Dear Trailhead family, “Listen! A farmer went out to sow his seed.” Jesus began his story. The Teacher had begun on the shore, but the people kept coming, and soon the water was lapping at Jesus’ ankles and soaking the hem of his cloak. Jesus took another step into the water as the people at the back of the throng pushed forward to hear, and those closest to Jesus had no option but to press towards the storyteller. “This will not work,” a disciple said to his companion as he motioned for help to pull a small boat towards Jesus through the shallows. “Our Master will be swimming if we don’t help him!” As the boat floated near, Jesus climbed aboard with a grateful nod to his disciples and leaned against the gunwale, letting out a contented sigh and continuing where he had left off. “A farmer went out to sow his seed.” Many in the audience looked at each other, small smiles on their lips. They could relate. “As he was scattering the seed,” Jesus continued, “some fell along the path, and the birds came and ate it up.” “Oh, dear. That’s no good,” those with any agricultural experience (which was pretty much the whole audience) thought. “Seed is valuable! Where are the children to scare away the birds? Where are the family members to spread soil over the new seeds? Why is this farmer so carefless with the seed?” Jesus must have caught the puzzled looks on the faces turned toward him, but he continued, “Some seed fell on rocky places, where it did not have much soil. It sprang up quickly, because the soil was shallow. But when the sun came up, the plants were scorched, and they withered because they had no root.” “An avoidable tragedy,” the crowd murmured. “Didn’t the farmer know his land? Didn’t the farmer care? This is malpractice!” Despite their dismay at the careless farmer in the story, the crowd moved closer to Jesus. What would this reckless farmer do next? They did not have long to wait. “Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up and choked the plants, so that they did not bear grain.” Upon hearing this, one farmer dug his elbow into his neighbor's side, “Sounds like the teacher has met you,” he chuckled good-naturedly. The neighbor snorted, “I wish I could be so wastefully extravagant when I plant! Instead, I labor over where I will spread the seed. I stress over any seed that lands on less than ideal soil, and I curse the birds who, in their gluttony, would starve my family.” Those eavesdropping nearby nodded in agreement. Sowing seed was no flippant matter for any who had gone to bed with an empty stomach and heard the hungry cries of a child. “Still other seed fell on good soil.” The attention of the crowd snapped back to the boat and the Teacher. “It came up, grew and produced a crop, some multiplying thirty, some sixty, some a hundred times.” A collective sigh of relief came from the crowd. “The foolish farmer got lucky,” more than a few thought. The story that began with all the makings of a tragedy had unexpectedly ended well. But the thought of soil and seed and birds and scorching sun prompted a few to turn towards home, towards the never-ending list of work to be done. “After all,” they thought, “I’m not like the farmer in the story. I cannot waste perfectly good seed on the hope that some will produce a crop. I cannot be so generous.” And that brings us to the present. Some 2,000 years later, we also struggle to understand the lack of caution in the Farmer, for we also have no category for such reckless generosity. But we should, for we were made in the Farmer’s image. Listen to this observation of the Farmer God from Ronald Rolheiser, “God, as we see in both nature and in scripture, is overgenerous, overlavish, overextravagant, overprodigious, overrich, and overpatient. If nature, scripture, and experience are to be believed, God is the absolute antithesis of everything that is stingy, miserly, frugal, narrowly calculating, or sparing in what it doles out. God is prodigal.” God is prodigal. God is “wastefully extravagant and lavishly abundant” (a dictionary definition of prodigal) towards humanity, towards us, towards you, and towards me. God is prodigal. How, then, might we live? Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, The day was hot and dry. Joshua was hot and dry as he peered out from under his hood at the unforgiving land surrounding him. Rock, sand, and cliffs peered back at him. This was brutal land, land that burned you and froze you, often in the same day. Land that seemed intent to kill. But land that also supported life, if you were careful. It was not uncommon for Joshua, in his wanderings, to come across the carcass of a small animal that had succumbed to the harsh environment. The death could have come from thirst or starvation, or a minor wound that became infected, or from the fangs and claws of a predator. “It’s simply to die out there,” Joshua’s father would remind him as he set out into the arid land. Joshua knew the reminder was both for him and for the small flock of sheep that were his responsibility. And these sheep gave Joshua fits at times. Sheep seemed intent on getting hurt, on getting lost, on refusing water and shade. Sheep, as Joshua had observed so many times, would stand in tight groups in the heat of the day, slowly overheating if he did not intervene, driving them apart, moving them to meager shade, to calm water. Sheep seemed to come with a death wish and Joshua’s job was to see that his sheep lived. But sheep did die even under the best shepherd’s care. Joshua had lost a sheep just a few days ago. The ewe had wandered away while Joshua was damming up a small trickle of water. In the few minutes it took for Joshua to create a small pool of life-giving water, one curious sheep had left the flock, stepped over a small cliff, lost her footing, and tumbled down into a ravine. The fall was not far but the sharp, broken branch at the bottom had caught the ewe at just the right angle and had ended her life. Such was the life of a shepherd and Joshua was well versed in the joys and heartache of leading his flock. Years ago, when Joshua had first been entrusted with the family flock, Joshua’s dad had told him about his namesake, the great leader of the Children of Israel, the shepherd who had led the former slaves into their promised land and into a new identity as a nation, a kingdom, a grounded people with land and a future. “Joshua, your name means ‘God is deliverance.’ Do you understand what that means Joshua?” Joshua’s dad had asked. “Yes Abba, I understand,” Joshua had answered, not altogether sure if he did. But Joshua did know that he had a big name to live into and if the stories were to be believed, he had a big God who had delivered his people to this place that he knew as home. And the years went by. Lambs were born, grew into maturity, and sold or used to meet the family’s needs. Joshua’s father’s flock became his flock. But on this hot and dry day, Joshua’s senses were on high alert. Something was out of place. Sheep milled around, looking for the small shoots of greenery that sustained them and Joshua scanned the hillside, alert for predators, for storm clouds, for wandering sheep. He saw nothing to cause alarm, and yet he knew better than to dismiss the feeling. Roused from his rest in the shade of a spindly bush, Joshua determined to count his flock, something that he rarely did before nightfall. But count he did after moving the flock into an open space and using his staff to move and separate sheep. “One, two, three,” he muttered. “Four, five, six, seven,” Joshua continued. "twenty-six, twenty-seven." One short. Joshua knew the number of his flock better than he knew his age, and he was one short. He counted again. Still one short. Still twenty-seven. Urgently he scanned the surrounding land, taking in the midday sun, the lack of shadows, the lack of sheep beyond the flock milling around him. And he counted once again, praying with each sheep numbered that he had made a mistake and that all of his animals were present. But the count stopped one short again and Joshua tucked his robe into his belt. He knew that today could end in misery. The lost sheep represented his family's security, their insurance against want and need. Joshua's family rarely knew excess and were much more familiar with the miracle of just enough. One sheep, plus or minus, was significant and so Joshua prayed and Joshua prepared his flock for his absence. With water in their bellies and enough plants nearby so the sheep would not be unduly tempted to wander, Joshua set out, calling for his lost sheep. Scrambling over a nearby hill, Joshua scanned the surrounding land in small increments, keen for the shape, the texture, the color of his lost sheep. He saw nothing. And so he continued, calling and looking, calling and praying. Joshua thought he had spied his sheep, but the distant boulder turned out to be just that, a rock that looked remarkably like a sheep. Same with a shadow and another rock. And another and another. Joshua was exhausted, his voice was hoarse, his legs were cut and bleeding and he stumbled more and more as his hope ebbed away. Finally, with the sun dipping dangerously low in the west, Joshua turned towards his flock, admitting defeat. As he trudged on Joshua rehearsed the new number of his flock. “Twenty-seven,” he whispered. It felt foreign, unfamiliar on his tongue. “Twenty-seven.” The sound made him weep. And that is when he heard it. A small, tired bleat. Joshua moved towards the sound, all weariness gone from his mind and body. From a fold in the land, invisible to his trained eye, Joshua saw his lost sheep tangled in a thorn bush, helpless to move and completely spent in her struggles. Joshua was on his knees beside her, pouring a little water into his hand to give her a drink, petting her face, speaking gentle words to her. As he spoke, Joshua snapped thorns, inch by inch easing wool free, inch by inch the lost sheep was freed. Joshua didn’t know when he began to say it, but he heard himself chanting “twenty-eight, not twenty-seven” in time to his efforts. The chant was a prayer of gratitude, a song of hope, a melody of victory. And with a final snap of a branch, Joshua pulled the sheep free and lifted her to his shoulders where he settled the exhausted sheep for the walk back to the flock. And that’s when he let out a scream of joy, a howl of laughter. “Twenty-eight, not twenty-seven!” rang off the surrounding hills, an echo of joy on repeat. The sheep jerked, startled by the outburst and Joshua settled down, content to sing the words of the shepherd David to calm her even as he jogged along, a ridiculous smile spread across his face. An hour later, the land now dark but bathed by the light of a waxing moon, Joshua spied home and let out a whoop. The sheep on his shoulders was too exhausted to react this time and the flock meandered indifferently. But the sound prompted his wife to poke her head out from the doorway. “Hurry!” Joshua called with a strength that surprised him. “Invite our friends and let the neighbors know! Tonight we celebrate!” Now the tax collectors and sinners were all gathering around to hear Jesus. But the Pharisees and the teachers of the law muttered, “This man welcomes sinners and eats with them.” Then Jesus told them this parable: “Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.’ I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent. Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, I may have a slightly weird sense of humor. (You do as well, and we all know it, so you might as well embrace it). I like to think our humor is as unique as our fingerprints. One of my favorite things to learn about someone is what makes them laugh. Not politely laugh, not saying “That’s funny,” but uncontrollably laugh. To laugh in a way that you are helpless to stop, where tears stream down your face and you cannot catch your breath, is one of the purest moments of living. You feel like you could pass out and you never feel more alive. To laugh, to experience unbridled joy, not at the expense of others but with others, taps into something ancient, something Garden-like. Or maybe it’s a taste of the future, a scent of the Garden City. Somehow laughter seems like our truest language. Just observe little kids at play, much (most?) of what is verbally expressed is laughter. Laughter crosses language and cultural barriers. Joyful laughter abides where all is well, all is whole, all is as it should be. And uncontrolled laughter is also strangely intimate. You feel a little bit exposed, a little naked when this happens. Isn’t that fascinating? More Eden flashbacks. What I also find fascinating is that of all the things Christians are known for, joyful laughter is not high on the list. I would think it would be our tell, the little sign that gives us away. “Excuse me for interrupting, but I couldn't help but notice your laughter and I was wondering if you are a follower of Jesus?” We know that the King of Everything has moved heaven and earth to be with us, that in the Incarnation we have received the most elaborate proposal of love and forgiveness the world will ever know, and our response is to live in… glumness? Frustration? Sadness? Despair? Judgement? I do understand why. The world is broken, I readily admit that. We see the brokenness everywhere we look. Orphans from war, victims of greed, abused spouses and kids, hopeless addicts, starvation, failing bodies, natural disasters, another shooting, another family broken apart, another lonely person surrounded by people. It’s enough to make us weep. And we should. Humanity is broken- all of us are broken. We mourn with those who mourn. And yet, there is more. The evil and sin that is behind all the pain and heartache does not rule unopposed. The King has come. The Spirit is moving. The Church is alive. Checkmate. Which reminds me of something. I once saw a TV show where the leading man delivered bad news with a big smile on his face. It was met with confusion by the character receiving the news and canned laughter from the fake studio audience. It was absurd, a joke. Something to laugh at, because everyone knows bad news is delivered with a serious or sad demeanor. Furthermore, everyone knows that good news is delivered with a smile, with joy. Maybe even laughter. A quick reading of the gospel accounts of Jesus reveals that over and over again, he healed disease, cast out impure spirits, and taught something called Good News. I can only imagine that Jesus was surrounded by joy and laughter from those who recognized their brokenness. A terminal disease vanished after a touch from Jesus? Cries of surprise. A child afflicted by an evil spirit who is now free and whole? Tears of joy. A proclamation from the King that forgiveness is being offered, that the wayward can come home? Immense relief and uncontrolled laughter. “Blessed are you who weep now,” Jesus said, “for you shall laugh.” It would seem that for those who recognize their brokenness and failure, weeping is not their destiny. Laughing is. Joy unspeakable. Which reminds me that Good News pairs well with joy and laughter. Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, Years ago, in the DINK period of Cassie and my life (Dual Income, No Kids), we had the opportunity to travel to Europe. It was… stressful. The history was fascinating, the architecture and natural beauty were spectacular. But everything was complicated and different. Mind you, I am not complaining. I’d go back in a heartbeat. We wandered through Venice, ate dinner next to a canal, rode a highspeed train across Italy, toured the Vatican, walked near the Acropolis, toured Greek Islands. And we learned firsthand what it means to be a stranger, a foreigner. And to be a stranger, a foreigner, is to be unsettled. To always be a little uncomfortable, a little on edge, a little out of your element. It was good for us. Comfort and the feeling of being in control is a dangerous siren song. Especially for Jesus followers. Especially for Jesus followers in our culture, in our time in history. I can so easily be sucked into the desires and expectations of society. Sucked in so effectively that I forget my primary identity is that of stranger, foreigner, exile. I find one passing detail in Hebrews chapter 11 fascinating. And helpful. The author is recounting the story of Abraham in shorthand and he says that Abraham lived in tents. And not only Abraham, but also his heirs, Isaac and Jacob, for they were “heirs with him of the same promise.” A promise from God that compelled them to live in tents? Not for one generation, but multiple generations? Not cool God. That’s super un-American. But it was even weird back then. Consider Abraham’s conversation with neighbors. ‘Mornin’ Abraham.” “Mornin’.” “How did you sleep, Abe? I noticed it got pretty windy last night. I had to get up and close the shutters. But then ya know what? I slept like a baby. Ya know why? Cause I live in a house. Tell me again why you live in a tent, Abraham?” “Because,” Abraham responds patiently even though he is tired of this conversation, “because I am looking forward to living in an unseen city, which is real by the way, with real foundations, eternal foundations. That's why I live in a tent now, because this land, promised to me by God, is not my real home. Thus the tent.” Abraham’s neighbor guffaws and walks away satisfied that he once again has plenty of material to entertain his friends at the city gate. Abraham’s conviction, which incidentally was tangible enough for his son and his son’s son to also adopt his anti-house, pro-tent lifestyle, marked Abraham as a man of a different culture and faith. And not just a different faith, but a faith that had overflowed its banks and was now interfering with Abraham’s life, lifestyle, and legacy. “Listen, my child, I am about to die but I give you my… tent.” I imagine Abraham whispering to Isaac. “But pops,” Isaac replies with a confused expression, “my friend Rocket is set to inherit his dad’s sprawling compound when he dies. 12,000 square feet of glorious Mediterranean-style villa! Tell me again why it is that you chose to live in a tent? It's super drafty, has the poorest insulation and it is impossible to defend against raiders. And you’re about to die, isn’t it time to give up on this dream of a better city?” Isaac considered saying “better city” with air quotes, but he thought better of it. “My Son,” Abraham said after a long pause, “do not fall for the lie that what you see is all that there is. This is a cheap imitation of the real thing. Listen! Do not set your hopes on this place, on the joys and comforts of this place, this life.” Abraham fell silent and fell still. Isaac leaned in, wondering if his dad had just passed away when Abraham’s eyes jerked open and he took a ragged breath, continuing where he had left off. “Living in a tent is a small concession to keep our affections aligned with God. It, every sacrifice that we make, will be worth it in the end. You’ll see.” By faith Abraham, when called to go to a place he would later receive as his inheritance, obeyed and went, even though he did not know where he was going. By faith he made his home in the promised land like a stranger in a foreign country; he lived in tents, as did Isaac and Jacob, who were heirs with him of the same promise. For he was looking forward to the city with foundations, whose architect and builder is God… All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance, admitting that they were foreigners and strangers on earth. People who say such things show that they are looking for a country of their own. If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return. Instead, they were longing for a better country—a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them. (From the author of the book written to the Hebrews, chapter 11, verses 8-10 and 13-16). This world is not our home. And, because our deepest affections lie elsewhere, we live with freedom and joy, not consumed with the agony of getting more and getting better. All that is being taken care of. We have only to carry on, spreading God-flavor and God-light everywhere we go. “Careless in the care of God.” Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, I never knew Eileen West to be young in the classical sense. Eileen was my Sunday school teacher for several years in the late 80’s. I was young, maybe 5 or 6 years old, and Eileen was a grandmother and a grandmotherly type. Eileen taught our rambunctious group the stories of the Bible using her storytelling gift and a flannel graph. She never had help in the classroom that I recall and never seemed to need it (although she may have begged to differ). If that old church building were still standing, and I were able to revisit it, I am sure I’d be shocked at how small our basement classroom was, but somehow it always had enough room for the stories being told. The story of Jonah and the fish worked reasonably well, especially since the church basement was known to flood during our rainy spring seasons, but the Israelites marching around the walls of Jericho made us all feel particularly cramped. Noah and the Ark was a stretch, mostly because we couldn’t wrap our young minds around someone building a boat for decades and decades on end, but we kids liked that the result was a floating zoo. Jesus feeding the 5000 was where our room and imaginations met their match. “How did Jesus do that?” we asked when Eileen explained that Jesus fed more people in this one casual miracle than made up the entire population of our town. “God can do anything,” she said and we believed her. I didn’t know much about Eileen other than she lived a few towns over and drove herself 30 minutes to teach us little hoodlums each Sunday. I do remember raising my hand one Sunday in church, signifying that I wanted to follow Jesus and Eileen was the person who talked to me about it after I had walked forward. (Back in those days, Jesus didn’t meet you in your seat, but only at the front near the altar). Eileen was one of those comforting presences in my life growing up that you assume will always be there, but eventually, I grew older and so did Eileen. I remember hearing that my parents were driving a meal over to her place because her health was failing and later, in a casual conversation, they mentioned that Eileen had passed away. Teresa of Avila either said or wrote, “When one reaches the highest degree of human maturity, one has only one question left: How can I be helpful?” I have no idea if Eileen ever heard of Teresa of Avila, but she was incredibly helpful to a group of tiny humans and I was fortunate enough to be one of them. To this day, I do not doubt that Eileen loved me and somehow, the way I understand and experience Jesus loving me is similar to how Eileen loved me. (Minus the Dixie cup of Kool-Aid and the animal crackers, I should add). I began by saying that I never knew Eileen to be young in the classical sense. I stand by that. However, as time has passed, I have begun to wonder if maybe Eileen was younger than I gave her credit for. You see, week after week, for many years, Eileen taught the kids in her Sunday school class about Jesus and I never detected fatigue or that this was monotonous to her. And then I came across this passage from G.K. Chesterton and it made me wonder all the more. Take a look at it for yourself: Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, "Do it again"; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, "Do it again" to the sun; and every evening, "Do it again" to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that he has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we. Maybe it was a sense of duty that compelled Eileen to spend time with us kids each week, or maybe, just maybe, she was much closer in age to us than we ever knew because she was like her Father. Either way, thank you, Eileen. Grace and peace be upon you, Grant.

Dear Trailhead family, I just met Joseph. He is 74 years old and on his way to see the cardiologist. Joseph has more than a passing resemblance to how I imagine Abraham or Moses. Or any of the Old Testament prophets for that matter; short, stocky, bursting with energy, an impressive beard. I could tell he wanted to talk. I had work to do and I hid behind my work as long as I could. But then Joseph asked me a question and we were off. His opening remark was about my gloves and he wondered if they were warm. I said that they were. I commented on his coffee. How a hot cup of coffee is the best way to keep your hands warm. We were now friends. We talked about his 94-year-old brother who is in hospice and grew up during the Great Depression and the Second World War and he hoped to see his brother before he passes. We talked about how the uncertainty of life during the Cold War impacted Joseph’s childhood and career. How Joseph served in the Air Force during Vietnam but never went to Vietnam. Somehow we even talked about the violence found in the Old Testament and how that may not be the clearest portrayal of God. And then Joseph had to get to his doctor’s appointment and we said goodbye. Joseph is gone and I am left to wonder what God was up to in that encounter. My conclusion? Something about salt and light. Here’s how The Message puts Jesus’ words, Let me tell you why you are here. You’re here to be salt-seasoning that brings out the God-flavors of this earth. If you lose your saltiness, how will people taste godliness? You’ve lost your usefulness and will end up in the garbage. Here’s another way to put it: You’re here to be light, bringing out the God-colors in the world. God is not a secret to be kept. We’re going public with this, as public as a city on a hill. If I make you light-bearers, you don’t think I’m going to hide you under a bucket, do you? I’m putting you on a light stand. Now that I’ve put you there on a hilltop, on a light stand—shine! Keep open house; be generous with your lives. By opening up to others, you’ll prompt people to open up with God, this generous Father in heaven. Thank you Joseph for taking the time to show me God-flavors and God-colors today. Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, Eons ago when I was about to turn thirty, I decided I wanted to climb a Colorado fourteener for my birthday. Colorado is blessed with more than 50 mountain peaks reaching over 14,000 feet above sea level and a few of those mountains are accessible to people who lack technical climbing skills. People like me. Since I had never climbed anything so formidable, I did a lot of research. Armed with blogs and books and maps, Cassie and I traveled to Colorado, fueled up on pizza the night before our climb, got up insanely early, and drove to the trailhead. That’s when we really started learning about climbing fourteeners. Especially climbing fourteeners in late spring. The first surprise of the day was how much snow we encountered on our drive to the trailhead. So much snow that it became clear that if we continued to drive up, we might never drive down. So we parked well short of the trailhead and began our climb. The next surprise was just how high fourteen thousand feet is and how difficult it is to breathe at that altitude. The climb was less than five miles one way, but starting at 11,000 feet meant we were breathing hard the whole time. But we made it to the top. And it was spectacular. Sunny skies reflected off the snow-covered mountains spreading off in every direction. Cassie sang happy birthday to me and we ate our leftover pizza in an oxygen-deprived state of bliss. And why shouldn’t we be happy? We were at the top; as everyone knows, going down is easier. Except it wasn't. The snow, with a nice crust that supported our weight on the way up in the cold, was now softened by the sun and was no longer willing to hold us up. For the majority of the trek back down, we sank to our knees or deeper with each step. We were no longer having fun. Late that afternoon we made it back to the vehicle, back down the mountain road, and back to civilization. We were sunburned, dehydrated, sick from the altitude, terribly sore, and grumpy. We both agreed that there are better ways to celebrate a birthday. But I was hooked. Over the next five years, I climbed as many fourteeners as I could, including returning to the original climb a few times to try it with better gear and better conditions. And each climb had a special moment for me: the first sliver of the sun rising over the horizon, throwing its color and light up and out in every direction. To avoid the crowded trails I’d typically start my climb several hours before sunrise and the scope of my view for those first miles was whatever my headlamp could illuminate. But once the eastern sky began to turn from black to gray and from gray to yellowish-orange, I’d get my first view of my surroundings and the mountain I was climbing. The sunrise always necessitated a short break to soak in the view and savor the beauty. However, a few times, my route had me climbing towards the sun as it rose. And my view, rather than being awe-inspiring and postcard-worthy, was more like looking into, well, the sun. Blinded by the light. Whereas before the sun rose I was blissfully skipping along (who am I kidding? It was more like slowly putting one foot in front of the other), I was now tripping on rocks and having a hard time decerning where the path even was. All because of the light. Headlamp no longer needed, I was now pulling my hat bill low, holding an arm high to shield my eyes, squinting to make out just what exactly the light was illuminating. Which reminds me of that ornery old prophet Isaiah, when he wrote, “The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.” I love that verse. This Light was an answer to prayer. The answer to the prayer. The Light would be God among us, with us, one of us. And yet, some six hundred years later, when the Light dawned, I wonder if it wasn’t just a little blinding. I picture those first-century Israelites doing a lot of pulling their hat brims low, arms held high to shield their eyes, squinting to make out just what exactly the light was illuminating. A baby who is… God? A baby who is God who grows up to… die? A baby who is God who grows up to die… for what? The people walking in darkness were looking for something else. Something a lot more like… Rome. Since Rome was the problem, the solution should look like Rome, only more powerful. But Jesus didn’t come to be a bigger Rome or a better Rome. Rome already had its gods; the powerful always have more than enough gods. Jesus came for those who had lost faith in their gods and were humbly looking for something real. And that's where the blinding part comes in. I suspect that until we stop fighting the brilliance of the Light, until we stop shielding our eyes and glancing away to protect our vision, we never experience the miracle of the Savior. The Light is blinding. But maybe, it blinds us to what is false and fake, and then, only when we are properly blind, do we see what is real. "When Jesus spoke again to the people, he said, 'I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.'" Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, Christmas is almost here. Maybe you are excited. Maybe you are not. Maybe it doesn't feel like Christmas should be almost here because someone or something is missing from this season. Regardless, Christmas comes. Or, a better way to say it is, Christ arrives right on time. The story of humanity is that we have not fully shown up to the moment—any moment. Maybe it was a simple command in a good garden not to eat from a certain tree or maybe it was a solemn covenant made between the Almighty and his people, but the consistent part is that we have consistently not held up our end of the bargain. Shame on us? Game over? Go home, you didn’t make the team? You’d think, but no. Rather, it would seem that our limits, our fallibility, has been factored into the story from the very beginning. Paul, the rangy theologian/missionary/author/former persecutor of all things Jesus, writes to this effect, “Christ arrives right on time…. He didn’t, and doesn’t, wait for us to get ready. He presented himself for this sacrificial death when we were far too weak and rebellious to do anything to get ourselves ready. And even if we hadn’t been so weak, we wouldn’t have known what to do anyway.” (Romans 5, MSG) Christ arrives right on time. One day, in a tiny village that was bursting to the seams with visitors because a far-off person with power had made a degree, a baby was born. Born in a room frequented by animals to a young girl, a virgin girl. By the birthing virgin’s side was a young man who was tasked with caring for the baby and the baby's momma. The baby was not his. The circumstances seem less than ideal. Maybe no one is ever ready for Christmas. And yet, Christ arrives right on time. While this miracle of birth was miraculously happening, outside of town a group of shepherds were shepherding. In contrast to the hustle and bustle of Bethlehem, these shepherds appear to be left out. Whatever is happening in town, they are not necessary nor significant enough to leave their sheep to participate. But the quiet of the night suddenly broke when a figure appeared to them. Not only did this thing, this being, appear out of nowhere and begin to speak, but something called “the glory of the Lord” shone all around them. They were terrified. The shepherds weren’t ready for Christmas. I remember moments like this as a child when I was minding my own business, playing with Lincoln Logs or Lego blocks or Hot Wheels cars, and suddenly my mom appeared out of nowhere and the glory of her authority shone about her and I was terrified. Why? I can't say for sure. But what I am sure about is that anyone who cared to do a little sleuthing could find some dirt on me. Most likely recent dirt, incriminating dirt. I had siblings after all; I was never innocent. Some way, somehow, I was guilty and I knew it. And my mom’s presence must mean that justice would be served. We know little for certain about the shepherds but we do know this with certainty, they were every bit as guilty as little me. And yet, my mom, I mean the angel, had a message that caught the shepherds completely by surprise. The greatest event in the history of great events was taking place and they had been exclusively invited to witness the moment. This wasn’t about the guilty being held to account, but about the account no longer belonging to the guilty. But let’s back up to where we began. The lead-up to the first Christmas was not magical. The birth of the Savior of the world was not preceded by massive discounts on TVs and Toyotas, it was not anticipated by the lighting of the Rockefeller Christmas Tree and Myriah Carey’s soulful voice singing Christmas classics, nor was it celebrated by elaborate church productions and candlelit services. Hardly. The lead-up to The Birth was the worst of times. And into the despair, the questions, the anxiety, the shortfalls, Christ arrives right on time. After all, how anticlimactic would it be for a savior to show up to a people and a place that needed no saving? So rejoice in your weakness, in your unpreparedness, in the tinge of sadness and regret. Christ, your Savior, arrives right on time. Grace and peace be upon you, Grant