing as forced cheerfulness. It is not a refusal to grieve. It is not spiritual denial wearing nicer shoes.

Hope makes room for lament.

Hope can tell the truth.

Hope can sit in silence.

Hope can admit that the news is exhausting, the future is unclear, the relationship is strained, the body is tired, the church is complicated, and the heart is more fragile than we wanted it to be.

And then hope can still ask, “What is the next faithful thing?”

Not the next impressive thing.

Not the next world-saving thing.

Not the next thing that proves we are fine.

Just the next faithful thing.

That may be all the light we get for today.

I am learning to receive that as mercy.

I would prefer the whole map. I would prefer a guarantee. I would prefer a clear sense that all of this is going somewhere beautiful and that every ache will soon be tied neatly into a paragraph I can understand.

But most of life does not arrive that way.

Most of life gives us enough light for the next step, then asks us to walk.

That is annoying.

It is also, I suspect, how humility is formed.

Hope and humility belong together. Hope says there is more than I can see. Humility says I do not need to see all of it before I take the next step.

This is especially hard for those of us who feel responsible for everyone and everything. We see too much. We carry too much. We mistake awareness for assignment. We assume that if something is breaking somewhere, we are supposed to hold it together from here.

But we are not God.

That sentence is either terrifying or freeing, depending on how tired you are.

So maybe the practice for today is smaller than we thought.

Tell the truth.

Do the next loving thing.

Borrow hope from community when yours is thin.

Tell the truth because denial will not heal you.

Do the next loving thing because love keeps you connected to what is real.

Borrow hope because there will be days when someone else can believe on your behalf until your own heart catches up.

That is not failure.

That is being human.

If your hope is quiet right now, let it be quiet.

If your faith feels more like a flicker than a fire, do not despise the flicker.

If all you can do today is stay tender, tell the truth, and take one faithful step, that is not nothing.

It may be the holiest thing you do today.

Still here.

Still trying.

Still soft enough to care.

That counts.

A Quiet Note

I write Walk Humble for people trying to live with deeper faith, healthier relationships, and steadier hope in a noisy, exhausting world. If these reflections help you, you can subscribe here or share this with someone who is carrying more than they are saying.

For more than 25 years, I’ve watched churches try to communicate important things with limited time, limited staff, and a whole lot of heart.

A Sunday message. A ministry opportunity. A sign-up deadline. A funeral meal. A youth event. A mission trip. A story worth celebrating. A next step someone really needs to hear.

Most churches are not suffering from a lack of activity.

But many churches are suffering from a lack of clarity.

And that is understandable.

There have never been more tools available to churches. Websites, email platforms, giving systems, calendars, livestreaming tools, design apps, social media, church management systems, forms, automations, and now AI layered on top of all of it.

Some of those tools are genuinely helpful.

But for a pastor, ministry assistant, volunteer, or church communicator trying to keep up with everything, it can feel like every important piece of information lives in a different room.

The announcement is in a text thread.

The graphic request is in someone’s inbox.

The event details are in Planning Center.

The website update is waiting on somebody else.

The social post is half-written.

The registration link is somewhere, probably.

Meanwhile, real people are trying to figure out what is happening, where to show up, and how to take the next faithful step.

I keep coming back to this conviction:

Church communication is not a distraction from ministry. Done well, it is part of how people are reached, welcomed, cared for, and invited into the life of the church.

That does not mean every church needs to become slick, corporate, or obsessed with platforms. And even when I was actively planting a church, we refused to use the word “excellence” in our core values because the endless pursuit of it is often a barrier to authentic human connection.

That said, church communications leaders need help. Keeping up is hard work, and the work church communications leaders are doing matters. Eternally.

That is the heart behind the Church Comms Dashboard.

I started building websites for churches around the year 2000. I did the hardest way possible until 2005, when I figured out how to use Wordpress as a content management system (CMS) to power our church’s website (before Wordpress was even considered a true CMS and not just a “blogging platform”).

Today, Wordpress powers about 42% of all websites.

Yes. All.

Church Comms Dashboard is a WordPress plugin for churches that need a clearer place to manage communication requests, planning, approvals, brand resources, sermon and message workflows, and the practical details that help church communication move from scattered to sane.

But the software is not really the main point.

The deeper question is this:

What would it look like for church communication to feel less frantic and more faithful?

What would it look like to build systems that serve people instead of exhausting them?

What would it look like for the website, the announcements, the calendar, the emails, and the stories to work together toward one simple goal: helping people know what matters and what to do next?

I wrote a fuller version of this reflection, including more about what I’m building and why, over at BrandonAcox.com:

Read the Full Article

And if you are part of a church, nonprofit, or ministry team trying to bring more clarity to your communication, I’d love for you to follow along. This is the kind of work I’ll be writing more about there.

Church communications does not need more chaos.

It needs a calmer center.

PS - If you read all of that and you happen to be a fellow WordPress nerd or a church communications specialist in any capacity, and you would be interested in becoming a beta tester of the Church Comms Dashboard plugin, I would really appreciate the help. and the first 25 beta testers will be given lifetime access to all premium plug-in features for life for one organization.

Become a Beta Tester

Jeremiah admits he feels overpowered and mocked, and still can’t keep the word shut up in his bones. Then, in Matthew 10, Jesus looks straight at that fear and says it three times: do not be afraid. You are worth more than many sparrows.

A few summers back I wrote a letter to pastors who feel alone, and I keep coming back to it. So before we get to this week’s preaching angles, a word for the one carrying the load: you’re never as alone as you feel.

Featured: Dear Pastor, You Are Never as Alone as You Feel Like You Are

You’re not alone. You never were and you never will be. Jesus stands beside you. Thousands of other shepherds join arms with you. Your brokenness over the spiritual condition of humanity matters to God, and your response in continuing to love and serve people makes a difference, whether you can see it from one week to the next or not.

Read the Full Letter

For This Sunday’s Text: What Costs Us Our Voice

Matthew 10:24-39

Jesus does not prepare his disciples for a frictionless life. He tells them there will be resistance, accusation, family division, and moments when faithfulness feels more costly than they expected.

And then, right in the middle of all of that, he says it again and again: do not be afraid.

That phrase can sound almost impossible when a leader is tired. Fear is rarely theoretical for pastors. It shows up in the sermon you are nervous to preach, the conversation you keep delaying, the criticism you can already imagine, the attendance trend you cannot control, the decision that will disappoint someone no matter what you choose.

But Jesus does not ground courage in confidence, strategy, charisma, or control. He grounds it in the Father’s care. Sparrows are noticed. Hairs are numbered. Hidden things are seen. Small lives are not small to God.

That means courage is not the absence of cost. It is the settled freedom to speak and live faithfully because our lives are held by One who sees more than the crowd sees and values more than the critics value.

For preaching, the angle may be this: discipleship is costly and disruptive, yet fear never gets the last word. The preacher’s task is not to make the cost disappear. It is to help people hear Jesus say, in the face of the cost, that they are known, seen, and deeply valued.

Preaching question: What fear is trying to take the place of the Father’s voice?

Other Angles in the Lectionary

Genesis 21:8-21: God hears the cry of Hagar and Ishmael, the ones a powerful household cast off, and opens a well in the wilderness where they were left to die. A word for anyone who has been written out of someone else’s story: the God who sees does not lose track of the discarded.

Psalm 86:1-10, 16-17: The psalmist prays “for I am poor and needy” not as an apology but as the basis for being heard. There is freedom in leading with our need instead of our competence.

Jeremiah 20:7-13: Jeremiah tells God the truth about feeling overpowered by his calling, and still confesses that the word is like fire shut up in his bones. This is permission for honest, even furious prayer from people worn down by a calling they did not ask for.

Romans 6:1b-11: Baptism is not a fresh coat of paint over the old self. It is death and burial, so grace does not excuse the old life but ends it. The question shifts from “What can I get away with?” to “How do I walk in newness of life?”

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From the Archive: Choosing Joy

This week, the Choosing Joy series feels like a fitting companion. Joy, courage, and rootedness belong together. Joy is not denial, and it is not an attempt to decorate pain with religious language. It is a resilient practice of seeing life from within the presence and promises of God.

If you are preaching through a season where people are tired, anxious, or trying to recover their sense of hope, this series may give you language for joy as something deeper than mood and stronger than circumstances.

Links for Leaders

Brennan Manning, Abba’s Child

“Define yourself radically as one beloved by God.” Manning’s language about belovedness fits this week’s Matthew 10 theme beautifully. Before we are useful, competent, visible, or brave, we are beloved. That is not sentimental. It is the identity from which courage grows.

Check Out the Book

Brené Brown, Dare to Lead

Brown writes, “There are a million cheap seats in the world today...” That image is especially helpful for leaders trying to stay brave without becoming defensive. Courage requires putting something real on the line, and leadership usually means leaving the safety of the spectator section.

Check Out the Book

Beyond the Divide / The Line on Nine

This Little Rock project tells the story of a historic Black business district damaged by urban renewal and the construction of I-630, and it imagines repair through memory, design, public art, and Black-owned businesses. It is a local story with a much wider word about what communities choose to remember, restore, and reconnect.

Explore the Project

Note: Some recommendations may contain affiliate links. As an Amazon Associate, Brandon earns from qualifying purchases at no additional cost to you.

Coaching Moment

One quiet sign of leadership fatigue is the pressure to always have the answer. When every question feels like a test, curiosity starts to disappear. But some of the healthiest leadership moments begin with a slower sentence: “Help me understand what you are seeing.”

You do not lose authority by becoming more curious. Often, you regain wisdom.

If you need a little room to think through leadership, communication, or what this season is asking of you, coaching can help create that space.

Keep your courage rooted. Panic makes noise; faithfulness bears fruit.

That is part of what I have been thinking about this week. Preaching often does its deepest work on a timeline we do not control. We prepare, preach, pray, and then wonder whether any of it mattered, while God quietly keeps growing what was planted. Sometimes the fruit shows up years later in another pastor, another church, another season of courage.

Featured Article

Most weeks, you can’t tell. You preach a sermon you believe in. You stand at the door. People shake your hand, say “good word, pastor,” and head to lunch. By Tuesday you are not sure if anything you said landed anywhere.

The article this week is about the hidden timeline of preaching, and why most of the fruit ripens out of sight.

Read the full article

Lectionary Preaching Angles

This week’s lectionary section is built around four short Possible Preaching Angles from the Proper 5, Year A readings for Sunday, June 7, 2026.

• When the Call Comes Before the Map
  Genesis 12:1-9. Abram does not get a map, only a voice, and the call comes before the destination is revealed.

• When the Speaker Is the Creator
  Psalm 33:1-12. When the God who spoke creation into existence tells you to move, the question is whether you trust the One who is speaking.

• When Circumstances Do Not Get the Final Word
  Romans 4:13-25. Abraham’s trust is not optimism or certainty, but a refusal to let circumstances have the final word.

• Jesus Crosses the Lines We Draw
  Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26. Jesus crosses lines others have drawn, moving through social, purity, reputational, and even death-dealing boundaries.

Helpful Links for Leaders

• Persuading Like James
  Jeffrey Arthurs offers a practical reminder that preaching is not only about getting the point right but about making it concrete enough to live in the imagination. Helpful if you are working hard on faithful sermons and still wondering why some of them land more deeply than others.

• Self-Control, the Leader’s Make-or-Break Virtue
  Drew Dyck on the kind of slow inner strength that keeps leaders from burning through their own calling. A useful companion to this week’s article because invisible fruit often requires invisible discipline too.

• Avoiding The Trap Of A Punch-The-Clock Mentality In Ministry
  Karl Vaters names a ministry posture that quietly drains joy and turns calling into mere output. Worth reading if your week-to-week work has started to feel more transactional than pastoral.

• Derwin Gray, The High Definition Leader
  One of the strongest recent lines in my Readwise stack came from Derwin L. Gray’s book The High Definition Leader: “We are no longer in a black or white America. We are in a multicolored, high-definition America.” That vision is not trendy window dressing. It names the kind of cross-cultural leadership the church still badly needs.

• Traditional Hot-Button Issues Still Dominate Political Talk from the Pulpit
  This one is worth reading less for outrage and more for reflection. It raises a fair question about what pastors keep centering from the pulpit, and what that reveals about our imagination, our fear, and our blind spots.

A Legacy Worth Revisiting

Part of why this theme matters to me is that I am still living inside the influence of Pastor Danny Kirk’s ministry. I have been preserving more of his sermon notes and messages at Preaching for Change, both because they continue to help me and because I think they can still serve other pastors and churches.

Start with Messages by Pastor Danny R. Kirk

From the Archive

If you are preaching or leading around the question of faithful formation over time, the This Is the Way series is a useful archive to revisit. It gathers sermon resources around the actual shape of following Jesus, not just admiring him from a safe distance.

A Quiet Note

If you are leading through a season where the next step feels hard to name, I offer coaching for leaders who need a quieter place to sort through burnout, calling, clarity, and courage. I also help churches and organizations communicate more clearly through 5ox Creative when the work is more about websites, messaging, or digital strategy.

If this leadership-focused section is not for you, you can unsubscribe from Preaching for Change emails without leaving Walk Humble altogether.

Keep going. The next faithful step counts.

I believe in vision.

I believe in dreaming big about the future, setting meaningful goals, and doing the hard work of moving toward them with intention.

I do not think thoughtful leaders should drift. I do not think passivity is a virtue. There is a real dignity in clarity, courage, and long obedience in the same direction.

But I also think something has gone wrong in the way many leaders have been taught to think about the future.

Too often, leadership formation gets reduced to planning horizons, measurable outcomes, and the endless management of goals, metrics, and milestones.

A five-year plan can clarify your direction. It cannot form your character.

That matters because the future is shaped not only by the quality of your ideas, but by the quality of the person carrying them.

A leader can be strategic, disciplined, and wildly productive while becoming impatient, brittle, emotionally distant, and inwardly exhausted. A leader can build something impressive while shrinking as a human being. Some leaders are very clear about where they are going and strangely unaware of who they are becoming.

That is what bothers me.

I am not troubled by ambition. I am troubled by ambition detached from formation.

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I have seen enough of leadership culture to know how easily this happens. A person starts with a genuine desire to serve, build, heal, or contribute. They want to lead well. They want to be useful. They want to steward their gifts faithfully. But over time, the deeper questions get crowded out by the visible ones. Results take center stage. Internal erosion gets ignored because the external indicators still look healthy.

The tragedy is not always moral collapse. Sometimes it is subtler than that.

Sometimes the tragedy is that a leader achieves the future they wanted and arrives there as a thinner, harder, less present version of themselves. They got what they were aiming for, but they did not become more whole in the process.

That is one reason I keep returning to the language of 2 Peter 1. Peter does not tell us to add a brand strategy, a scale plan, or a five-year projection to our faith.

“For this very reason, you must make every effort to support your faith with goodness, and goodness with knowledge, and knowledge with self-control, and self-control with endurance, and endurance with godliness, and godliness with mutual affection, and mutual affection with love.” (2 Peter 1:5-7 NRSV)

That is not an anti-action list. It is a formation list. It is not telling us to stop building, leading, deciding, or planning. It is telling us that the inner architecture of a life matters more than most of us admit.

Peter gives not just a list of ideals, but a path.

The movement matters. Faith becomes virtue. Virtue deepens into knowledge. Knowledge requires self-control. Self-control grows into steadfastness. Steadfastness is shaped into godliness. Godliness opens into brotherly affection. Brotherly affection matures into love. This is not accidental. It is cumulative. It describes a life being built from the inside out.

And that is where so many thoughtful leaders quietly lose the thread.

Thoughtful leaders are often very capable of thinking ahead. They can anticipate consequences. They can build systems. They can articulate vision. They can live in the future mentally. But the danger of that strength is that it can make present formation feel less urgent. The future becomes so vivid that the current state of the soul gets neglected.

But no future you build will ever outrun the person you are becoming.

If you are becoming more reactive, more ego-driven, more tired, more performative, more emotionally cut off, that will eventually show up in your leadership no matter how polished the plan is.

If your soul is thinning out, your strategy will not save you. If your character is underdeveloped, your gifts will eventually strain under the weight of what you are asking them to carry.

Character is not accidental. It is cumulative.

You do not drift into virtue. You practice it. You choose it. You fail and return to it. You let your life be interrupted by truth. You ask harder questions than, “Is this working?” You also ask, “Is this making me more honest? More loving? More grounded? More trustworthy? More free?”

That is why I think the better question for many leaders is not, “What do I want to accomplish in the next five years?”

It is, “What kind of person will be able to carry the future I say I want?”

That question does not kill vision. It refines it. It does not weaken ambition. It humanizes it. It does not make planning unnecessary. It puts planning in its rightful place.

Vision is helpful. Virtue is essential.

There is nothing wrong with making a plan. Make the plan. Set the goal. Build the thing. Dream bigger than you think you are allowed to dream. But do not let the plan become the primary measure of whether your life is going well. Do not let outcomes do all the talking. Do not let stats and metrics become your functional spirituality.

The future matters. But the self that walks into that future matters most.

So maybe the invitation is not to abandon five-year thinking. Maybe it is to subordinate it. Let long-range vision serve deeper formation, not replace it. Let goals be held inside a larger framework of virtue, self-control, steadfastness, and love. Let your plans answer to your character, not the other way around.

Because if I want guidance for the future, I do not first need a five-year plan (who can predict what can change in five years’ time anyway?).

But every leader I know (including myself) is still in need of an ever-deepening character.

Sometimes these writings evolve into deeper conversations. So I work with thoughtful leaders navigating growth, burnout, relationships, and emotional health through leadership coaching and I also help churches, nonprofits, and other organizations communicate with more clarity, warmth, and intention through communications consulting. If you’d like to talk, you can start a conversation.

There’s a moment in Revelation, the last book of the Christian Bible, to which I keep returning. There is a search for one worthy to carry the title deed to all of creation, and it seems like no one was worthy, so John starts to cry.

An elder tells John, “Do not weep. See, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has conquered, so that he can open the scroll and its seven seals.” (Revelation 5:5 NRSV)

Strength. Authority. Victory.

The kind of figure I learned, as a boy, to admire.

Long live the Great Lion!

But then John turns to look. And instead of a lion, he sees “a Lamb standing as if it had been slaughtered…” (Revelation 5:6 NRSV)

I spent years overlooking the significance of that detail.

I grew up absorbing a version of masculinity I never thought to question, because it was just in the air.

There was a script for how to be a man, and many of us who have tried to stick to the script our whole lives have come to realize we’re still broken somewhere inside.

Because you can become tougher, meaner, and grittier. You can grunt and growl more, assert your dominance, and beat your chest.

You can keep climbing ladders over other people and finally reach the TOP!

Alone.

That’s the thing nobody tells you about the performance of strength. About faking it. It costs you the people you most want to be close to, and you pay the bill in increments so small you barely notice.

One stubborn argument. One withheld confession. One moment of going quiet instead of being honest. One more retreat into distance, irritation, work, distraction, or numbness.

You can lose intimacy without ever making a dramatic choice to do so.

You just keep choosing self-protection over truth.

Traditional masculinity teaches men to win approval through performance. Keep the vulnerable self hidden. If you are hurting, convert it into anger, silence, sarcasm, withdrawal, or overwork. Whatever you do, do not let it look like need.

You can see the consequences in the data: male loneliness, depression buried beneath numbness, anxiety surfacing as irritability, relationships starved by emotional absence.

But honestly, you can also just see it at any dinner table where a man is physically present and emotionally somewhere else.

You can see it in marriages where conflict never becomes intimacy because one or both people are still protecting an image. You can see it in church cultures where “strong leadership” sometimes just means polished detachment.

We were taught that vulnerability leads to humiliation, so we perform strength instead.

We posture, we dominate, we go quiet, we pretend not to care.

We call emotional distance maturity, and hope no one looks too closely.

I used to preach about “biblical masculinity.” I stopped long ago, not because biblical masculinity isn’t a good thing, in theory. It just falls short because, while the Bible is a gift from God, our interpretation and application of the scriptures are shaped far more by our cultural norms and values than we realize.

I’m a Christian, which means I follow Jesus. He’s the model. He’s King. He’s the humble servant-leader who prays for his enemies and loves everybody. Yes, he overturns tables, but not because he was insulted. He acted courageously on behalf of oppressed and marginalized people who were being squeezed out of the religious pyramid scheme they had going inside the Temple.

And when I actually look at Jesus, I do not see a man obsessed with dominance, hierarchy, or proving anything. I see a man so secure in who he is that he can be tender without apology, suffer without flinching, and lay down power without losing himself.

That is what arrests me in Revelation. Scripture is not replacing the lion with the lamb. It is telling us what the lion actually is.

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Jesus becomes the Lion through the way of the Lamb. Through surrender. Through sacrifice. Through love that gives itself away. Through wounds that are not hidden. Through authority that does not need to crush in order to reign.

That should rearrange almost everything we think we know about being a man.

Jesus has immense authority and uses it to protect the vulnerable.

He confronts injustice and weeps in public.

He sets boundaries and washes feet.

He speaks with clarity but never needs domination to validate himself.

He is neither passive nor aggressive, neither controlling nor insecure.

He is integrated.

And I think that integration is what so many men are actually starving for.

Not the destruction of masculinity. It’s healing.

The strongest men I know are not the loudest in the room. They are the ones secure enough to apologize. The ones who can sit with grief instead of numbing it. The ones who can be fully present with their wives and children. The ones who do not need to win every argument to feel like themselves. The ones who can tell the truth about their fear, their exhaustion, their longing, and their failures without collapsing into shame.

They became lions, I think, by following the Way made visible by the Lamb.

Not weak. Not spineless. Just no longer at war with tenderness.

My old friend Larry Barker used to pray over me (and many other young men), “God, give him the heart of a Lion!…”

And I’ll forever be grateful for those prayers.

Five years ago, about $1,500 worth of microphones in an Atlanta basement. This week, an episode count of 300, downloads past 400,000, and listeners in 184 countries.

That math by itself is striking. It is the math of For People with Bishop Rob Wright, the podcast Bishop Wright launched at the start of the pandemic with Easton Davis, his Canon for Communications and Digital Evangelism in the Episcopal Diocese of Atlanta. But the 300th episode, a conversation between the two of them about where the show has been and where it is going, is worth listening to for reasons that have very little to do with download counts.

Listen to the Episode

What is striking is what they have decided the work is.

In the episode, Bishop Wright and Easton Davis talk about a bishop’s job as fundamentally communicative. They talk about the weekly Friday meditation as ministry. They talk about Jesus as someone whose invitation does not depend on shame, fear, or litmus tests. They talk about people who are “church hurt,” bruised by a Christianity that told them they were not enough, and what it might mean for a podcast to find them. Bishop Wright, who used to be a Navy search and rescue diver, calls the work exactly that:

“We’re trying to search out for ears and hearts who need some good news.”

And Easton names something a lot of church leaders are still working out:

“Your website matters, your social media matters, the look of your brand matters in inviting people in… The new doors are digital. People are finding us online and in digital spaces before they’re stepping foot in our buildings.”

That is the line that gives this post its title. So many Episcopal churches have red front doors, a centuries-old visual cue that says this is a sanctuary, you can come in. Easton argues that the digital threshold is now the first red door. The website. The video. The podcast episode someone listens to while walking. The post a friend forwards. By the time anyone steps into a sanctuary on a Sunday morning, they have already crossed several thresholds online. What they found there mattered.

Bishop Wright takes the question further. To church leaders nervous that all this talk of websites, reach, and brand sounds suspiciously like marketing, he gently points back to the woman at the well, who met Jesus and went and told the town. He invokes the parable of the sower:

“Our job is to sow as many seeds as we can and let the Holy Spirit do the rest.”

This is, in other words, an argument that good communication is not vanity when the message is good news. And later in the episode, he gets to one of those lines you find yourself repeating for days:

“If there’s an 11th commandment, it would be something like don’t make Jesus boring.”

I have had a front-row seat to a lot of this. For several years now, I have worked alongside Easton, first as a website and communications partner for the Diocese of Atlanta, and now through Beloved Media, which supports a growing number of Episcopal organizations taking this kind of communication seriously. Watching Bishop Wright and Easton over time, what stands out is not the cleverness of the strategy. It is the consistency of the conviction. Every Friday, another meditation. Every week, another conversation. Five years in, the same care, the same theological warmth, the same refusal to make Jesus boring.

That is what 300 episodes actually represent. Not a marketing achievement. A pastoral one.

Seriously, Give This a Listen!

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I’m going all in on Slow.

We celebrate speed. Power. Achievement. Breakthrough. Momentum.

And Slow rarely gets celebrated.

I think, as a leadership coach, Slow is one of my greatest strengths. I help people slow down, think, meditate, sit with questions, and consider their lives deeply.

In my family, Slow helps me navigate the day-to-day without losing my cool with the people I love most in the world. If my mind starts to race, Slow is the antidote.

In the local church, I’ve found my proclivity to be Slow to quite challenging. Keeping up. Making the meetings. Getting the things done so we can succeed.

But Slow doesn’t get a lot of positive press coverage as a tactic for surving and thriving in a chaotic world.

Speed is a highly useful tool. Sometimes speed is absolutely necessary. But speed is not a virtue, despite the fact that our culture has elevated it to virtue status.

Hurry has become our default setting. We measure our worth by our output, our value by our productivity, our significance by how much we can accomplish in a day.

But hurry is not neutral. It has a spiritual cost.

When we hurry, we skim the surface of our own lives. We miss the texture of the present moment. We barrel past the quiet invitations to notice, to feel, to connect. We become strangers to ourselves, operating on autopilot, responding rather than choosing, reacting rather than reflecting.

When we give in to the pressure to hurry (which almost always comes from external sources), we become human doings instead of human beings.

Speed promises us everything and delivers exhaustion and anxiety if we don’t learn how to keep speed in its proper place.

Slow is not about doing less, though sometimes it requires that. It’s not about laziness or avoidance, though it can be mistaken for both.

Slow is a spiritual practice. It’s an act of resistance against the tyranny of hurry.

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This is what I do as a leadership coach, though I didn’t always have language for it. I help people slow down and wrestle with deep and fundamental issues surrounding identity and vision.

It often takes a lot of conversation to help someone shift their emphasis from what they should be doing to who they are becoming.

Remember what the late Zig Ziglar often said, ““You’ve got to BE before you can DO, and DO before you can HAVE.”

In my family life, Slow is how I survive. It’s the only way to really listen to what my wife and kids are really saying. It’s the only way to sort out any racing thoughts that come bursting into my brain at the wrong moment. When there is conflict, always start by setting the pace to Slow as you discuss the issue at hand.

In the church, Slow is harder to do - at least in the average evangelical church in North America. The church often baptizes Speed because the cause is “worth it.” Spending a ton of time and energy on the machinery, ministries, and special events of a local church can feel as overwhelming as a project in a corporate environment.

Families are busier than ever. When I was a Lead Pastor, we (softly) required our staff members to spend the majority of their weeknights at home, not at another church-related meeting. There were a few exceptions during the year leading up to a big event or special Sunday, but we purposely limited them to a handful per year, no more.

My friend Shawn Lovejoy, who coached me through my early church planting years, wrote a book every church leader should read entitled Measuring Success: Your Path To Significance, Satisfaction, & Leading Yourself To The Next Level, in which he says this:

The tyranny of the urgent keeps us from developing our strengths and improving our weaknesses. Over time, too many of us get mentally flabby. We stop growing as preachers. We stop growing as leaders. As a result, our congregations suffer as we offer our brand of “good enough” ministry and vision. The consequences of our poor decisions or waffling ideas wreak havoc on the people we lead—or fail to lead.

I sometimes write code as part of my website development work, but code isn’t my specialty, so I sometimes end up with “bloated” code, which is when you have way more code than necessary to accomplish something simple.

I think the modern Western church has fallen into ministry bloat. We’re investing staff and volunteers' time and energy in efforts that don’t always achieve the very simple goal of helping people become fully formed disciples of Jesus in the context of healthy community.

We have meetings to make. We have metrics to meet. We have growth to achieve. Success is ours to secure. The language is different, but the drumbeat is the same:

Other churches are getting ahead.

We could be doing so much more!

We could get it all done faster.

But Jesus…

Okay, slow down and read this part carefully…

Jesus took naps on boats, welcomed interruptions from strangers, and took time to notice people who would otherwise go unseen and unnoticed.

He withdrew from the crowds, repeatedly, to commune with the Father or to share his time with just one person instead of the masses.

Jesus found ways to be present in his own life and circumstances, available for deeper conversations with people, and grounded in his own identity and relationship to God.

While I do believe Jesus was “busy” in terms of his travels and ministry activity, he also set the example for using Speed as a tool when it was useful, and Slow as he nurtured relationships with friends, family, followers, and with the Father.

When we slow down, we don’t lose time—we gain depth. We gain presence. We gain access to our own wisdom, our own intuition, our own connection to the Divine.

We become available to our lives as they actually are, not as we wish they were or fear they might become.

John Mark Comer wrote an excellent book on this topic entitled The Ruthless Elimination of Hurry: How to Stay Emotionally Healthy and Spiritually Alive in the Chaos of the Modern World. He writes,

“Love, joy, and peace are at the heart of all Jesus is trying to grow in the soil of your life. And all three are incompatible with hurry.”

Slow allows us to live from the inside out, rather than being pulled along by the external demands that never stop coming. It helps us discern what truly matters from what merely shouts the loudest.

I can’t give you permission to slow down—you don’t need it. You don’t need anyone’s approval to stop hurrying through your one precious life.

But I can tell you this: it’s hard. Our entire world is engineered to keep you moving, scrolling, consuming, and producing.

Choosing Slow is choosing to swim upstream.

People will misunderstand. They’ll mistake your depth for inefficiency, your thoughtfulness for indecision, your stillness for lack of ambition.

And some days you’ll forget. You’ll get swept up in the current, the urgency, the demands. You’ll find yourself right back in the shallows, skimming along the surface, wondering how you got there again.

But you can reconnect with Slow in this very breath. Feel your feet on the ground. Notice the light around you.

Take one full, deep breath and remember: you are more than what you produce, more than what you accomplish, more than how fast you move.

Slow is where we find ourselves again.

It’s usually where we find each other, too.

P.S. - I’m dedicating more of my own time coaching leaders and walking beside people to slow down and be successful in the ways that really count. Interested in a session? Read more about my leadership coaching.

The Neighborhood’s founding Pastor, Joe Liles, will be taking a four-month sabbatical over the summer of this year. I’ll be preaching, pastoring, and managing communications for the church during that time, and I’m already phasing into it so the transition is as smooth as possible.

Just a few months after we moved to Bentonville in the summer of 2011 so we could start planting Grace Hills Church, Joe and Jess Liles moved into a house just down our street to begin planting The Neighborhood Church.

We had coffee and discovered some common deeply-held convictions about why the world still needs more (healthy) churches, not less.

If you think two guys planting churches with somewhat similar approaches in the same town at the same time could create a sense of tension or cooperation, you’d be mistaken. I’ve never felt anything but “we’re in this together” from Joe. That’s what happens when leaders set aside ego to do “kingdom” work together rather than guarding and protecting our own little institutional corners of it.

If you know Pastor Joe, you know him as one of the most extroverted human beings on earth. One Sunday, when our church was meeting and Joe’s wasn’t, he and Jess attended our services, where Joe immediately became one of our greeters, thanking everybody for being there and encouraging them to come back again the next week.

When I stepped down as Pastor at Grace Hills in April of 2021, Joe reached out. We’ve met regularly over the last five years. Joe is one of several voices who have helped me heal from burnout and stay connected to the work of local churches.

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I’m excited about this because I’m still hanging onto hope that the church, as a localized gathering of people who follow the risen King Jesus, can change in healthy ways to meet the moment we are in with love, truth, and compassion.

I love people. Much of the communications work I do has be behind a laptop for hours every day. I may be an introvert, but one of the maxims I’ve learned to repeat is that when I am moving toward people rather than away from them, I know I’m on a healthy emotional track.

I believe that the next ten to twenty years are going to require church leaders to adapt like never before.

We must be willing to listen, rather than simply preaching and producing more content.

We must create spaces in which people with hard questions about faith, life, and relationships can show up with their skepticism and be welcomed.

And we must model real love for the world, embodying and becoming the very essence of God’s love to all of our neighbors.

I’m thankful to get to fill a new role and to keep cultivating a richer faith life, both in myself and in others.

On the wall of our dining room hangs a decorative banner with a quote from Ian MacLaren that reminds us:

BE KIND,
FOR EVERYONE
YOU MEET
IS FIGHTING
A HARD
BATTLE

Almost everyone I talk to is feeling the heaviness of the world right now. We’re all carrying the weight of the week’s headlines, the plight of those whose suffering is on display, and the tension of the cultural division we’re experiencing.

It’s just hard.
Especially right now.

But we get through, right? If you’re reading this, you made it to another day. We manage, somehow, to keep going.

Sam Fischer’s 2023 hit, Carry It Well, captures how so many of us are feeling these days…

Just because I carry it well
doesn’t mean it isn’t heavy,
and I don’t need some help
I know I keep it locked down,
but all I want now
Is somebody who can tell me
how it’s gonna turn out
‘Cause I thought I’d be
doing better by now

I thought I’d be doing better by now

But don’t I carry it well?

It’s understandable if you feel heavy right now.

Our circumstances are not new. We get to look back in time to the examples of our predecessors in the faith.

The world has always had struggles. If we rewind twenty centuries, we find Jesus and his followers trying to navigate life under Roman imperial rule. And this is where the early churches fascinate me.

Early churches popped up in homes along ancient trade routes in one community after another from Jerusalem to Rome before the closing of the Book of Acts. And in their turbulent surroundings, they managed to set aside their own need for power, wealth, and comfort in order to care for one another, help the poor, welcome the stranger, and grow in their faith.

Even when facing martyrdom, they loved their enemies, forgave their persecutors, and stood valiantly alongside all who were otherwise cast aside by the rest of society.

How’d they do it?

Three words: With. One. Another.

There is tremendous power in the realization that we need each other.

One of my favorite books from the last few years is Terry Real’s Us: Getting Past You & Me to Build a More Loving Relationship. Terry addresses our cultural conundrum by digging into the physiology we all share:

Our nervous systems were never designed to self-regulate. We all filter our sense of stability and well-being through our connection to others. And yet the culture of individualism saturates our society. The idea of a freestanding rugged individualist is a cultural story having little to do with the truth.

Terry further dives into the science of why we need each other on a physical and biological level. When two stressed out people meet each other - even as strangers - their brains relax slightly.

The emotional load sharing and efficiency of the “group mind” leaves each individual’s prefrontal cortex with a lot less work to do than it would have on its own.

In other words…

God created you for connection and community rather than isolation. The world is heavy, but we get to do a team lift and carry it all together rather than separately.

In the early accounts of the church, we see Jesus’ followers huddling up together to share their fears and to carry each other’s burdens. The same happened in Black churches across the Jim Crow south and Bonhoeffer’s communities gathering secretly under the shadow of Hitler and the Nazis.

What is happening in Minneapolis-St. Paul right now offers an important lesson for all of us. The killing of Renee Good and Alex Pretti by ICE agents didn’t occur in a community completely ambushed by national tragedy. Just six years ago, George Floyd was murdered in the same town as Good and Pretti, sparking nationwide protests.

That period of social unrest in the Twin Cities instigated a kind of unified effort by local churches and organizations to build neighborhood networks that could spring into action.

Bishop Greg Loya, who leads The Episcopal Church in Minnesota, was recently interviewed by Bishop Rob Wright on his podcast For People and said this about the situation on the ground:

“On the one hand, we’re seeing a campaign of cruelty and intimidation and violence. On the other hand, we’re seeing the faith community mobilizing for love.”

I can’t carry it all.

You can’t carry it all.

But WE can carry it together, especially as followers of the One who took on the weight of all the world’s sin and brokenness and offered his life on the cross, proving that the Way of Love trumps political power and financial prosperity.

Yes, we must open our eyes, but we don’t have to see everything, everywhere, all at once. Our exposure to an avalanche of bad news, packaged for endless scrolling, is a relatively new innovation.

Yes, we must allow our hearts to break and to remain softened to the pain people are experiencing, but we can’t save everyone in the world from suffering.

Yes, we must get off the porch and into the work, but we can’t fix all that is broken in our own effort alone. It takes community, commitment, and time.

Caring about people, especially large numbers of people you can’t directly help, leaves us feeling alone and helpless, but here’s the good news:

You’re not the only one.

You don’t have to carry it all by yourself. We can lean into community and find strength in each other.

Angie and I recently attended a gathering hosted by White Men for Racial Justice (I highly recommend their Foundations course for a primer on the roots of systemic racism). The room was packed with friends and neighbors in Northwest Arkansas who were showing up to declare a readiness to act.

I walked out of the building that night feeling something quite powerful - solidarity. We may not be able to fix all of the inequalities we still see operating around us, but together, we can make a bigger dent. Together, we can do more.

This is one of the reasons I can’t give up on the church as an institution for hope and change in the world. While I am continually frustrated by the hijacking of the Christian message through the rise of Christian nationalism, I also see churches stepping up.

One of the greatest lessons I’ve learned about myself in the last few years is this:

When I isolate and lean away from people, I struggle. But when I engage and lean into community with others, I find healing.

I’m convinced that’s true for all of us. Because we’re human. Because we’re all made in the image of an eternally relational God.

It’s hard. Healthy relationships require intentionality and discipline. Movements require leadership. Churches require shepherding. And none of it is easy.

How do you start?

Choose one person you know and encourage them with a text, phone call, or a coffee meetup.

Choose an issue that breaks your heart and learn about it, engage with it, and support those who are leading the way in that cause.

Show up in places of worship and service with a willingness to share your life with others in meaningful ways.

Create art, or music, or poetry, or write your heart out to inspire someone else, knowing that everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.

When we lean into community and offer mutual sharpening and encouragement, the load gets a little lighter for each of us.

You don’t have to carry it all.
We can all carry it together.

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If you haven’t seen James Gunn’s 2025 version of Superman, you simply must.

If you have seen it, you know about “the beach scene.” It’s one of my favorite of Gunn’s musical action edits (it’s right up there with Gunn’s Guardians of the Galaxy, Vol. III fight scene featuring the Beastie Boys’ song, Brooklyn).

Mr. Terrific is calm and focused as he causes chaos and mayhem on the beach while taking out every single one of Lex Luthor’s goons. Do they get to Superman? You’ll have to watch and find out.

When you do see it, you’ll understand this particular look on Lois Lane’s (Rachel Brosnahan) face as she safely watches the entire scenario unfold…

The look on Lois’ face is how some of us are watching history unfold right now. It’s a mess out there. It feels as though we’ve experienced a year’s worth of global crises so far in 2026, and as of this writing, we’re only two weeks in!

Perhaps the coolest part of the Mr. Terrific - Lois Lane beach scene is the song playing through it. It’s entitled 5 Years’ Time, written by Charlie Fink and performed by his British indie group Noah and the Whale, which broke up back in 2015.

The song, which carries us through the chaos on the beach, is… whimsical. The first stanza of the song presents a scene that could potentially unfold five years into the future:

Oh well, in five years time we could be walking round a zoo
With the sun shining down over me and you
And there’ll be love in the bodies of the elephants, too
I’ll put my hand over your eyes but you’ll peek through

Sounds fun, right? But a later stanza offers a different prediction:

Oh, in five years time I might not know you
In five years time we might not speak
Oh, in five years time we might not get along
In five years time you might just prove me wrong

In other words, a LOT can change in five years.

Five years ago, my life looked very different. I was the Senior Pastor of the church Angie and I had planted in 2011, also serving pastors globally through Saddleback Church.

By April of 2021, I’d burned out. I wrote briefly about it in my resignation letter as I stepped away from vocational pastoral leadership in the church we’d poured ten years of our lives into.

I’ve described the condition of my soul during and after that transition with words like discouraged, disenchanted, and disillusioned. There were a lot of dark, lonely days spent battling depression while trying to find my footing again.

Aaron Niequist, in his book, The Eternal Current: How a Practice-Based Faith Can Save Us from Drowning, wrote about his rather similar experience in this way:

Most often, the despair came out sideways. My disillusionment with faith spread to a disillusionment with just about everything and everyone else. Rather than grappling with the terror of feeling the ground disintegrating beneath my feet, I mostly just poked holes in everything else. Everyone was stupid. Everyone was fake. Everything was a lie. This was essentially a matter of self-protection. If I could remain focused on how everyone was wrong, then I wouldn’t have to wrestle with the terrifying reality of my own wrongness. But in quiet moments, the unwelcome cries of my disintegrating faith sneaked through my cynic’s armor, and in those undefended moments, I felt truly lost.

As of this writing, it’s been close to five years since that transitional moment, and a lot of things haven’t changed. But internally, everything is different.

Having walked through the dark tunnels of this deconstruction-reconstruction journey, I’ve learned by actual experience that God doesn’t give up on us. He accompanies us even in the moments we couldn’t possibly be convinced that he cares.

What I’ve discovered is a faith that is more contemplative, welcomes mystery, and wrestles with big questions courageously. And as Richard Rohr declares,

We need to reconstruct, and not just continue to deconstruct. Then you will see angels everywhere.

If you’re reading this and you’re walking through the valley of disillusionment in which you can’t seem to make it all make sense, keep walking. Keep going.

It will be in your release of the need to fully comprehend and control your world that you will discover freedom.

Jesus taught this. Who really “gets” (sees) what the kingdom of heaven is all about? The poor in spirit. Who is comforted? Those who mourn. Who inherits the earth? The meek.

In the shadow of the valley of death itself - even what feels like the death of our faith as we once knew it - it is Jesus that ultimately gets us through. He’s among the sick and sinful and never gives up on any of us.

Brian Zahnd echoes this thought in another excellent book for those walking through a similar journey, When Everything’s on Fire: Faith Forged from the Ashes:

A dark night of the soul does not have to be the end of a faith journey but can be the beginning of a new journey that leads deeper into the mystery of God.

A lot can change in five years’ time. Here’s my challenge to you as you try to peer ahead beyond the next curve in life’s journey…

Be patient.

Be patient with yourself. You’ve gone through some stuff. You’ve come this far. You’re still here. Keep wrestling. Keep seeking. Commit to the long journey and leave room for God’s Spirit to show you things you couldn’t possibly understand back when you thought you had all the answers.

Be patient with others, too. Everybody is a work in progress. Everybody is a little stressed out. No matter how much you want to isolate from others, heathy community and friendship will be the channel through which you will experience real healing.

You and I don’t get the benefit of knowing what life will look like five years from now. But we do have the power to steer our own minds and hearts in the direction of love, grace, and mercy instead of bitterness and isolation.

They arrive
not with the swiftness
of storms
or the perthlunk-ity
of hail
or the gusto
of the cyclone,
but with hearts
fearing nothing
impressing no one
attuned to their destination
and diving headlong
into their purpose.

Their words
are whispers
and clicks
and taps
and drips,
and much pitter patter
but nothing’s the matter.

They boast
by cascading
and singing in harmony
the tune of their own crashing.

The violent raindrops
move the earth,
wreck the beauty,
drown the living.
They take
and take
and take.

But the Gentler Ones
are the generous sort
sharing, nourishing,
washing, caring,
brushing aside
the soot and sin.

I wonder if the gentler ones know
of the gratitude
of all the living things?
Or if they, like we,
wonder if it matters
whether or not
they rise or fall at all.

Keep falling,
and dripping,
and awakening
the dry and dusty soil,
oh Gentler Ones.

Keep making
just the right
difference.

Most of us, we like to think
we've nailed life down
and mapped its rhythms
and still we call it,
a roller coaster.

Most of us, though,
aren't feeling the thrills
or the violent hills
but rather just a train,
just on tracks.

And yet still the ride
can be so
wild.

What does it actually look like to be fully committed to God? A fully devoted disciple of Christ? To be “all in”?

I’ve had to honestly admit that my answer to this question was different just a couple of years ago when I was serving as Lead Pastor of a local church because I needed the definition to include certain commitments to the local church as an institution. Attending regularly, giving, and volunteering in some area of ministry would all be part of the description I would offer for a fully committed follower of Jesus.

And those aren’t bad things. Certainly, many fully committed disciples of Jesus attend church regularly, give financially, and volunteer in various programs and ministries.

I also would have included several personal disciplines, especially Bible reading and prayer. Throw in fasting and meditation, and you’ll show your commitment.

Those are all good things. In fact, without them, we reduce God's capacity to work in our lives. We should also include sharing our faith and doing good works in our community.

But… I’ve often made the mistake that I have warned others about, which is…

Don’t make activity the measure of commitment.

If your idea of a growing, mature disciple is one who does all the good things and doesn’t do the bad things, you may be missing out on something that lies beyond the activities we associate with an active faith. And what lies further down the road than the activities and disciplines of the Christian life?

True spiritual freedom.

Jesus invited people out of oppressive religion and into the “unforced rhythms of grace” (from The Message’s masterful paraphrase of Matthew 11:28-30). I've been struck by the sentiment Paul conveys to his protegé, Timothy…

God did not give us a spirit of cowardice, but rather a spirit of power and of love and of self-discipline… I know the one in whom I have put my trust, and I am sure that he is able to guard until that day what I have entrusted to him.

2 Timothy 1:7, 12 NRSV

Paul had tremendous confidence that, in light of his experience of God’s goodness, love, and grace, he could fully commit everything to God and God would be faithful and trustworthy with it all.

(You can read my message notes from that passage in this post entitled The God Who Has Proven Worthy of Full, Total, All-In Commitment.)

I think we would be better off if we shifted from seeing full commitment to God as being highly active to seeing it as being fully yielded.

By yielded I mean open. Accessible. Available. Transparent. Willing. Listening. Etc.

We often tell people that Christianity isn’t about having the right religion but rather about having a relationship with God. How many of your relationships are defined by a list of activities you’ve committed to complete? Checking all the boxes won’t necessarily make your relationship stronger. Relationships are matters of the heart.

Do fully committed followers of Jesus go to church a lot, give a lot of money, volunteer, pray a lot, etc? Often, yes, but the activity itself isn’t the relationship. The activity is merely the conduit, opening the capacity for God to show himself to us and lead us closer to his heart.

More and more each day, fully committed disciples discover what it is to be spiritually free. To walk in the unforced rhythms of grace and loosen their attachments to anything that prevents them from a richer experience of God’s presence.

I wouldn’t advise anyone to do less of any particular spiritual discipline unless the discipline has come to be seen as an end rather than the means through which we experience a greater depth of God’s grace and love.

In other words, rather than saying that the way to get closer to God is to pray, go to church, etc., we should instead say that the way to be closer to God is to be more fully open to him, which often happens when we’re praying, attending church, etc.

Sometimes I need the reminder that God is HERE for an ever-deepening relationship with each one of us.

By the way, if you want to read further in this area, I’d highly recommend these three books:

• Dallas Willard’s The Divine Conspiracy: Rediscovering Our Hidden Life in God

• Skey Jethani’s With: Reimagining the Way You Relate to God

• Richard Rohr’s The Naked Now: Learning to See as the Mystics See

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For me, it’s when I walk through a doorway.

That’s when I tend to stop in my tracks and ask that deeply reflective, soul-searching question…

“What did I come into this room to do?”

This is called the “boundary effect” or “doorway effect,” and researchers think it’s related to our mind’s filing system. Crossing a physical boundary triggers our brains to believe something has now been done and can be crossed off our to-do list.

Personally, I think I fall prey to the boundary effect in bigger ways in my life than remembering I was looking for scissors.

For me, the major events of 2020 were like walking through a series of doorways with no time to assess our changed environment between them. The changes (and losses) just kept coming.

And on the other side of each door we stepped through, I looked back with a growing disillusionment with my own set of assumptions about the world.

In my personal life, stepping away from the church we’d spent a decade planting was perhaps one of the biggest doors I’ve ever walked through.

On the other side of this door, life reminded me of the scene in Beetlejuice in which Adam and Barbara learn the hard way about being confined to their home. Stepping across the threshold in an attempt to leave dumped them into a scary desert where a giant worm was trying to eat them, and time passed more quickly.

Our Pastor, in her Easter Sunday sermon, talked about the “mini-deaths” we experience in life, and my mind immediately recalled the pain of that first year of post-vocational ministry life.

The crisis of identity I went through in that year was intense, and I was trying to navigate it all while burned out and depleted mentally and emotionally.

In some of my darker moments when the clouds of doubt have swirled, I’ve fixated on finding proof that would either turn my faith into certainty, or at least disprove my beliefs so I could stop trying to hang onto faith.

That difficult season taught me an important lesson: Faith and certainty aren’t the same thing. In fact, they aren’t on the same end of the spectrum of belief at all - they’re polar opposites. Certainty makes faith irrelevant.

At some point during those wilderness wanderings, I made a simple decision to keep following Jesus, despite my doubts and questions.

I don’t have all the answers today, and I try to conclude my opinions with the disclaimer, “but I could be wrong.” I’m not certain about much, but I’m learning to welcome and even love the mysterious nature and ways of God.

I can tell you from my own painful experience that you usually won’t find Jesus by searching for proof of him. That is, you don’t get to know him personally by analyzing him academically. You’ll wind up knowing more about Jesus than you did before, but you can only get to know Jesus by seeking him, and seeking him on his terms.

The question is, how will I know I’ve encountered Jesus?

On the eve of his departure from this life, Pope Francis’ Easter 2025 Homily was delivered by Cardinal Angelo Comastri. In his message was this reminder:

We must look for him without ceasing. Because if he has risen from the dead, then he is present everywhere, he dwells among us, he hides himself and reveals himself even today in the sisters and brothers we meet along the way, in the most ordinary and unpredictable situations of our lives. He is alive and is with us always, shedding the tears of those who suffer and adding to the beauty of life through the small acts of love carried out by each of us.

I’ve found deep comfort in these words. Thinking of Jesus “hiding himself” all around us in the form of other people causes me to look at others a little more closely.

When I’m faithfully seeking Jesus, I can see him so much more clearly than when I’m distracted by other pursuits and less-than-worthy searches.

But this isn’t new information. Just consider this portion of the prophecy of Isaiah:

Seek the LORD while he may be found, call upon him while he is near; let the wicked forsake their way, and the unrighteous their thoughts; let them return to the LORD, that he may have mercy on them, and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon. [8] For my thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways, says the LORD. [9] For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.

~ Isaiah 55:6-9 NRSV

Or as Pope Francis put it, “we must look for him without ceasing.”

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When I was a kid, my father occasionally burned all the grass on a portion of our lawn. He did this, in part, because he was a volunteer firefighter, and it was fun for him to practice controlling a burn.

More importantly, though, burning the grass was a way of clearing the thatch and old clippings and releasing nutrients back into the soil so that new grass seeds could have a better headstart in growth.

St. Paul the Apostle uses this imagery in connection with the work that God is doing and will continue to do between the here-and-now of our earthly lives and our yet-to-come experience of heaven (see 1 Corinthians 3:10-15).

I’ve come to believe that we can willingly submit ourselves to the process of burning away the waste now, or we’ll endure the process in the future on our journey to maturity in eternity. The earlier, the better.

We have a tendency to get lax in the maintenance of our character. When we do, the intrusive weeds of sin and cynicism grow and choke the life out of the better parts of ourselves.

Ash Wednesday (today, as I write this) reminds us of our condition and opens the gate to the season of Lent, during which we will give special focus to confession, contrition, and repentance.

Of repentance, Eugene Peterson says in his excellent book, A Long Obedience in the Same Direction,

The usual biblical word describing the no we say to the world’s lies and the yes we say to God’s truth is repentance. It is always and everywhere the first word in the Christian life. John the Baptist’s preaching was “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand” (Mt 3:2 RSV). Jesus’ first preaching was the same: “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand” (Mt 4:17 RSV). Peter concluded his first sermon with “Repent, and be baptized” (Acts 2:38 RSV). In the last book of the Bible the message to the seventh church is “be zealous and repent” (Rev 3:19 RSV).

We all want new life. Resurrection. Victory. If we’re not careful, we’ll live on the assumption that our character will just naturally mature over the course of life. So we trek onward on what we perceive as a path of unbroken upward spiritual movement.

But growth doesn’t happen in a straight line, does it?

All of us need moments of self-examination, seasons of clearing away the clutter.

We need to do the painful work of tallying our wrongdoings, seeing the ways in which we’ve brought harm to others, forgiving those against whom we’ve stored up resentment, and receiving again the gracious work of God’s forgiveness of our sins.

Repentance is continual. Daily. Sometimes moment-by-moment.

Ash Wednesday comes around once per year in the Christian calendar as an abrupt reminder that this work of dying to self and burning the waste needs to be done regularly.

A great place to begin this deep work of repentance is meditation on King David’s great Psalm of repentance:

Psalm 51:1-17 NRSV

[1] Have mercy on me, O God,
according to your steadfast love;
according to your abundant mercy
blot out my transgressions.
[2] Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity,
and cleanse me from my sin.

[3] For I know my transgressions,
and my sin is ever before me.
[4] Against you, you alone, have I sinned,
and done what is evil in your sight,
so that you are justified in your sentence
and blameless when you pass judgment.
[5] Indeed, I was born guilty,
a sinner when my mother conceived me.

[6] You desire truth in the inward being;
therefore teach me wisdom in my secret heart.
[7] Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean;
wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.
[8] Let me hear joy and gladness;
let the bones that you have crushed rejoice.
[9] Hide your face from my sins,
and blot out all my iniquities.

[10] Create in me a clean heart, O God,
and put a new and right spirit within me.
[11] Do not cast me away from your presence,
and do not take your holy spirit from me.
[12] Restore to me the joy of your salvation,
and sustain in me a willing spirit.

[13] Then I will teach transgressors your ways,
and sinners will return to you.
[14] Deliver me from bloodshed, O God, O God of my salvation,
and my tongue will sing aloud of your deliverance.

[15] O Lord, open my lips,
and my mouth will declare your praise.
[16] For you have no delight in sacrifice;
if I were to give a burnt offering,
you would not be pleased.
[17] The sacrifice acceptable to God
is a broken spirit;
a broken and contrite heart, O God,
you will not despise.

We spend plenty of time looking around at all that is wrong in the world.

We look back with fondness on the highlights of our lives that stand out in contrast.

And we look ahead and daydream of better times to come.

Today, however, is a day to pause and to look within at our own character and all that needs to be cinged away in the refining fire of God’s truth so that we are prepared to witness the springing forth of new life within our broken spirits.

From the ashes of repentance, new life always promises to emerge.

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Want to change the whole world with small, bite-sized steps?

Affirm people.

We’re starving for it.

We live in a highly critical age when civility has been replaced with sharp-tongued sarcasm.

We celebrate witty criticism far more than we celebrate affirmation. But affirming people is a missing ingredient in deeper relationships, mutual emotional healing, and a better world.

You can most likely identify with what it feels like to live in a vacuum of praise, where affirmation is hard to come by. Statistically (and hopefully, you’re an exception), you probably grew up lacking genuine affirmation from Mom and/or Dad. You’ve probably worked in an atmosphere where correction was far more plentiful than congratulations on a job well done, especially when the “performance review” rolls around. You may have even been labeled a rebel or a juvenile delinquent by teachers, school administrators, or even the local police.

Let me clarify, first of all, what affirmation is not.

• Affirmation isn’t empty flattery – words with no foundation in truth.

• Affirmation isn’t appeasement or agreement, especially with actual error.

• Affirmation isn’t saying words without action, but saying words plus action.

In other words, correction isn’t always bad. Criticism can be very valuable, especially when it comes from friends and family who are seeking our best interests. We all need to face our faults now and then so we can work on our habits and patterns for a healthier life. But almost nothing is more powerful in changing our direction than affirmation.

One of the most important moments in Jesus' life was his baptism, which initiated his official, public ministry. John the Baptist felt unworthy of the occasion but reluctantly immersed Jesus in the waters of the Jordan as an example to every future follower of the Messiah. When Jesus emerged from the water, something incredibly meaningful happened, but we often overlook it as we read the gospel accounts.

After his baptism, as Jesus came up out of the water, the heavens were opened and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and settling on him. And a voice from heaven said, “This is my dearly beloved Son, who brings me joy.”

Matthew 3:16-17 NLT

When Jesus was just getting started in his public ministry, God showed up to speak into his life, words of affirmation, words that celebrated their Father-Son relationship, words that conveyed value. And he did it publicly, in front of people who would then decide to follow Jesus forever.

God didn’t just do this with Jesus. He did it through a burning bush to Moses, through multiple anointings of King David, and through the prophetic word to Jeremiah about his calling. He did it through Jesus in the life of Peter, the “rock,” Paul, the “missionary to the Gentiles,” and John, the “disciple whom Jesus loved.”

God sees past our faults and present messes to what he desires for us to be and calls us by that name. He tells us that because of what Jesus did on our behalf, once we’ve placed our trust in him, he is pleased to call us his children, no matter what.

I have an adult daughter and two little boys. When I read this passage, I am reminded of just how vital it is to their heart development and future success that they hear their dad repeatedly say, "You’re my kid… I love you… and you bring me joy!" 

Even when they’re in trouble for something, like whacking each other, telling a lie, or drawing weather maps on the wall in permanent marker, they still ought to know that I love them, that our relationship is solid, and that they bring me joy… even though they’re going to be punished in the short run.

I encounter grumpy, depressed, agitated, scared and discouraged people in public, and you do, too. We find them checking people out in the grocery store line, pumping gas, paying bills, and trying to make it through life.

They often need to know from a fellow human being that

they matter to God…
they are loved…
and they can make a difference in this world.

We are a divided people. We divide by race, religion, political platforms, and cultural differences. And while words of affirmation won’t necessarily stop wars or settle all conflicts, they can go a long way to add value to the lives of the people we meet every day. But even the people you can’t stand are… human.

They are beautifully human. All humans share one thing in common: the imago dei, the image of God. We all reflect the goodness and glory of our Creator in some way to the people around us. 

You can affirm the dignity and value of someone’s existence even when you vehemently disagree with them.

And perhaps our affirming spirits may just be contagious, go viral, and change the whole world!

So… who’s up next for you to affirm?

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This piece is a polished-up version of a post I wrote a decade ago. I’ve rewritten it because it’s even more relevant now than it was then.

Photo by Dan Meyers on Unsplash.

I love learning from the Stoics, despite their stubborn insistence on being loyal subjects of a vast and oppressive empire. That aside, they offer some pretty unique insights into handling life in all of its complexity.

In my inbox today was an email from The Daily Stoic that challenged me:

David Brooks, writing of our moment, recently talked about the 'moral inversion' of contemporary politics. Instead of scandals ending someone’s career in today’s world, it’s almost a badge of honor. Lawsuits, convictions, divorces, affairs, sexual harassment, damning on the record comments—these things swirl around our public figures who shamelessly shrug them off. Not just in politics, but business and tech and entertainment all have their share of unrepentant cheaters and monsters.

Is this what it takes to get ahead these days?

We have to remind ourselves, as Marcus Aurelius did, that no matter what other people do (or what other people get away with), our job is to be good. Our job is to resist this moral inversion, to not fall prey to what psychologists have called the 'What The Hell' Effect–tossing up our hands and going along with something because everyone else is, because nothing matters anymore.

Like Cato, we might be living in the dredges of Romulus, but we don’t have to be bottom feeders. We don’t have to be corrupted or degraded by the moment we are living in. Marcus Aurelius didn’t. He rose above it. He shone through it. He stayed true.

And so must we.

I remember some headlines from the 1990s that made me think the world was going off the rails. I found reading the general epistles in the New Testament helpful because they were mostly written to people trying to follow the Way of Jesus while living under the rule of Rome surrounded by a culture hostile to Christian values.

I started saying these four words to myself as a reminder of what I could control and what I couldn’t.

We live in Rome.

That is to say, we live in a world where empires rise and rule, where people on the margins suffer, and where the values of our surrounding culture constantly shift like the wind.

People with disproportionate amounts of power and wealth will continue to rig the system in their own favor economically, politically, and otherwise.

Nations will continue to rise against other nations, sometimes with bombs and sometimes with unfair tariffs. Racism, nationalism, despotism, imperialism, and all kinds of other isms will continue dominating our thinking despite how much we see ourselves as enlightened or evolved.

Why?

Because we live in Rome.

Knowing that we live in Rome doesn’t make any of it better, but it does give me clarity about the game plan. It helps me know what I can and cannot control.

I can’t control the outcome of elections, but I can vote.

I can’t make other people live by the ethical standards I believe Jesus prescribes for us, but I can live within those guardrails myself.

I can’t take away the anxiety that I and the friends around me are feeling, but I can model what it looks like to stay healthy and be steady in the middle of it all.

I can’t singlehandedly defeat evil, but I can take my place in God’s subversive kingdom and share the words and ways of Jesus.

I can’t stop racism, but I can link arms with those working toward a racially just and equitable society.

Jesus taught his disciples to forgive, turn the other cheek, and care for the sick, the poor, and the broken. He challenged them to love God and ALL of their neighbors in spite of existing cultural and religious prejudices. And he sent them out to share the good news of the kingdom, promising his presence until the end of the ages.

James urged Christians scattered around the empire to endure trials patiently, put their wealth to work for the poor, and stay faithful no matter what.

Peter encouraged “God’s chosen people who are living as foreigners in the (Roman) provinces… when your faith remains strong through many trials, it will bring you much praise and glory and honor on the day when Jesus Christ is revealed to the whole world.”

And my personal favorite, John wrote letters to churches scattered around the empire (the second and third chapters of Revelation) and told each one of them to stay faithful and to overcome, even the severest of persecutions, on the basis of a prophecy…

The Lamb will indeed reign and the Way of Jesus, though highly countercultural, is the Way through which God is redeeming all that is lost and broken today.

The collective voices of Jesus and his earliest church leaders is consistent in at least two veins:

#1: Don’t follow the way of Rome, which is the way of empire, violence, oppression, and corruption.

There is far more to life than achieving power, collecting wealth, and protecting privilege.

Be different. Be selfless. Be kind and compassionate. Show empathy. Practice love. Share resources. Join the marginalized. Remember the forgotten. Visit those in prison. Speak up for the voiceless.

#2: Don’t let the power of Rome overwhelm or discourage you - stay faithful to the Way of Jesus.

You’ve probably heard the old adage, “If you can’t beat’em, join’em.”

But what if following Jesus means knowing you can’t beat them and determining not to join them anyway?

What if it’s just about bearing witness to the power of love in a world governed by fear, anger, and hate?

Yes, it’s hard right now to watch the dismantling of progress toward a more just, peaceful, and equitable society. It’s hard to watch the most wealthy and powerful benefactors of predatory capitalism wrecklessly reshape whole governments to retain their position and privilege.

But this is where we are.

We live in Rome.

And when in Rome, don’t do as the Romans do. Do as Jesus did.

From a more timeless, even eternal perspective, the work hasn’t changed. The Great Commandment to love God and all of our neighbors hasn’t changed. The Great Commission to invite others to learn the Way of Jesus hasn’t been rescinded.

And if it helps you to remain stubbornly hopeful, add these two words…

We live in Rome for now.

But we’re building something better, in partnership with God, than any earthly empire could ever promise to become.

We’re making earth more of a place where God’s will is done, as it is in heaven, by loving one precious soul at a time.

You can’t fix it all. But you can follow faithfully. And when you do, no matter how odd, weird, or alone the surrounding culture tries to make you feel, you’re actually surrounded by a cloud of faithful witnesses and living in good company today.

Today, be faithful.

Tomorrow? Do it again.

Recommended Reading While Living in Rome:

• Postcards from Babylon: The Church In American Exile, by Brian Zahnd

• Exiles: The Church in the Shadow of Empire, by Preston Sprinkle

• Jesus and the Powers: Christian Political Witness in an Age of Totalitarian Terror and Dysfunctional Democracies, by N. T. Wright and Michael Bird

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