Letters from the Pastor

Dear Trailhead family, Larry Williams was successful. At least that is how he felt most of the time. His house was the right distance in and out of town; he lived in a neighborhood that just a few years ago was pasture and the 3-acre lots held modern, stylish, large homes. Larry’s was the largest. Larry drove a late-model pickup truck with all the bells and whistles. Larry’s wife, Betty, playfully made fun of his truck, saying it was more luxurious than her Mercedes SUV. She wasn’t wrong; his truck was nice. Larry and Betty were almost empty nesters and were enjoying the rewards of playing the game the way it was meant to be played. Larry and Betty met in college and chose degrees with great financial upside. Through the hectic early years of starting their careers, their marriage, and their family, they never stopped pursuing their goal of financial independence. They weren’t the kind of rich that buy NBA franchises, but they knew the kind of people who did. Larry had few regrets. His three kids liked their parents, or at least they liked the perks of being from a well-to-do family and therefore acted like they liked their parents. And that was good enough for Larry. Betty was great; Larry had chosen well all those years ago and Betty was the steady voice of reason and calm in the family. Betty kept Larry grounded and Betty kept the family together. And make no mistake, she enjoyed her status in life. Living in a midsized town meant that the Williams were small-time celebrities, and they were recognized and envied by almost everyone in town. Of course, occasionally having to cancel a tee time or lunch date with friends because of an impromptu trip to Cabo or London only added to the mystique. Larry and Betty were both involved in their local church and faith had always played a predominate role in their lives. As was common, Betty shouldered the responsibility of getting the family to church, often chiding Larry that he was more trouble than the kids to get out the door on Sunday mornings. But once at church, Larry was happy to be there and felt like the investment of time once a week was good for him and his family. Sometimes though, when the preacher wasn't totally on his game, Larry’s mind would wander during the message and he would think back to his younger years. Back then, 30 years ago, Larry was all about God. Larry had headed up a Bible study at his high school, he had volunteered at every opportunity at church and he had pushed his youth pastor to plan more short-term mission trips. Larry’s friends knew that hanging with Larry meant that, sooner or later, Larry would steer the conversation to something faith-related. It was inevitable. Larry’s best friend, Scooter (long story but it involved the school’s roof and a scooter) would place bets with other friends over how long a conversation with Larry would take to turn towards God or the Bible. Those had been good years when Larry felt certain about right and wrong, certain about what God wanted, certain about the purpose of life. But time and experience have a way of eroding certainty and losing Scooter in a car accident a few days before graduation had been the first of many foundational pieces to be pulled out from under Larry’s faith. Slowly, imperceptibly, Larry's faith became more and more peripheral. Wealth became a preferred savior, status did more to heal his soul than church or the Bible. Even after all these years, Larry would shake his head at who he had once been. But life was good and Larry wasn't complaining. His only issue was minor but still annoying. Once a week, sometimes more, sometimes less, Larry would have The Dream. The Dream was innocent enough, The Dream was no nightmare. But its reoccurrence was annoying. The Dream was always the same. Larry would dream that he was with a few friends playing poker in one of their mansions when he would excuse himself to use the restroom. On the way to the restroom, Larry would walk by huge windows that framed the mountains in the distance. But he never noticed the vista lit up by the setting sun because of the reflection he saw in the window. There, staring back at himself, was an alarming version of himself. Not hideous in that he was disfigured, but shocking in his poverty. Larry’s immaculately trimmed hair and beard we long and straggly, his manicured fingers sported long and dirty nails and his clear blue eyes looked empty and vacant. The figure looked haunted by nothingness, if that was possible. But that wasn't everything. The figure staring back at him was nearly naked. Larry’s muscular frame was replaced with a gaunt, malnourished body that was stooped and sickly. Rather than wearing his usual tailored clothes, Larry wore ragged shorts that were nearly threadbare, barely hanging on. His reflection looked hunted, desperate, scared. And it was at this point Larry would wake up from The Dream, his heart always pounding, his sheets always sweaty, his mind always racing. Larry hated The Dream. The Dream was so stupid, so disconnected from reality that he never shared it with a soul. And yet, somehow, The Dream didn't feel so disconnected from reality. Larry couldn’t put it into words, but when he looked at the broken, disfigured person staring back at him from the window, he felt that the real him was the fake, the fraud. And so The Dream continued its unwelcomed visit from time to time for month after month. Larry had given up hope that The Dream would ever not be there. The Dream was as much a part of him as his voice, his heritage, his DNA. And then, one night, The Dream was different. The Dream began as it always did, except this time, as Larry stared back at his forlorn reflection, another character approached. The new person was hard to describe as they seemed to come into and out of focus, but their intention was immediately clear. The person wrapped an arm around Larry and lifted a cup of something warm and nourishing to Larry’s lips. The wretched Larry drank and drank and his gaunt features began to swell, to return to health. But the person wasn't done. After the long drink, the person produced clothes. Larry was soon fully covered in new, clean clothes. But the person wasn’t finished yet. The person reached up to Larry’s eyes, eyes that still looked vacant and hurt, and gently wiped some sort of medicine on them. And that's when Larry woke up, eyes wide open. No racing heart, no sweaty sheets this time, but only a desire to be back in The Dream. Back in The Dream so he could spend more time with the person. Somehow, someway, that person was what this was all about. About that, Larry was now certain. Write to Laodicea, to the Angel of the church. God’s Yes, the Faithful and Accurate Witness, the First of God’s creation, says: “I know you inside and out, and find little to my liking. You’re not cold, you’re not hot—far better to be either cold or hot! You’re stale. You’re stagnant. You make me want to vomit. You brag, ‘I’m rich, I’ve got it made, I need nothing from anyone,’ oblivious that in fact you’re a pitiful, blind beggar, threadbare and homeless. “Here’s what I want you to do: Buy your gold from me, gold that’s been through the refiner’s fire. Then you’ll be rich. Buy your clothes from me, clothes designed in Heaven. You’ve gone around half-naked long enough. And buy medicine for your eyes from me so you can see, really see. “The people I love, I call to account—prod and correct and guide so that they’ll live at their best. Up on your feet, then! About face! Run after God! “Look at me. I stand at the door. I knock. If you hear me call and open the door, I’ll come right in and sit down to supper with you. Conquerors will sit alongside me at the head table, just as I, having conquered, took the place of honor at the side of my Father. That’s my gift to the conquerors! “Are your ears awake? Listen. Listen to the Wind Words, the Spirit blowing through the churches.” Revelations 3:14-22, MSG Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, We have a little bird feeder attached to our dining room window. Our feeder is a small tray with suction cups so that the feeder can be attached to a smooth surface. This is our second attempt at feeding birds. In attempt number one, we were gifted a beautiful bird feeder from Cassie’s mom. The feeder replicated a barn, was made out of metal, and had a nifty way of keeping the squirrels at bay by way of a platform attached to a spring that would collapse from the weight of anything bigger than a bird. It worked marvelously at thwarting the squirrels; not so much a black bear. We awoke one morning to find the bird feeder lying on the ground, very mangled. It didn't seem like the work of sparrows. Enter attempt number two, the small plastic feeder. So far, no bears. Also, not too many birds. The birds love the sunflower seeds in our mix, but once those are consumed, they pretty much ignore our feeder. Occasionally they will swing back by to make sure they didn't miss a sunflower seed but once their curiosity is sated, they are gone. This brings us to an often-overlooked invitation from Jesus: “Consider the birds.” Jesus uttered these words during his famous Sermon on the Mount. He had just dropped such hits as the Beatitudes and the Lord’s Prayer. And then “Consider the birds.” I like to imagine that Jesus spoke those words while gazing at a few little birds hopping around looking for a crumb or other morsel of food dropped by the crowd. I like to think the crowd craned their necks to see what Jesus was looking at, only to quickly shift their focus back to Jesus, ready for his next words. Only Jesus wasn't saying anything. He was still considering the birds. A faint smile curled his lips, and the crow's feet near his eyes became more evident as his smile crept to his eyes. He was delighted with the birds. I like to think that Jesus considered the birds for a long time. Maybe a minute, maybe 5 minutes. I’m hoping it was 10 or more. It seems like something Jesus would do. Long, slow, lazy minutes watching the birds. The birds, sensing the calm, become more bold. Little birds, weighing only ounces, moving between people's feet, occasionally alighting on a hand or shoulder or head, intent on finding food, content in the search. I like to think that as the minutes of silence dragged on, a few people began to mutter, began to shuffle their feet, began to wander off. I imagine it was the important people who left first. They had important things to do (that's what makes important people so important). After a few more minutes, half the crowd was completely distracted by those around them, dinner plans, internal arguments, and the nagging question “Is Jesus a crackpot or just kinda eccentric?” But the other half of the crowd, made up primarily of the really young and the really old, were entranced by the birds. Fascinated by the jittery movements, the whir of their wings in the silence, the delicate feet and smooth feathers, their soft back-and-forth chatter. Then Jesus spoke softly, almost in a whisper. “These little birds do not go about seeking security by sowing or reaping. They don’t place excess food in barns. The result? Hunger? Poverty? You would think so, but no. Rather, your heavenly Father feeds them.” Then I like to think that Jesus finally pulled his gaze away from the birds and looked into the eyes of his listeners. Slowing moving from face to face, his smile returning, Jesus concluded, “You have the Father’s attention like these little birds, only so much more.” Grace and peace be upon you, Grant p.s. Below is a prayer that I included in a previous letter that may prove helpful as we navigate internal and external challenges. Father, I am thankful that you are in charge. The events happening now have reminded me of how little I control. I am thankful that you are in charge, right here, right now. I am thankful you see tomorrow, and thankful you are in tomorrow. Help me come to peace in my limitations because you are not limited. Spirit, Would you lead and guide me right now? Would you teach me to look to you first in every circumstance? I want to walk in step with you and in this way, to live in your love and joy, your peace and patience, your kindness and goodness, your faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Jesus, My Rescuer and Master, I love you. I dedicate myself to you all over again, to be with you, become like you and to do what you did. I want nothing more than to follow you all the days of my life and I eagerly say with all the saints past and present and future, “Come Lord Jesus!” Yes! Amen!

Dear Trailhead family, A pastor recently posted something that caught my attention. He said, “It really is a curious evangelism strategy to despise the people you are trying to bring to Jesus.” He has a point. A few years back, the most important event in human history took place in a dusty little village out of sight of the powerful or influential. In fact, the only people invited to the event were a group of despised people: shepherds. Who despised the shepherds? Those with More power, More money, More visibility, More influence, More options. (The Mores have always been tempted to despise the Less). Yet God overlooked the Mores and instead told the Less, a few shepherds, about the birth of his son. “Behold, I bring you tidings that will cause great joy for all people!” A herald represents the one being heralded. God chose shepherds. This partiality for the Less wasn’t only a thing with the Father or a bunch of exuberant angels. Jesus often kept company with social outcasts and notorious sinners. Jesus was despised by those who claimed to know the most about God for keeping company with such people. (The Mores have always been tempted to despise the Less). Fast-forward a few years and Paul writes this to the church in Corinth, “dear friends, let us purify ourselves from everything that contaminates body and spirit, perfecting holiness out of reverence for God.” (2 Corinthians 7:1) So… the religious leaders had it right? And Jesus had it wrong? Clearly. Not. But how? We were rescued from our life of death. Death-life. Death-life is the experience that no matter how hard we work on ourselves, the only outcome is death. (No wonder people do not have hope.) Curious enough, the rescue was not a one-time event. Rather, we are being rescued from our death-life. The risen Jesus is working in us. Right now. Life on life. And, there is more. We will be rescued! We were, we are, we will be rescued. Saved. Life on life on life. Because this elaborate rescue is taking place in us, we are invited to not sabotage the rescue. Cue the purity instructions from Paul (and to an extent, all the biblical writers). In Paul’s case, it would seem that people had embraced the rescue operation of Jesus but while Jesus was healing them, they were de-healing themselves. Doctor Jesus was cleaning the wound and they were dumping sewer water on the wound. Paul’s instructions: Stop it! So do we avoid sin? Yes, sewer water is never good or good for us. More than just avoid sin, we are told to flee it. So what about those who don't know Jesus and are practicing a lifestyle of sin? Are they to be avoided? It depends. If you are early in your healing operation (or you’ve been about it for quite a while but haven’t made much progress) there are certain people not safe to be around. You are too easily infected. (Depending on your wound, this may always be true of you. Since we are not all equally tempted, there is no one-size-fits-all answer to this question). A friend shared this analogy with me. As Christians, we often take the approach to the lost that parents take with their children playing in the street. We tell our kids to stay away from the street. It is not safe, you could be seriously hurt or worse. All true. But avoiding the street is not the end goal. The end goal is to operate safely in the street. Respect the dangers of the street, sure. But a trained, aware person will not avoid the street. So with the lost. With sinners. Even the notorious ones that Jesus either sought out or attracted. Jesus seemed to enjoy the company of sinners. (Gasp!) Jesus knew the dangers of the street and was able to joyfully play there. Jesus sought time with the lost because they needed his healing, his Good News, and because, no matter how far from God they were, he longed for the relationship to be restored. Jesus looked past the brokenness and saw lost sons and daughters. (Luke 15) The street is not to be despised, but it should be avoided if we are ill-equipped and ill-trained to operate in that space. If you haven’t learned to look both ways before stepping into the street, that is no reason to despise the street, but an invitation to grow up. Mature. And you shouldn’t be looked down on while you do your growing, just as you shouldn’t look down on those who have already grown. We are to live in understanding with each other, and we are to live in compassion for those far from God. My point? (Goodness Grant, we beg of you, please get to your point!) We are called to be salt and light. Not for our benefit (although we certainly benefit), but to benefit those outside. God seasoning to bring out the God-flavors in the world. God light to to bring out the God-colors in the world. Taste. See. The Lord is good. Back to where we began, “It really is a curious evangelism strategy to despise the people you are trying to bring to Jesus.” (Rich Villodas) This quote is not to be disassociated from our current political moment. People of faith have been known to forget the Way of Jesus, the Truth of Jesus, the Life of Jesus during election seasons. Maybe you have met one. Maybe you are one. There is something very backward about a Christian despising another person. How can we despise the lost person that Jesus died for? How can we despise a fellow sister or brother because of a yard sign? A bumper sticker? Of course, there is more to it than that, but our response as Jesus followers is not changed by the complexity of a situation. And make no mistake, this is the situation: “My beloved friends, let us continue to love each other since love comes from God. Everyone who loves is born of God and experiences a relationship with God. The person who refuses to love doesn’t know the first thing about God, because God is love—so you can’t know him if you don’t love. This is how God showed his love for us: God sent his only Son into the world so we might live through him. This is the kind of love we are talking about—not that we once upon a time loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as a sacrifice to clear away our sins and the damage they’ve done to our relationship with God. My dear, dear friends, if God loved us like this, we certainly ought to love each other. No one has seen God, ever. But if we love one another, God dwells deeply within us, and his love becomes complete in us—perfect love!” (1 Timothy 1:7-12, MSG) Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, Two priests were talking. One priest was young, confident in his training, convinced of his role. The other priest was old, his hourglass running low. The conversation ebbed and flowed, both men curious of the other. Then the young priest asked the question he was most curious about. "If you had your priesthood to live over again, would you do anything differently?" The young man knew the elderly priest had led a good life, conducted himself with integrity and virtue, and so he half expected that his friend would not have much to say to his question. But his assumption was wrong, his companion did have a regret, a regret that he considered significant. After a long pause, the old priest cleared his throat, wiped his eyes, and said in a papery voice, "If I had my priesthood to do over again, I would be easier on people the next time. I wouldn't be so stingy with God's mercy, with the sacraments, with forgiveness... I fear that I've been too hard on people. They have pain enough without me and the church laying further burdens on them. I should have risked God's mercy more!" (quotes from the old priest recounted by Ronald Rolheiser) My kids love to dress up. As you can imagine, there is much anticipation for Halloween. One child has a costume loosely based on a princess and the other loosely based on a dinosaur. And then there’s the candy. We have had many conversations about which neighbors' houses we will visit, and I'm almost positive that I have seen my 4-year-old lick his lips in anticipation of the sugar. Last Halloween, our final stop was at a friend’s house. The kids chose a piece of candy and then we were invited into the house to pet the dog and a moment later, the kids were offered another piece of candy. Before we left, more candy was shared and gladly accepted by my children. Our visit to our friend’s home coincided with their decision that they were about done giving out candy and rather than end the evening with candy left over, they decided to give it away. Where they were tempted to be stingy at the beginning of the night for fear that they would run out of candy, they now realized that they had more than enough and so the instructions to “Take just one” had become, “Would you like another?” The human condition has always resolved around our suspicion that God is stingy with us. Is he holding out, is he holding back? Can I trust that what I have been given is enough or do I need to reach out and grasp for more? That was the battle in the Garden and that is the battle in so many of our souls. “Is there enough (fill in the blank) for me? Is there enough to go around? If I give some away, will I be left without?” I am afraid that too many of us are hoarding grace. After being given grace in amounts that we cannot fathom or understand, we grasp what we have, squinting at others, weighing whether they deserve to be given a smidge more or if they’ll just waste it like the last grace they were given. In this, we do not look like our Father. As I write this, I am sitting in a coffee shop in Columbia Falls, surrounded by people eating breakfast, talking about the weather and politics, a few wearing camo and a few are most definitely tourists. And they are all fiercely loved by God. Every person around me need only take a step toward the Father and they will find themselves caught up in a powerful hug, new clothes covering their shame, the family ring on their finger, and a flurry of preparations going on for the party that will shortly follow. Grace upon grace. Unless. Unless those around me are already near the Father, and their nearness has caused them to lose the plot. Their nearness may have obstructed their view, turned their heart from gratitude to contempt, from graciousness to stinginess. Like our ancestors in the Garden, they may begin to question if the Father is holding out. The grace is still there, but they have become blind. In one of Jesus’ stories, as recounted in Luke chapter 15, the younger son meets his father and is shown grace. Grace that he receives (for that is the only requirement). His life is marked by goodness, riches that he does not deserve but that he enjoys. The older brother also meets his father. The older brother is also shown grace, invited into the house, into the party. But the older brother cannot receive the grace. The older brother suspects that his father has been stingy with him. The older brother wonders aloud if his father has held back. The older brother assumes that the only way there will be enough for him is if he and his father are stingy with his brother. The old priest, upon reflecting on the question, sees reflections of the older brother in him. And so might you. I certainly see the reflection of the older brother in me. But the reality is that the evening is getting late. And we have no shortage of candy. So, might we, when the next eager-faced trick-or-treaters come to our door, might we dump all the candy we have in the house into their little jack-o-lantern candy pails? Might we know the joy of the father as we see their faces register shock and joy, the shock and joy of unexpected, undeserved, overflowing grace? And no matter how much we give away, we will never give away what is ours, but only what we have been given by our Father. He is that generous. Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, A brief thought on knowing versus knowing about. Cassie and I have been married for 17 years. I’ve known about Abraham Lincoln for over 30 years. Random? Yes. But we are going somewhere. If I were to describe Cassie, I would say something to the effect of how, from the first moment I met her, she exuded joy and hope. I would say how she has never shied away from a challenge, how she stood with me during some dark and daunting years, how she makes our kids laugh, and how she has a startling sensitivity to the Spirit. I would tell you how she likes her coffee and her views on what makes a well-balanced Mexican restaurant. I could tell you why she chose not to ride the mules in Santorini and why any mention of the movie Pocahontas always comes with a story. More importantly, I know what it means to cry with Cassie, to have prayers answered with a yes and answered with a no, to celebrate dreams come true, and to hold each other when we don’t know where to turn. I know Cassie. If I were to describe Abraham Lincoln, I would tell you that he was born on February 12, 1809, in Kentucky and that he served as president of the United States from 1861 until his assassination in 1865. I would tell you of his early failures, of his leadership during the Civil War, of his role in abolishing slavery, and of the deep pain he experienced in his personal life. I know about Lincoln. Do you sense the difference? A few days ago I read a paragraph that made me stop. The paragraph had to do with the way I know Cassie and the way I know Abraham Lincoln. Here’s what I read, “Describe the Christ that you have personally encountered on the grounds of your own self. Describe Him as you would to a friend over coffee. Describe not the deity you have heard about or been taught to believe exists, but only the Christ you have actually encountered. And then I invite you to reflect soberly on what your own answer reveals to you.” (from The Ragamuffin Gospel by Brennan Manning) I know a fair bit about Abraham Lincoln. I know Cassie. And then there’s Jesus. To simply know about Jesus or even to be about Jesus, we can miss Jesus. Because Jesus’ invitation is to himself. Jesus invites you and me to know him. Deeply. Richly. Intimately. Jesus came to a people who knew a whole awful lot about God. But they didn’t know him. That made it easy to turn on him and kill him when he didn’t behave as desired. And how about us? Honestly, we probably are not that much different from the Israelites a couple of millennia ago. We know a lot about Jesus. If that is the point, mission accomplished. But that is not the point. The point, the aim of everything, is to know Jesus. And be known by him. And we have been invited. By Jesus himself. In his letter to the Jesus followers in Philippi, Paul recounts all his spiritual credentials and he concludes that they are worthy of the garbage heap in comparison to knowing Christ. “What is more, I consider everything a loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord.” (Philippians 3:5-14) Knowing about Abraham Lincoln may inspire you to be a better person. Knowing about Jesus will also inspire you to be a better person. But knowing Jesus, well, that won't just make you better, rather, it will make you new. A new kind of human. And that is what our condition requires. That is what we were made for. That is what all our searching is meant to lead us to. May we know Jesus. And if you do not know Jesus that way, he invites you to. Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, Joe and Greg were born a few days apart at the same small hospital in the same small town. And they lived only a few houses apart, on the same small street. As fate would have it, they had the same brown curly hair and similar builds and most people who didn’t know Greg and Joe well assumed they were twins, or at least cousins. The boys were inseparable growing up, from the park and playground as youngsters to playing sports and just hanging out as tweens. If Joe wasn't at home, he was at Greg’s, and if Greg wasn't home, well, you get the idea. As so often happens, as the years passed and the boys grew, their differences became more pronounced. Greg enjoyed all things tech and could spend hours on his computer, coding, gaming, hacking. Greg’s curiosity and desire to know how things worked served him well and he received a full scholarship to the school of his dreams. After college, Greg moved a few towns over and convinced a local investor to build a manufacturing plant, which Greg ran. And ran well, we might add. A plant that began with just a few machines and a couple thousand square feet soon doubled and then quadrupled in size and the company prospered. Ten employees became 50, then 100, and finally settled around 150 full-time machinists, delivery drivers, sales reps, and supervisors. Life was good for Greg and after 10 years of remarkable growth, he bought out his original investor. The buck stopped with Greg and Greg was ok with that. Even though he had taken out a large loan to buy the business, Greg slept well at night. And so did Joe. Joe’s path was uniquely Joe. Always artistic, Joe found his niche in high school in an art class and he soon learned he had a passion for landscape painting. As Joe’s room, and then the spare room, began to be filled with his paintings, his parents stepped in and demanded that he find a way to store or get rid of his paintings. As luck or providence would have it, Joe, on a whim, took a couple of paintings to a friend’s booth at a farmers market and they caught the eye of a gallery owner. One thing led to another and soon Joe had dropped out of college (much to his parent’s chagrin) to pursue painting full-time. The gallery owner became a mentor and friend and sold Joe’s paintings as fast as he could produce them. Joe loved his life and he lived in the moment. One brush stroke, one color at a time. But one day Joe awoke to terrible news, his friend, the man who had given him his big break and the owner of the gallery, had passed away. The gallery owner’s widow offered to sell the gallery to Joe and Joe, even though he had no desire to run a business, took out a small loan and bought the gallery. And for many years, Joe made it work. He’d make just enough money to pay his bills but he soon found that the upkeep and maintenance of his old gallery kept him from paying down his debt. But things were working out for both Joe and Greg and they kept in touch as best they could. Early on, it was a monthly dinner at a sports bar to watch whatever sport was on TV and to catch up, reminisce, and occasionally, still get mistaken as brothers. As the years passed, the monthly dinners became quarterly, and then yearly. Both Greg and Joe wished that could spend more time together but their work, families, and other responsibilities required most of their attention and so, without either man realizing it, they stopped getting together. One year passed, then two. Eventually six years came and went without anything more than an occasional text or fond thought of the other. And Joe and Greg may have continued to drift apart for the rest of their lives if the economy hadn’t tanked. And tank it did. Manufacturing came to a screeching halt and Greg began laying off a few people, cutting production. And then more layoffs, more cuts. The dream was officially a nightmare and Greg found himself sitting in the waiting room of his local bank, awaiting his 10 am appointment with the bank president. Head bowed, heart pounding, Greg knew this was the bitter end of all he had built over the past few decades. Greg was lost in thought until a deep sigh startled him out of his daze and looking up, he found Joe sitting across the room from him. Joe didn’t look any better than Greg felt. Disheveled, Joe looked like he hadn’t slept in days. And in fact, he hadn’t. As soon as the whispers of the economy shrinking had become shouts, Joe’s customer base shrank to nothing. Paintings began to pile up as did the unpaid bills until Joe came to the inevitable realization that he could no longer afford to both eat and pay the mortgage on his beloved gallery. And so this chance meeting at the bank, both friends witnessing the end of their dreams. Joe was called into the bank president’s office first. Greg wished him luck as the door closed behind his friend. Greg pulled his beard, nervously fingered his wedding band, absent-mindedly checked his phone. And then Joe emerged from the office after only a few minutes. To say Joe looked worse or better would be hard to say, but he did look shocked. However, before Greg could ask Joe what happened, he heard his name called and he found himself walking into the president’s office, shaking hands, taking a seat, reminding himself to breathe. The bank president began without any pleasantries, “Greg, this is no longer working. After reviewing your loan, it is clear that you are in a heap of trouble. After much consideration on my part, I have decided that my only course of action is to forgive your loan.” Greg blinked. “I’m sorry sir, I didn’t hear what you said. Could you repeat that?” But the bank president only smiled and slid a file across the desk to Greg, a file that showed Greg’s remaining balance to be zero. Greg coughed. Then laughed. He tried to speak but a sob came out instead. Every time Greg opened his mouth to speak, his cry became louder. Finally, sobbing uncontrollably, Greg stood on shaky legs, hugged the man, feebly tried to wipe his snot off the shoulder of the expensive-looking suit worn by the president, and walked out of the office. Then Jesus turned to Simon, a man of impeccable religious reputation, and asked, “Which of these two men will love the one who forgave their debt more?” Simon replied, “I suppose the one who had the bigger debt forgiven.” “You have answered correctly,” Jesus said. Then he turned toward the woman, (the woman who had barged into Simon’s house, interrupting the meal with her presence, her reputation, her tears. Crumbled beside Jesus, with her tears falling on Jesus’ feet, the woman dried his feet with her hair, and then filled the house with fragrance as she poured her jar of perfume on Jesus). Then Jesus turned to that woman. A stunned silence had settled on the room, everyone in attendance riveted by the spectacle of the woman and Jesus, unwilling to look away and unwilling to make eye contact with each other. Then Jesus cleared his throat (causing a few to jump) and told a story about two men, hopelessly in debt with no way to repay. After the story, Jesus turned towards the woman and said to Simon, “Do you see this woman? I came into your house. You did not give me any water for my feet, but she wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. You did not give me a kiss, but this woman, from the time I entered, has not stopped kissing my feet. You did not put oil on my head, but she has poured perfume on my feet. Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven—as her great love has shown. But whoever has been forgiven little loves little.” Then Jesus said to her, “Your sins are forgiven.” The other guests began to say among themselves, “Who is this who even forgives sins?” Jesus said to the woman, “Your faith has saved you; go in peace.” (Luke 7:36-50)  Maybe, just maybe, our past sins or righteousness don’t matter as much as how we approach Jesus at this very moment . Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, Once upon a time, a man lived in a far-off country. Let’s call him Man. His life was comfortable, if not exactly great. “Not too shabby,” was how Man would reply when his neighbors asked him how it was going. He had food, he had a home. He had inside jokes with a few of the merchants he interacted with daily, he had a cordial relationship with the local baristas and they knew his order by heart. (Nothing too fancy for our mysterious Man, a 16oz Americano with an extra shot). But to say he was liked or revered would be taking it too far. Man had a matching 401(k), was responsible with his finances, wore sensible outfits and his daily ride was a second-hand car with low miles and a single previous owner. But Man dreamed of more. Man’s job was ok most of the time. Even though Man’s work wasn’t always up to his boss’s standards, he was given second and third chances to make things right. Somehow, he kept his job even though co-workers surely wondered why he was not let go years ago. And here’s the thing about Man, he suffered from a common malady- he liked, no, he needed, to be in charge. Man needed to be the captain of his own ship, deciding his own destiny, answering to nothing bigger than himself. (Even as I write this, I’m not sure if our Man is the protagonist or antagonist of our story.) And so Man lived. A mildly frustrated young Man on the path to becoming a crotchety, angry old Man. And then one day Man got his big break. To no credit of his own, his boss chose him for a very important assignment. He was to travel to a remote region and introduce this new market to the work of his firm. This was a career-defining assignment. So with his overnight bag packed and his ticket in hand, Man set off. In the completely opposite direction. The official account (which omits all the speculation that my imagination fills in) states it this way, “The Lord gave this message to Jonah son of Amittai: “Get up and go to the great city of Nineveh. Announce my judgment against it because I have seen how wicked its people are.” But Jonah got up and went in the opposite direction to get away from the Lord. He went down to the port of Joppa, where he found a ship leaving for Tarshish. He bought a ticket and went on board, hoping to escape from the Lord by sailing to Tarshish.” (Jonah 1:1-3) Jonah was a prophet of God who wanted away from God. But maybe that is not fair. Jonah was a prophet of God who wanted away from God when God’s plans were different than his own. It was great being a prophet when no propheting was required. And this is where I begin to resent Jonah, for in his failure, I can see my own. It would seem to me, based on reading scripture and spending time in prayer, that following Jesus requires radical self-denial. I have been prompted, in small ways and big, to “Get up and go to the great city of Nineveh,” and instead I ignored the command. Why? Simply because Ninevah requires something of me that I am not willing to give. And there is always a Tarshish. Tarshish looks nice from afar. In Tarshish, the hope is that I can be a prophet without the annoying responsibility of prophesying. In Tarshish, I hope to live happily ever after. In Tarshish, I can be a prophet beholden only to myself. But Tarshish is a mirage. A lie. It does not exist. As the psalmist exclaims (laments?) “Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.” (Psalm 139) To follow Jesus means that I am in the presence of God. I chose this; I was not forced. To follow Jesus, to be in the presence of God means that at any moment, God can make demands upon my life. And He will. Sometimes I joyfully reply “Yes!” and find myself headed to Nineveh, and sometimes I’m standing at a ticket booth in Joppa, furtively looking over my shoulder, longing for Tarshish. And sometimes, in an angry fit of obedience, I go to Nineveh and do the God thing and I fail just as much as when I’m fleeing to Tarshish. Eugene Peterson in his powerful little book, Under the Unpredictable Plant, writes “The first movement of the story shows Jonah disobedient; the second shows him obedient. Both times Jonah fails. We never see a successful Jonah. He never gets it right.” The pagan city repents but the man of God cannot. Dear God, may that not be true of us. “Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.” Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, Once upon a time, maybe 10 years ago, I went on a fishing trip to the ends of the earth. The particular end of the earth that I went to was the Great Slave Lake region of Northwest Territories, Canada. The trip was not my idea but I was there because I was part of the organization tasked with getting a group of six men to Yellowknife, the jumping-off point for the excursion. My co-worker and I did our part in getting this group from Oklahoma across several thousand miles and to the dock where the float plane would take them and their mountain of gear to the other side of the lake where the monster pike were rumored to be lurking. A few weeks earlier, my co-worker and I were invited to join the fishermen at their camp, doing the fishermen kind of things that they would be doing. Or we could hang out in a hotel room for a week and do our own thing. The choice was ours. We chose the fish camp. Once we arrived at the camp, any illusions of luxury were squashed. These were barebones accommodations, existing only to get man near fish and nothing more. The cabin I was assigned to was primitive and basic, but not in the trendy way. It was unusually warm for this region in June, necessitating that windows be open to allow some cooling, but the screenless windows also served as an invitation to millions (Billions? Trillions? I do not want to exaggerate but I do want to be accurate) of mosquitoes who feasted on any exposed flesh. I’m pretty sure I even saw a few mosquitoes trying to get blood out of the timbers of my cabin. Suffice it to say, these were ferocious insects. And it never got dark at night. And the bathroom situation was less than desirable. And, well, you get the idea. This went on for a week. Mosquitoes, heat, lousy food, poor sanitation. I missed home. I missed everything that wasn't this place. I also missed not being in charge, missed not calling the shots. But I had said yes to the invitation. And now I knew better what that yes meant. Kinda like Jesus’ disciples. In Mark’s account of the life and death of Jesus, he recounts the invitation given to Levi. Jesus was walking along the lake, teaching the crowd that had gathered. The hills on one side, the water on the other, a slight breeze carrying the teacher’s words. And this teacher was really good. His words were intriguing, authoritative, comforting in an uncomfortable way. And as Jesus walked and talked, he came across Levi the tax farmer who was doing tax farming stuff, sitting at his tax farming booth. The story goes that Jesus paused his teaching (or was this part of his message?) and looking at Levi, said two words. “Follow me.” And wouldn't you know it, Levi got up and followed him. “Wanna go fishing?” I had been asked. “Sure,” was my response, not knowing anything that was in store for me. “So Levi got up and followed him,” not knowing anything that was in store for him. But we know what was in store. A few years later, Jesus was condemned to a criminal's death and those who had followed him knew they could be rounded up and given a similar punishment. So Levi fled with the others, hiding in an unfamiliar city, missing home. Missing everything that wasn't this place. He probably missed not being in charge, missed not calling the shots. And yet, the story was not over. Over the course of the week, I found my rhythm- we learned how to combat the mosquitoes, we learned how to sleep in the light, we got hungry enough to enjoy the food and we caught some really big fish. (Oh, you thought we were still talking about Levi? On second thought, let's do that). Even though Jesus had been cruelly murdered, he still made the rendevous with his followers in Galilee that he had promised. There, Jesus, who was dead but now not dead, invited his followers to continue doing what he had done and taught them to do. And by all accounts, they did. They shared the news far and wide that a new King had come and everyone was invited to participate in this Kingdom. A Kingdom marked by life instead of death, marked by joy instead of despair, marked by love instead of hate, a kingdom marked by radical self-denial, marked by death to self, marked by giving up on all that is marketed to bring us life and joy and love. For most of these disciples, the invitation to do what Jesus did meant that they even shared in his death. This kingdom that Levi left his tax booth to join is the opposite of the tax booth. Rather than getting rich from others, in the Kingdom, money is to be given rather than collected. Rather than working for the powerful in order to be powerful, you now answer to your fellow man, especially the most overlooked of your fellow man. Instead of calling the shots, Levi was learning to be a servant to all. Did Levi know any of this on the beautiful day along the lake when he got up and followed Jesus? No, there is no way he could have known. But in the end, it didn’t matter. The journey was so much harder and bigger than he could have known and it required so much more of him than he could have guessed that day. But. But, in the end, it did not matter. I believe Levi would have responded to Jesus the same way over and over again. Because in that simple “follow me,” Levi found the Life that money, notoriety, and success could never give him. In hindsight, my fishing trip was special not despite the hardship but because of it (and yes, I agree with you that “hardship” is a bit extreme when talking about a recreational activity. But bear with me). The hardship encountered with following Jesus is not a bug in his system. Hardship is a feature. The only question is, will I keep responding with a yes to his invitation to follow him? Or maybe the better question is, will my yes stay a yes when it gets hard? At least we know a little bit about what to expect. “Then [Jesus] called the crowd to him along with his disciples and said: ‘Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me and for the gospel will save it.’” (Mark 8:34-35) Grace and peace be upon you, Grant