Letters from the Pastor

Dear Trailhead family, Imagine that you are on your way home after a day of work. You are tired, a little irritated, and ready to put the day behind you. You need food and quiet, you need to sit. You are only a few minutes away from the sanctuary that is your house when you accidentally make eye contact with a soldier and he stops you. (Oh yeah, imagine that you are a Jew in first-century Israel, living under the rule of the Roman Empire). You mutter a curse and it takes every ounce of willpower you have to hide the contempt you feel for this young soldier, a boy really, who operates with impunity because of the backing of his employer. Just a few days ago, five soldiers, seemingly on a lark, had beaten a friend of yours, claiming that your friend had threatened them. Your friend is 75 and walks with a cane. Your friend threatens no one. And yet, because of the uniform the soldiers wear, there will be no justice for your friend. And when you heard your friend’s retelling of this violent encounter, told through sobs as she relived the trauma, all you could think was that this story wasn’t as bad as some of the others. Stories of homes and businesses being seized based on trumped-up charges of delinquent taxes, stories of children being pulled from parents, never-to-be-returned, stories of brutal attacks and senseless murders. Stories that made you want to scream in rage and cry in helplessness all at the same time. And now here you are, standing before this soldier, heart pounding. What will he demand? “Carry my pack,” he says. Relief floods over you. It's shameful that you, a respected adult must humbly submit to this boy's demands, and yet, this could be much worse. This soldier is operating under the law. He can demand that any citizen of a conquered region carry his burden for a mile. And today, you are that citizen. You stoop down, legs bent, wrapping your arms around the bundle, and stiffen to stand. You almost cannot. The bundle feels like it weighs as much as you. Surely the soldier, with his youthful strength bolstered by adequate meals (a rarity to many in this region), would have much less trouble carrying this burden, but you know that to complain is to invite verbal and physical abuse. And so you walk. One step. Two steps. Three. A minute goes by, then another and another. And slowly your mind wanders from the impossibly heavy sack on your back to the mundane things of life. Random conversations at work, the meal you hoped to be eating, the worry your spouse would be feeling right about now as you fail to walk through the door at the expected time. And something a rabbi recently said. The rabbi’s words suddenly fill your mind. Although you have only heard it second-hand, it comes to you with startling clarity, “If anyone forces you to go one mile, go with them two miles.” Unfortunately, you remember even more from the rabbi’s message. “You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your Father in heaven.” “Mind your own business, Jesus,” you mutter to yourself. “What was that?” the soldier asks with a frown. “Nothing,” you reply. You trudge on. “What could Jesus have been getting at?" you wonder. "Why did he say such things to his countrymen, already subject to so much shame and humiliation?” You wish Jesus had given tips for how to resist these arrogant intruders, not love them. And then it hits you. Jesus did just that. The first mile is humiliating, a reminder of how little power you have. But the second mile? That second mile flips the script. The first mile showcases helplessness, but the second mile illustrates resistance. Resistance in a whole new way. An upside-down sort of way. Resistance the Jesus way. With that, it all becomes clear to you. To operate in Jesus' kingdom, you’ll have to learn to love and resist. And you suspect the temptation will be to separate those elements; to love in one way and resist in another. But that will not work. You'll have to learn to wholeheartedly love and powerfully resist, simultaneously, in the same inseparable action. Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, I enjoy baseball. I always have. I have no clue how this affection for America’s pastime came to be. All I know is that I cannot remember ever considering playing any sport other than baseball. Note: this was the late 80’s and early 90’s and sports such as soccer and lacrosse had not gained popularity in my small Iowan hometown. A further note: lacrosse never will. Back to baseball; to fully appreciate baseball, one must appreciate the history of baseball. And in the history of baseball, 1925 was an important moment. Because on May 12, 1925, Lawrence Peter Berra was born. Lawrence, or Yogi as he was nicknamed (because he would sit in a “yogi” like position waiting for his turn to bat) became one of the best baseball players of his generation and won 10 World Series titles as a player. Beyond his talent on the diamond, Yogi Berra also had a fantastic wit and his seemingly off-the-cuff sayings have become legendary. One such saying recently struck me as profound. He said, "We're lost, but we're making good time." Doesn't that resonate just a little? The thrill of feeling the wind in our hair as we race along can drown out the nagging realization that we are going in the wrong direction. I’m constantly amazed at society's pace of life, our culture’s pursuit of more, the avalanche of new technology, and the plethora of new and amazing products that guarantee to revolutionize our lives. But as easy as it is to find fault in our fast-paced, consumeristic culture, Berra’s words also remind me of Jesus’ words to the religious people of His day. And of greater concern, we believe Jesus’ words were also for the religious people of our day. Namely you and me. In Matthew chapter 23, Jesus goes off on the best the religious institution of his day had to offer. These pious, devout followers of religious dogma were “making good time,” but Jesus pointed out how lost they were. They were confidently charging hard and fast, completely clueless as to the destination. These religious elite had mastered following the letter of the law of God and yet they entirely missed the heart of God. Jesus makes this clear midway through his incredibly insulting rebuke to the religious leaders when He said, “Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You give a tenth of your spices—mint, dill and cumin. But you have neglected the more important matters of the law—justice, mercy and faithfulness. You should have practiced the latter, without neglecting the former. You blind guides! You strain out a gnat but swallow a camel.” (Matthew 23:23-24) They followed the letter of the law and yet missed the law. How is that possible? It's possible when we lose the story. The story is that we were made in the image of God and yet we chose to take on the image of the serpent. Everything is a response to that. The law is a response to that. Therefore, the law was never the point. The law was given because we needed a framework to guide us back towards our original design. And for us today, when we tithe or fast or read scripture (to list just a few examples), we must remember these practices are not the point. But they do provide a framework to move us towards our true identity, our original calling and purpose, and away from our false, serpent-like tendencies. The religious of Jesus’ time missed justice, mercy, and faithfulness because they were focused on mint, dill, and cumin. I wonder how we might be doing the same? Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, Cassie and I love to camp and Cassie and I lived for many years in Oklahoma. Do you see the problem? If not, allow me to explain. Camping in Oklahoma is wonderful for a day or two every year. The other 363ish days are either way too hot, too cold, or a tornado warning is in effect. I may be exaggerating just a tad, but this is my story and this is the way I remember it. But we did love to camp so Cassie and I made an annual pilgrimage to the Emerald Coast of Florida for many years. We had a favorite campground, a favorite breakfast spot, and a favorite coffee shop that we returned to like migratory birds. What wasn't a favorite was the 13-hour drive to get to our favorite camping spot. To help pass the time, we would borrow CDs from the library. (Oh my! How that last sentence dates us). We had music CDs aplenty but our favorite for passing time was a disc with stories. And one story stands out to me after all these years. I've forgotten most of the story, but it was about a father reflecting on his childhood. I remember vividly how the narrator’s dad would throw horse manure on their roof every Christmas Eve night so he and his siblings would see evidence that Santa’s sleigh and reindeer had visited them. The author said their shingles had manure stains his whole childhood. I love that story. But as good as that story is, it has nothing on Jesus’ short stories. And Jesus’ story of the lost son is worth revisiting frequently. Do you remember the story? The younger son decides that for whatever reason, he is ready to fly the coop. He asks his dad for his share of the inheritance and in a surprising twist, the dad agrees and gives the boy what must seem like an inexhaustible supply of wealth. But the high life doesn't last. The money runs out, and the boy hits rock bottom and concocts a second plan. His dad was once generous, maybe he will be generous again and allow him to return home as a common laborer. However, the plan doesn't go as expected. His dad refuses to accept the wayward son as a servant but instead reinstates him into the family. And the overjoyed father doesn't stop there, but goes so far as to throw an extravagant party to celebrate his son who “was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.” But not everyone rejoices. The older brother, the faithful son, refuses to join in his father’s joy. And the older son’s accusation isn't against his foolish brother, but against his dad. “Look! All these years I’ve been slaving for you and never disobeyed your orders. Yet you never gave me even a young goat so I could celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours who has squandered your property with prostitutes comes home, you kill the fattened calf for him!” (See Luke 15:11-32 for the whole story). The father pleads with the older son but the story ends with this haunting image: the party is in full swing but only one son is home. Ronald Rolheiser explores this masterfully in his book Sacred Fire. Rolheiser writes, “Someone once quipped that we spend the first half of our lives struggling with the sixth commandment (Thou shalt not commit adultery) and the second half of our lives struggling with the fifth commandment (Thou shalt not kill). That may be a simplification, but it is a fertile image. Indeed the famous parable of the prodigal son and his older brother can serve as a paradigm for this: the prodigal son, illustrating the first half of life, is very much caught up in the fiery energies of youth and is, metaphorically, struggling with the devil; the older brother, illustrating the second half of life, struggling instead with resentment, anger, and jealousy, is, metaphorically and in reality, wrestling with God.” At some point, if we live long enough, we realize that life isn’t turning out the way we had hoped. Like the older brother, we are tempted to lash out and accuse God, “You didn't even (fill in the blank) while you bent over backward for these other, less faithful people.” And this will be our struggle: will our anger and disappointment keep us away from Home or drive us inside? Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, “Are we there yet?” That is the profound question that becomes the soundtrack on most trips with kids. After Christmas, my family and I took a train from Montana to Minnesota, and a few minutes into our trip, one of our kiddos asked if we were there yet. We were not even remotely there yet; we still had 24 hours on the train and hours in a car. “Child, we are far from there yet. Let’s enjoy the journey.” And that applies to most areas of our lives. And that certainly applies to us as a church. The “there” we are aiming for is to be fully formed apprentices of Jesus. To habitually think and act as Jesus thought and acted because we have become so immersed in communion, in union, with Him. That is our destination. The way we explain being a fully formed apprentice to Jesus is summed up in our purpose for existing as Trailhead Church. Our mission is to practice the way of Jesus, together in community, for the sake of others. That is the journey we are on. “But what are we doing as a church? Where are we going?” We are on a journey to practice the way of Jesus, together in community, for the sake of others. What else could a church be about? But a little explanation might be helpful, I'm sure. So let's take this in three pieces. First, practice the way of Jesus: The Oxford Languages Dictionary defines practice as “the actual application or use of an idea, belief, or method, as opposed to theories relating to it.” (A friend pointed this definition out to me and I am most grateful). We want to organize our lives around the actual application of the Jesus Way, the Jesus Truth, the Jesus Life, as opposed to theories relating to it. We want to go all in on being with Jesus, becoming like Jesus, and doing what Jesus would do if He were me. Second, together in community: In my opinion, one of the most harmful lies we believers believe is that our faith is primarily personal. Jesus’ invitation of “Come, follow me” feels individual because it is. It’s a personal invitation. A personal invitation into a family, that is. It may be more helpful to view the invitation of Jesus as “Come, follow me alongside all these others that I have invited.” Read the Gospels, the New Testament, or scripture through the lens of companionship, and you will see that most apprenticeship and ministry was done together in a community. Lastly, for the sake of others: Teresa of Avila is said to have put our journey as Jesus followers like this, “When one reaches the highest degree of human maturity, one has only one question left: How can I be helpful?” When God came to earth, it should have been so we could serve and honor Him. Yet Jesus came to serve us, asking, “What do you want me to do for you?” (Mark 10:51) Jesus came to give His life away for others ("Unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies…”) and Jesus invites us to do the same. So are we there yet? No, not yet. But we will dedicate ourselves to practicing the way of Jesus, together in the community, for the sake of others. And we’ll get there. Eventually, that is, (and I suspect it will take a lifetime). So let’s enjoy the journey. Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it produces much grain.” (Jesus as quoted in John 12:24) We are in Holy Week, the culmination of the life of Jesus. And Jesus’ life, miracles, and teachings show us that our assumptions about life and how life is meant to be lived, are inaccurate. Wildly so. However, Jesus also taught us that our assumptions about death were off. Jesus told us that death, rather than the end, was a beginning. That a life modeled on the Jesus way would make death a portal into more life. But that is a big claim and Jesus knew we would be skeptical. So Jesus went first. Jesus likens life to a single grain of wheat, nearly useless in its solitary state. Useless, unless it dies that is. Because in death and being buried, that seed can birth a plant that will produce many seeds. Repeat this process of death and birth a few times and that solitary seed has produced bushels of wheat. And this all makes sense when considering seeds. But Jesus is talking about people, not seeds. Jesus is surely referring to himself, but it seems he also has you and me on His mind. Seeds that if not planted, will never birth what was intended. It has been said that death is our final baptism. Our last submersion before being raised in newness of life. Like a seed. Like Jesus. For “unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it produces much grain.” Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, I hope you were fortunate enough to know Doris growing up. Your Doris probably had a different name, but my Doris was named Doris. Doris was a part of our church (or maybe she was our church, I’m not entirely sure of the specifics). Regardless, one of my very first memories of that little church was of Doris inviting me into the kid's space and me refusing to leave my parents. But I soon learned that I was missing out. Missing out because Doris loved kids and Doris had gum. It didn’t take long for me to find a few friends and so this strange new church became my church. And each Sunday, the little posse of hoodlums I ran with would zero in on Doris and beg for gum. And she always laughed, gave us gum, and made us promise to put the wrappers into the trash can. Doris, while not having a leading role in my life, made my life better. Doris didn’t just dispense gum and hugs, but love and joy, kindness and goodness. It wasn't until later that I learned there was a word for what Doris did for us kids; Doris blessed us. A few thousand years ago, an interesting moment played out. Parents were bringing their children to Jesus but a few Very Important People knew that Jesus’ time and energy would be better stewarded by doing other things, more important things, things with a better return on investment. But the story goes that Jesus was indignant and told the Very Important People that they were mistaken, that unbeknownst to them, these little children, rather than they, were the model for receiving and belonging to the Kingdom. And so, after putting the Very Important People in their place, Jesus “took the children in his arms, placed his hands on them and blessed them.” (Mark 10:16) I’m not entirely sure what to make of that story but it leaves me wanting to bless those around me. That story leaves me wanting to be less concerned with the self-appointed Very Important People in my life and more attentive to those who are overlooked, those without power or prestige. Basically, I want to be more like Jesus. And Doris. Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, You were probably taught as a youngin' that staring at people and eavesdropping isn't polite. And while it may not be polite, it is fascinating. Recently I was sitting at a gate at an airport on the backend of a very busy weekend. At that moment, reading felt like too much work, and listening to a podcast just wasn’t doing it for me. What to do? What to do indeed. It wasn't a conscious decision, but I found myself watching the people flow by my gate. Some people were relaxed, smiling, laughing. Some people were stressed, rushing, holding children and bags and the weight of the world on their shoulders. And I caught snippets of conversation; nothing too profound but real people in the midst of real life. Maybe it was profound after all. All that to say, I spent a pleasant 90 minutes that day watching people and eavesdropping. Which brings us to Jesus. In Luke’s account of the life of Jesus, Luke writes this setup line: “While all the people were listening, Jesus said to his disciples”. (Luke 20:45) I’m going to assume that Jesus knew He was being overheard. I'm also going to assume that what Jesus said was for the eavesdropping crowd as much as for the disciples. So let’s lean in and eavesdrop too. Jesus began, “Beware of the teachers of the law. They like to walk around in flowing robes and love to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces and have the most important seats in the synagogues and the places of honor at banquets. They devour widows’ houses and for a show make lengthy prayers. These men will be punished most severely.” Oh, snap. This feels like that moment as a kid when your older sibling got punished. Holy fear mixed with giddy excitement. Someone sees what is happening and is addressing it! But the story isn’t over yet. Much to my amazement, Jesus begins to people-watch. Luke continues, “As Jesus looked up, he saw the rich putting their gifts into the temple treasury. He also saw a poor widow put in two very small copper coins. ‘Truly I tell you,’ he said, ‘this poor widow has put in more than all the others. All these people gave their gifts out of their wealth; but she out of her poverty put in all she had to live on.’” (Luke 21:1-4) So what do we do with this eavesdropping and people-watching? We rest or we repent. We rest in the assurance that God is not fooled by human charades. Someone may appear to be fooling everyone, but God is not fooled. God knows. God is just. We repent if we are the one taking advantage of others. We repent if we are keeping score, thinking that our good works are elevating us above others. God knows. God is just. I've heard it said that Jesus comforted the afflicted and afflicted the comforted. Two categories, summing up much of life. So which one are you? Afflicted or comforted? If you are like me, you are both. Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, As a teenager, I loved reading war stories. My favorites were anything to do with World War 2 aviation. Accounts of hundreds of B-17s amassing over England to begin their journey across the channel to Doolittle’s audacious bomber raid from the deck of an aircraft carrier, all fascinated me. I also loved the personal side of the stories. To read about a squadron streaming towards occupied lands was all the more interesting if you knew the story of the pilot and navigator, the rear gunner and the radio operator. Knowing that these young boys were from family farms in Kansas or were 3rd-generation commercial fishermen from Maine moved the accounts from general history to individual stories. What I could never wrap my mind around was the hopelessness of their situation; in 1943, roughly 75% of crewmen never completed their tours, comprised of 25 missions. They had a much better chance of being killed, wounded, or captured than they had of completing their tour. How did they do it? I have no idea. But this would be a rather strange letter if I left it there so I’ll make a guess. These young men focused their attention on what they could control. Aircraft in operating order, fuel tanks topped off? Check. Flight suit on, oxygen mask working? Check. Mission details committed to memory, maps in order? Check. Crew in place, lucky rabbit foot in my pocket? Check and check. We as humans have always grasped for control when things feel out of control. Consider this encounter in the garden as described in Genesis 3, right after the fall. God to the man, “Where are you?” The man to God, “Hiding.” God to the man, “Why?” The man to God, “Because of this woman you gave me.” God to the woman, “What have you done?” The woman to God, “The serpent deceived me.” Grasping for control of the situation, control of the narrative, control of the blame. Humanity was called to tend the garden. Instead, we tried to run the garden. Control the garden. Master the garden. We still do this. We still grasp for control when things feel out of control. What does grasping for control look like for you? Do you become angry? Manipulative? Quiet? Do you plan a trip, go into hiding, buy a 24-pack? Do you withdraw or lash out? Do you run over people or run from them or run to them? Do you self-medicate or throw yourself into work or working out? However you do it, I’m sure you're good at it. I am. We all have plenty of practice. But may I offer a suggestion? The next time you feel the adrenaline beginning to flow, the need to control beginning to control you, I invite you to speak these words, be still. The command of Jesus to the storm. “Be still.” The invitation of the psalter to us in Psalm 46:10, “Be still, and know that I am God.” We cannot control everything. In fact, we control surprisingly little. So be still. Consider God. Tend the garden you have been given and remember that you don’t have to run it. Grace and peace be upon you, Grant