I don’t know if I’m cut out for this.

I’ve thought that sentence more often than I’d like to admit. Not every day, and not every moment, but often enough that I recognize the voice the second it shows up. As a pastor, I even have a fallback line ready: They didn’t train me for this in seminary.

This week I found words for that feeling in an unexpected place: a story about Jerry Seinfeld in a weekly newsletter from Billy Oppenheimer1.

Oppenheimer writes:

Jerry Seinfeld started performing stand-up comedy in 1976. Since then and to this day, every day he sits with a yellow legal pad and writes jokes. Given that he’d been honing his craft for 47 years, he was asked, “How do you know a joke is going to work on stage?” “You don’t,” Seinfeld replied. “You just trust yourself?” the interviewer asked. “No you don’t,” Seinfeld said. “There’s no trust. It’s excruciating—8 or 9 times out of 10, it doesn’t work.” The interviewer pushed back, noting that he had recently seen Seinfeld perform at The Beacon Theatre in New York City, where Seinfeld got nothing but laughs. “What you saw is what’s worked,” Seinfeld said. “But you only saw 1.5% of what I’ve tried.” Rarer than comedic talent, Seinfeld adds, is the ability to be good at not being so good 98.5% of the time. “It’s slightly terrorizing,” Seinfeld said. “A lot of people can be funny, a lot of people can write jokes, but not a lot of people can handle that daily slight terror.”

That last phrase caught me: A lot of people can be funny, a lot of people can write jokes, but not a lot of people can handle that daily slight terror.

I wonder what it is that many of us are fully capable of doing, something well within our grasp, but that daily slight terror scares us off.

Maybe it’s creating something, like Jerry Seinfeld, and fearing it won’t be received.

Maybe it’s being vulnerable with others in a circle, listening deeply and pointing the way forward, while fearing rejection.

I believe something in all of us longs to do something great, or at least something significant, something that matters and makes a difference in the world.

But we’re scared.

That’s the daily slight terror.

And I know that voice. It’s the one from the top of this post.

What do you do with it?

If you let the daily slight terror take over, it will. It will grow until it overwhelms every part of your story. It doesn’t care who you are, and it has a way of creeping into every corner of your life.

I don’t think we let it take over, but I also don’t think we pretend it isn’t there.

Instead, I suggest that we acknowledge it.

We say, “Oh, there it is.”

That little nudge that says you’re not good enough.

That quiet voice that says you don’t have what it takes.

The whispers in your head and heart that leave you spinning.

I think you face it head-on, welcome it, allow it, and move forward anyway.

Now, I’m not advocating recklessness or plain stupidity. I am advocating a kind of daily courage that faces the terror and hands it to God.

A morning practice

I’ve started a practice recently. When I wake up, I sit on the edge of the bed. It faces the window, which looks out over our tree-filled backyard. With the whole day in front of me, I begin thinking through the conversations that might happen, the appointments already on the calendar, the things that need doing. Then I reach over to my nightstand, where there’s a little wooden cross given to me by our youngest son, Jack. I hold that cross and pray a few prayers.

I pray a prayer of surrender:

God, today I give all that I know of who I am to all that I know of who You are.

I pray a prayer of purpose:

Who might You bring into my path today that I can love and point to You?

And I acknowledge that slight terror, the sense that I’m not cut out for this, that I can’t do it. In that moment, I give that to God too.

So today, when the daily slight terror comes your way (and it will), breathe deeply and know that inside you is something more. There is a part of you that is brave and courageous and strong. You have faced that terror a thousand times, and you are still here. So welcome it. Allow it. Acknowledge it. Say good morning to it, and then get on with your day.

Lick your palms

I remember John Ortberg telling a story years ago about someone who said that when they stood up to speak, their palms got sweaty and their mouth went dry, and they wondered what to do. I think we can all relate to that kind of daily terror. What do you do when your mouth is dry, and your palms are sweaty? Ortberg’s answer: Lick your palms!

Lick your palms, my friends, and carry on with the day ahead.

Love well.

Live with courage.

Embrace deeply.

And somewhere along the way, find a Jerry Seinfeld joke, one he wasn’t sure would be funny when he wrote it, and laugh, knowing it only came into the world because he faced his own daily terror.

I want to start with a confession.

Well, maybe not a confession so much as a declaration: there is a four-letter word in the English language that I hate, and for the record, hate is a four-letter word that I hate. The four-letter word is likely not one you’re thinking of. I hate those too, and I don’t use them. Those words usually come out when we’re frustrated or angry. The word I’m thinking of is said much more innocently, with far less bravado, and I hear it everywhere.

The word is just.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve been paying attention to how often I hear it, and I’ve realized I hear it all the time.

A pastor told me, “I’m just a young pastor with barely any education.”

A board member described their church as “just a small church.”

A mom said, “I’m just a stay-at-home mom.”

An 80-year-old man told me, “I’m just an old man trying to get through.”

I’m just this. I’m just that. We’re just this. We’re just that.

And, to be fully transparent, I’m guilty of using this word too. My personal go-to is, “I’m just a kid from the cornfields of Indiana.” I’ve said it my whole life. Part of me means it entirely well. It honors where I came from and the humble beginnings that shaped me. But part of me also hears what it says about how I sometimes see myself. I’m just a kid.

When I turned 54 this year, Julie and I were talking one evening, and she said, “You do know that now that you’re 54, you can’t say you’re just a kid anymore, right?”

She wasn’t wrong, and it stung a little.

Here’s what I’ve been chewing on: “just” is a sneaky little word. It instantly shrinks our thinking. It puts a lid on our ability and presses down on our possibilities.

And for what it’s worth, if you are just a young pastor with barely any education, who is pastoring just a small church full of women who are just stay-at-home moms and 80-year-olds that are just trying to get through, hear me on this: you are not just anything. You are part of the grandest work ever undertaken on this planet. You are on a mission from God to see lives changed forever.

The Disciples Had a “Just” Moment Too

I think the disciples understood this struggle with just thinking.

Go with me to the scene. Jesus has been teaching all day. The sun is going down; there are 5,000 men (plus women and children, so probably a lot more), and everybody is hungry. The disciples do some quick math along with a visual assessment and then bring Jesus their report.

In short, their option for Jesus was basically, “Send them home. We can’t handle this. We don’t have enough Chick-fil-A for all of these people.”

And Jesus says, “You give them something to eat.”

I think there was a smirk on the face of Jesus and a little whisper of hope in his breath when he said it. He knew exactly what they had. He also knew exactly that people were starting to think about dinner.

The disciples answered with a word that could easily be used interchangeably with the word just.

“But we have only five loaves of bread and two fish!” they answered. (Matthew 14:17 NLT).

We have only five loaves of bread and two fish…we’re just a handful of guys with a little lunch and not one of us is culinarily trained!

John’s writing tells us where that lunch came from: a boy. Just a kid, if you will (John 6:9). Apparently, not a kid from the cornfields of Indiana, but I do think we’d have gotten along.

Notice what Jesus does next. Jesus doesn’t scold them for not having enough. Jesus doesn’t ask for more. Jesus says, “Bring them here to me” (Matthew 14:18). Then he takes the little they have, gives thanks, breaks it, and hands it out. Everybody eats until they’re full, and the disciples collect twelve baskets of leftovers.

Jesus took “just” and made it more than enough.

That’s the point.

The problem was never the size of the lunch. It was whose hands it was in. Your small church, your small budget, your small gifts, your ordinary Monday: none of it is “just” anything once you put it in the hands of Jesus.

A Better Four-Letter Word

So if “just” is a word we need to set aside, what’s a word to lean into? Scripture gives us plenty to hang our hat on. Love is an obvious one. But the one I keep coming back to sits on a little wooden block in my office, next to a tiny evergreen tree. That little tree reminds me that the church I pastor is like the tree in Psalm 1, planted by streams of living water, with leaves that never wither.

That word is hope.

Not man-made, wishful-thinking hope. Hope in a God who doesn’t change. Hope in a Savior who is the same yesterday, today, and forever. Hope in the Holy Spirit, whose presence is real and whose power shows up best in our weakness. Hope in the cross. Hope in the middle of grief, in the middle of sorrow, and in the middle of lack.

As the old hymn says:

My hope is built on nothing less
Than Jesus’ blood and righteousness.
On Christ the solid rock I stand;
All other ground is sinking sand.

One Thing to Do This Week

So here’s your assignment. This week, try to catch yourself the next time you say “just.” Then swap it for hope. Instead of “we’re just a small church,” try “we’re a small church with a big God.” Instead of “I’m just a mom,” try “I’m a mom with hope for my kids.” Instead of “I’m just an old man trying to get through,” try “I have been through storms before, and I will get through this one as well.”

You are not just anything. Put your hope firmly in Jesus, and you’ll find you can trust him.

I’ve been in a pigpen. Not as a prodigal, but alongside my friend Brent, checking on another farmer’s pigs. I know the smell. But I’ve been in a different kind of pigpen too, and that smell lingers longer.

It’s the smell of the grudge I wouldn’t put down, the words I wish I could take back, and the times I wanted grace for myself but didn’t want to give it away. And here’s what keeps amazing me: when I finally turn toward home, the Father doesn’t wait at the gate. He runs.

Lately I’ve been thinking about grace and its wonder. It’s one of those things we desperately want for ourselves, but we often struggle to extend it to others.

The Grace We Sing About

When I was a kid, we sang the old hymn “Grace Greater Than Our Sin” in church. I recognize that the song is true and real, but even as we sang it, I don’t know that we fully grasped the greatness of his grace, or how freely he gives it.

Grace, grace, God’s grace,

grace that will pardon and cleanse within;

Grace, grace, God’s grace,

grace that is greater than all our sin.

The Grace That’s Hard to Give

Recently, I’ve walked a path where I’ve had the opportunity to forgive someone. They had hurt me deeply, and I thought I had moved on. Then one day it all came back in a wave: the hurt, the anger, every detail. I found myself wrestling with God over how to forgive, bumping up against it again and again. More than once, my mind engaged in a vigorous battle: They don’t deserve it. They hurt me. They did me wrong.

And more than once, I’ve heard echoes of Jesus’s words about forgiveness. Words about forgiving our brother not seven times, but seventy times seven (Matthew 18:21-22). Words about the Father forgiving us as we forgive others (Matthew 6:14-15). Seventy times seven.

Forgiveness and extended grace are hard. They’re hard to extend to someone who has bumped and bruised us, because it feels like letting them off the hook, like setting them free. But I’m not the first writer to recognize that when you forgive someone, you actually set yourself free. You free yourself to live more fully and to be more aware of the world around you.

New Every Morning

Today, though, I’m amazed at the generosity of God’s grace. Scripture says his mercies are new every morning, new with each sunrise, with each new day (Lamentations 3:22-23). There’s something daily about our God. He provides daily bread, and he provides daily mercies: grace for the day. There is enough grace for this moment, right now.

Grace Shows Us Who We Are

Grace reminds us that we’re in desperate need of a touch of grace in our lives. Tim Keller once said, “The gospel is this: We are more sinful and flawed in ourselves than we ever dared believe, yet at the very same time we are more loved and accepted in Jesus Christ than we ever dared hope.”

But grace doesn’t only show us who we are. It shows us who God is.

I don’t believe in cheap grace. I don’t believe we ought to use grace as a license to be flippant with God or careless in our walk with him. But I do believe there is far more grace in the heart of our Father than we could ever imagine, far more mercy in the heart of our Dad than we could ever know.

The Father Who Runs

When I read the story of the prodigal son (Luke 15:11-32) and see the father running to his boy and throwing a feast, I find myself in that picture asking, Why would the father run? To me? I smell like pigs. I’ve been sleeping with the pigs. I’ve been nourishing myself on the pods they eat. And yet the father runs to me.

Remember Brent, my dairy farmer friend? He’s one of my best friends on the planet. I’d run to him for a hug any day of the week, but not right after milking. When you milk cows, there is no way to do it, shall we say, contact-free. A whole lot of the cow ends up on you. You could smell him coming. And not once, ever, did I catch that smell, see my dear friend walking toward me, and run to meet him.

But that’s what the Father does. He doesn’t hold his nose. He doesn’t wait for us to clean up. He runs to us, even when we smell. He runs to us even when we’re soiled, marred by muck and mire. He runs to us and says, Welcome home.

Grace Throws a Party

Then, almost without explanation, in an instant where it all piles up so quickly, it all happens so fast. He says, We have to throw a party. We have to do this.

That’s what grace does. Grace throws festivals for people who are filled with the stench of the pigpen. People just like us.

And that’s the other thing grace reminds us: it isn’t just about someone else. It isn’t about the person who’s far more messed up than I am, whose stench is worse than mine, who has been in the pigpen longer and more deeply than I have. The reality is that we've all found ourselves in the pigpen of life. And grace says we must celebrate, because a son who wandered far has come home.

For Today

So for today, we lean into grace. Grace received from God as a reminder of his goodness and kindness to us. Great grace that runs to meet us when we find our way home. And grace that we extend to others, even when it’s hard.

Grace, grace, God’s grace,

grace that will pardon and cleanse within;

Grace, grace, God’s grace,

grace that is greater than all our sin.

It was an ordinary day at an ordinary restaurant: a pastor and one of his people were sharing a booth and sharing life. There was no real agenda, just a relationship deepening and a journey continuing. Moments like those are some of my favorite moments in pastoral ministry, the ones that blend into everyday life.

The man across from me has been part of our church for many, many years. His wife, now in her 80s, has attended our church since she was four. As a little girl, she and her sister walked to Sunday services. There’s something powerful about that much history and context. When you sit across from someone who has given a lifetime to a place, you are not just having coffee. You are hearing the story of the church from its roots.

As often happens when a pastor is at the table, the conversation turned to the church. He began to share its yesterdays: the times God had moved, the times people had stepped up, the amazing generosity. I listened. I asked questions. I leaned in and said, “Tell me more.” For the better part of 40 minutes, he talked about how great things used to be.

Then he talked about a season when things were anything but great.

Our church has been around for 101 years, and in a recent stretch, resources were few, people were leaving, morale was low, and the water in the baptism tank had grown stagnant. Something had slowly died. He didn’t dwell on it long, but he didn’t pretend it wasn’t true.

But in the last 10 minutes, his eyes lit up. “I’m hopeful, Pastor,” he said. “I think we’re on the right track. I think we’re turning a corner. I think God still wants to do some things here.” Together we laughed, shared a couple more stories, and went our separate ways.

As I walked away, I thought about the shape of that conversation: about 40 minutes on the before, 10 on the hard season, and maybe 10 on the now and the future. In this man’s eyes, the rear-view mirror was far larger than the windshield.

I don’t say that as a criticism.

For many of us, the rear-view mirror is simply more vivid. We remember when the bricks were laid, when the carpet went in, when the church rallied. We remember the funerals, the potlucks, the gatherings. Those memories are real, and they are precious. But over time, a church’s rearview mirror grows very large, and little by little, the windshield can shrink.

A few years ago, Julie and I saw the musical Ragtime in Toronto, and one song, “Back to Before,” has stayed with me ever since.

Its message is that you can never go back to before. Most of us know that, yet we still romanticize the rearview mirror. Sometimes it’s where we live. Bruce Springsteen’s “Glory Days” was a hit because we all know someone who was a great baseball player back in high school and is still living there. We smile at that friend, but a church can get stuck in the same place.

So how does a church shift from the rear view to the windshield?

How do you expand the windshield without devaluing the rear view?

How do you widen the view of the future without erasing the past, but also without living there?

I don’t have a glorious answer, and certainly not a quick fix. But I have some thoughts.

Apply some heat.

Picture a dead-of-winter morning and a windshield frozen solid. You can’t see a thing. You turn on the defrost, and slowly one small spot begins to thaw. Then it grows. You can see a little more clearly, and then a little more.

Expanding the windshield starts with that kind of thawing: envisioning the future and dreaming together. What could be? What might be? Those questions don’t have to be big or polished. They just need to be asked out loud, together, often enough that people begin to see something other than the frosted glass in front of them. Now sometimes you need to grab the scraper and do something drastic, but more often it takes time, patience, and a willingness to wait.

Look for God around the edges.

Dr. JoAnne Lyon taught me this years ago in a hotel lobby in Roanoke, Virginia. She probably wouldn’t remember it. She told me one way she stays relentlessly positive is by looking for God around the edges. If you look hard enough and long enough, you’ll find him in little glimpses at work. The key is that you have to be looking.

A few weeks ago, I saw God around the edges at a baptism at our church. We planned for three, and we had four, because someone was ready to step into the water that day. It wasn’t on the schedule, and that’s what made it so sweet.

I saw God around the edges in simple kindness. After my grandmother passed away, someone from the church sent me a card. It was a small thing, but it encouraged me. Someone looked beyond themselves and wanted their pastor to know he was loved and prayed for. Nobody will ever put that moment in a church history book, but it was God at work, right there at the edge of the frame.

Sometimes God shows up in ways we don’t expect, even through difficulty. This morning in my quiet time, I read these words from Dr. Dennis Kinlaw in Preaching in the Spirit: “If we believe that Jesus is at work in the congregation before we are, if we believe He is more actively committed to reaching His people than we are, then we will keep our eyes open to His activity in the ‘disturbances’ and the ‘annoyances’ that come our way, so that we can work with Him.” If God is already at work, then our job is not to manufacture a future. It is to notice where he is moving and join him.

Move toward the windshield, intentionally.

Major life changes rarely happen all at once. I believe deeply that God saves us in a moment, but small, consistent choices in the right direction compound into a completely different future. The same is true of a church. A new direction is rarely the result of one big meeting or one bold sermon. It is the sum of many ordinary steps.

Naeem Callaway put it this way: “Sometimes the smallest step in the right direction ends up being the biggest step of your life. Tiptoe if you must, but take a step.” So take some baby steps. It may feel slow. It may be painstakingly exhausting. Some days it will be three steps forward and two steps back, maybe even four steps back. But little by little, bit by bit, God is at work and is doing a new thing.

Get your hands dirty in present-day dirt.

Years ago, I pastored a church in Burnips, Michigan. Early on, a white-haired man in the congregation told me he knew I would change some things. He knew I’d “move furniture around, sing some different songs, and take a somewhat different path.” But then, with a cracking voice, he said, “I want to show you something.”

He led me into the sanctuary, to a cinder block wall where concrete blocks had been laid one at a time. “I laid these blocks,” he said. “My sweat is in these blocks.” He asked that as we moved forward, I not forget his sweat in those bricks. I told him I wouldn’t. I told him I would do my best to honor all of those who had “sweat in those bricks” and to celebrate them moving forward.

That conversation changed how I think about the two views. The bricks of yesterday are the rear-view mirror, and they deserve honor. But the windshield is made of bricks too, the ones being laid today. I realize now that we should remember the sweat in the bricks of yesterday, and that widening the windshield also means helping people put their sweat into the present.

Every church is doing something. Whatever that is, find a brick and lay it. Then remind people we’re building something together. The church is not a solo enterprise. Every ministry and every corner of our facilities carries the DNA of people’s blood, sweat, and tears. Pointing out where that’s happening right now, in the present tense, is one of the best ways to widen the windshield.

Celebrate everything you can celebrate.

I learned this early on from a pastor mentor. If a kid in your church gets a good citizenship award in the community, put them on the platform and applaud. If someone takes a step of faith, celebrate it. If someone serves, cheer them on. Whatever you celebrate, you get more of. It becomes what the church values and holds to.

A couple of Sundays ago, a small group leader told me her group has chosen different spots around our building, and before the service every Sunday, they go to those places and pray for our church, so that the entire building would be covered in prayer. That sounds like sweat in bricks to me. And I don’t know about you, but it sounds well worth celebrating.

Widening the windshield is hard work. Many a pastor, myself included, has grown weary on the journey, and many a person has been bumped and bruised along the way. But widening the windshield while honoring the rear view is a pursuit worth giving yourself to.

In a time when so many churches find themselves in decline or on a plateau, I believe the church is ripe for a widened windshield, with greater clarity and a clearer focus on the future. The past does not have to be erased for that to happen. It just has to stop being the only thing we can see.

Even as I write this, the man from that restaurant booth is here at the church, setting up flags for Mission Sunday. His rearview mirror is still large, and it should be. Those memories are part of who he is, and part of who we are. But today he’s laying a brick, and I’m starting to see God around the edges.

Where is God at work around the edges of your church right now? And what brick could you lay this week?

Last week I was in Grand Rapids, Michigan, for a conference, and one evening a few friends and I walked across the street from the hotel to a little sushi place. The food was good, the conversation was better, and I had no idea I was about to witness the boldest request I’ve ever heard.

We’d ordered crab Rangoons for the table, and by the end of the night we had eaten nearly everything. Just one lonely Rangoon remained on the plate.

Kitty-corner from us, two younger women were enjoying their own dinner. As we stood to leave, one of them turned to me.

“Excuse me, are you done with your meal?”

“Yep, we’re done. We’re heading out.”

“Are you going to eat that crab Rangoon?”

A little awkwardly, I said, “No, I think we’ve all had enough. I was just going to leave it there.”

Then she asked, “Can I have it?”

Can she have the crab Rangoon? Absolutely. No problem at all.

Her friend was mortified. I was impressed. I even offered to order her an entire plate of her own. She shook her head. “No, I just wanted that one. One is enough.”

As the three of us walked out, we agreed we had just met the boldest person any of us had ever encountered. I’ve done some out-of-the-box things in my life, but I have never asked a stranger for the last Rangoon off their table.

The worst she could hear was no. The best she could hear was yes. And the more I thought about it, the more it sounded like prayer.

Often we don’t pray timid prayers because we doubt God’s power. We pray them because we’re afraid of looking foolish. So what makes a prayer bold? And how does Scripture show us bold praying, and even more, how we can pray that way ourselves?

What Makes a Prayer Bold?

A bold prayer is a direct request to God for something big, even seemingly impossible, that grows out of deep trust in His power and character. At first glance, I see three marks.

Bold prayers ask for the impossible. Bold prayers reach beyond small, safe outcomes to ask for the impossible, such as major transitions, physical healing, or a God-sized dream. If your prayer fits neatly in a box, it probably isn’t bold yet as bold prayers often land in territory that feels uncertain and unknown.

Bold prayers are clear. A bold prayer tells God exactly what we want and need, with nothing hidden and nothing watered down. There’s no filter and no fuzziness. Vague prayers are safe prayers, but specific prayers require faith.

Bold prayers rest on God’s character. Behind every bold prayer is a belief that God is big enough to handle what we’re asking, and that He not only can, but loves giving good gifts to His children (Matthew 7:11).

Bold Praying in Scripture

Scripture is full of bold prayers.

Joshua asked God to make the sun stand still so Israel could finish a battle to rescue their allies, the Gibeonites (Joshua 10:12-14). He wasn’t asking for better odds in winning the battle; he was asking for the cosmic rules of the sky to be suspended, and he asked with confidence because he knew the God who had promised him victory.

Moses had already seen the burning bush, the plagues, and the Red Sea split in two, but then Moses asked God, “Show me your glory” (Exodus 33:18). His bold prayer wasn’t for another wonder but for God Himself, and God honored it by placing Moses in the cleft of the rock and letting His goodness pass by.

Peter and John faced threats from the authorities, and I find it compelling that they didn’t pray for protection or an easier road, but for greater courage to keep speaking God’s word and for more signs and healings in Jesus’ name (Acts 4:29-30). That kind of boldness only comes from time spent with Jesus (Acts 4:13).

How to Pray Boldly

I think being specific here might be helpful. How do you pray bold prayers, and what do bold prayers really look like in a practical sense? I’ve come to believe that bold prayers have three things in common.

1. They have confidence at the root. Hebrews 4:16 invites us to approach God’s throne with boldness, because He hears His children. Like the young woman asking for the last Rangoon, we can ask knowing He is willing and able to give far more than we need (Ephesians 3:20).

2. They move past fear. Fear whispers, “He’d never answer that,” but faith answers, “He’s invited me to ask.” Bold praying pushes through hesitation, and we have far less to fear when asking our Father for anything than the young woman did in the restaurant.

3. They align with His will. Bold prayers rest on God’s promises. They don’t demand our own way or run ahead of God; they simply ask big because we know who we’re asking.

A Simple Bold Prayer Template

As I thought about all this, I began to sketch out a bold prayer template, I needed something to hang a bold prayer on. Maybe this template will help you today.

Try filling in the blanks:

Father, I come to You as Your child, and I’m confident You hear me.

You are ________ (name a quality of God that fits your need: Healer, Provider, Faithful, Mighty).

You have promised ________ (a verse or promise you’re standing on).

So I’m boldly asking You for ________ (say it plainly, without softening it).

I’m asking this because ________ (how it would honor Him or point others to Him).

I trust You with the outcome, and I will thank You either way.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Your Turn

The next time you’re hesitating over a big request, remember the young woman who asked for the last Rangoon. We rarely ask God for too much. We usually ask for too little. If she can ask a stranger for it, we can ask our Father for more than we usually dare.

She told me about the large aquarium in her living room. She built the aquarium stand herself, by hand. The glass was in place, and there were even a few decorations inside. But the aquarium held no water, and, more importantly, no fish.

When I asked why, her tone turned serious.

“I think I’m afraid,” she said. “I’m afraid of losing the fish. Life is very important to me, and I’m good at this. I used to be a zookeeper. I know how to care for fish and for an aquarium. I’ve had several in my home before. But this time, for some reason, I’m afraid of what might happen. I’m afraid of somehow not caring for them the way they deserve.”

“For the Spirit God gave us does not make us timid, but gives us power, love and self-discipline.” (2 Timothy 1:7)

Candidly, it was the first serious conversation I had ever had about aquariums or tropical fish.

But as I listened, I noticed something else. Over her shoulder sat a large, thriving plant.

“Tell me about that plant,” I said. She lit up as she described how she had watered it and nurtured it, and how, over time, it had begun to flourish.

No doubt she could care for something in a way that would let it flourish.

“I planted the seed, Apollos watered it, but God has been making it grow.” (1 Corinthians 3:6)

As we kept talking, one thought wouldn’t leave me. I asked her to give me a little grace, because I needed to say this as much for my sake as for hers:

Creating an environment where things thrive is a worthwhile and noble pursuit. It’s worth the risk. It’s worth your investment, your time, your energy, and your prayers. I’m sure you’ll care for those fish just as you cared for that plant.

I long to cultivate thriving

Afterward, I started thinking about how I long to cultivate thriving in my world, but sometimes the aquarium sits empty.

Like my fish-keeping friend, I’m sometimes afraid I’ll get it wrong. I have been hurt before, and I’m afraid I might hurt someone along the way.

“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” (Galatians 6:9)

Disposable goldfish

See, when I was a boy, we never kept expensive fish. We kept what we called “disposable goldfish,” bought at the local Kmart, three or four for a dollar.

Sure enough, those little goldfish eventually couldn’t survive the environment we’d created. My dad was a pastor, so we held more than one fish funeral in the backyard of our church parsonage in Fort Wayne, Indiana.

In some ways, I’m still a little afraid it’ll happen again.

Tending my own part

It’s easy to dwell on the ways others have hurt us: the times someone wronged us, spoke ill of us, or offended us.

But the truth is, there have been times I haven’t cared for the aquarium as I should have. There are times I’ve hurt people, offended people, and wronged people.

“Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone.” (Colossians 3:13)

And still, it remains true: creating an environment where things thrive is a worthwhile pursuit.

Somehow, that lesson of an empty fish tank inspired me today. It lifted my eyes beyond myself for a moment and stirred a deeper desire to nurture the kind of environment where people are seen, heard, loved, thought of, forgiven, cared for, embraced, and celebrated. All of this, and more.

The aquarium of my own heart

So I find myself thinking about the aquariums in my life where I’d like to foster vitality, not least the one closest to home: my own inner life.

“Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.” (Proverbs 4:23)

There’s real work in that. It means unpacking the mess, the headache, and the heartache, and cleaning out the pains of the past. Then it means moving forward with focus, hope, and the aim that “the fish might swim more freely”, as my friend put it. That we all might swim more freely.

A question for you

Where is there an empty aquarium in your life, something worth nurturing that fear has kept you from starting? And what is one small step you could take this week to fill it?

I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

I’m writing today because I am not able to be with you in attendance at this year’s General Conference. My oldest son is graduating from college, and we’ll be in the middle of moving him to a new city — a new job, a new beginning. Otherwise, I would have been right there on the grounds at Indiana Wesleyan University with all of you.

I’ve read all the memorials for this General Conference — the ones approved for consideration and the ones that weren’t. I’ve thought about them. I’ve prayed about them. If you sat down with me today, I could share my opinions and positions on the facets of these memorials.

But that’s not why I’m writing this letter.

As best I can calculate, this year marks thirty years of ministry in some fashion for me within The Wesleyan Church — and those thirty years don’t even count the years I was simply growing up in the church.

I was steeped in this denomination. Our family calendar followed the calendar of the church. I was reminded recently that my parents had to reschedule their wedding date because the original date fell over a General Conference. In our family tree, that just wasn’t going to happen. So the date was changed to accommodate the work of the church.

I’ve been a delegate at multiple General Conferences over the years and was elected as a delegate to this one before having to withdraw my name to be part of the graduation and move for my son.

I love the Wesleyan Church.

I have been shaped by this church. Developed by it. So many people within the Wesleyan family have had a hand in forming who I am.

Like many of my Wesleyan pastor friends, I could tell the story of the person who preached at my ordination. For me, it was Dr. Earle Wilson, who preached like a locomotive on the passage about seeing a cloud the size of a man’s hand and declaring, It’s going to rain. (1 Kings 18:44)

I could take you to a youth camp moment at Fairmount campground, where I drove a literal stake into the ground and said I would follow Jesus.

I could take you to the back row of the Bethel Tabernacle on those same grounds, where I sat the night I walked the aisle and gave all I knew of who I was to all I knew of who God was, and said yes to following him and his call on my life.

There are a lot of stops on a Wesleyan field trip.

But I’m not writing today merely to reminisce.

Nor am I writing to address any particular memorial, or to speak to recent actions of the General Board of Administration.

I’m writing today with one purpose: to call my Wesleyan brothers and sisters to humility before God.

I’ve been around this church long enough to see it at its best — and to be honest, long enough to see some moments we weren’t most proud of. I’ve got my own bumps and bruises from church hurt through the years, and I’m tempted sometimes to grow cynical, to grow frustrated, to become a little jaded.

But then I remember a man staring into the clouds, longing for God and longing for rain, and saying, I see a cloud the size of a man’s hand.

Our world is thirsting for fresh rain, and it has been for some time.

We were in the spin cycle as a people long before COVID ever hit. Many point to COVID as the moment things changed for us, but we were already there. Even Jonathan Haidt — a self-described atheist and the author of The Anxious Generation — traces the fracturing of our common life all the way back to 2012. You could probably point to moments well before that.

I say this with humility: I do not believe that the primary issues facing the Wesleyan Church in these days are ultimately about specific memorials, or politics, or mission statements, or church structure.

I believe the primary question before us is this: as we move ahead, will we be a humble people before God?

I’ve been thinking about what that might actually look like. I don’t think it’s merely a posture where we stop what we’re doing — though calling a holy, sacred gathering isn’t necessarily a bad idea. I think humility before God is the posture Ruth Haley Barton calls the prayer of indifference: not my will, but yours be done. (Luke 22:42)

And I know this much: God’s will is that all people would come to know him. All people, in all places. (1 Timothy 2:4)

Humility also means being people who are quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry. (James 1:19) There is more in each of those three things than we often stop to wrestle with.

I’ll miss seeing so many of you this year. I’ll miss celebrating together, laughing together, the particular fellowship that only happens in those gathered moments.

My prayers are with our nominee for General Superintendent, Dr. Jim Dunn — I hold him in high regard. And my prayers are with all of you.

Be humble. Be holy. And before we stand and shout, pause and listen.

May God help us as a church to be a family that makes room for more people to gather around the marriage supper of the Lamb. (Revelation 19:9)

May we keep the main thing the main thing.

May we fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith. (Hebrews 12:2)

May we be people who trust when it’s uncertain, persevere when it’s difficult, forgive when it’s hard, and press on in the face of whatever comes.

May we tell the story of Jesus again and again and again.

And may we not grow weary in doing good — for at the right time, we will reap a harvest, if we do not give up. (Galatians 6:9)

I am deeply grateful to be numbered among this family.

Warmly,

Rev. Chad McCallum

A few years ago, I was talking with a great guy by the name of Jim January. Jim was a physical therapist whose job was to help people get moving again after things broke, tightened up, or were bumped and bruised. His job was to help people get stronger, to move forward through the pain.

I liked Jim. He was personable and funny, the kind of person you’d want working with you on your bumps and bruises.

One day, Jim and I were having lunch, and in the course of our conversation, we got talking about his work. I asked him: What’s the first thing you have to deal with when people come to see you? What’s the first thing you have to teach them?

Jim thought for a minute and then said, “This may sound odd, but the first thing we have to teach people when they come in for physical therapy is how to breathe again.”

You have to teach them to breathe? I asked. Tell me more.

He explained that when many people come in, they’re in so much pain that they’ve forgotten how to breathe. Either the pain hits, and they breathe too fast, sometimes hyperventilating, the pace of their breath outpacing their lungs, or they seize up and hold their breath entirely. Both extremes work against healing and progress. So Jim would teach people to breathe again. To breathe with rhythm and pace. To inhale. To exhale. To breathe deeply. To find their breath.

I wonder if Jim is onto something, something more than just physical therapy.

It’s my observation, and I don’t think I’m wrong, that there’s enough in the news these days for all of us to lose our breath. I won’t even recount the headlines. You know them. Our anxiety bubbles up at the state of the world, and we find ourselves breathing way too fast, so fast we can hardly catch our breath. Or we find ourselves at the other extreme, holding our breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop, wincing and bracing our way through the pain and pressure of the moment.

Maybe learning to breathe again is a prescription for this moment.

After Jesus is resurrected from the dead, he goes to meet the disciples. He shows up behind locked doors — doors they had locked out of fear.1 Some of them were undoubtedly hyperventilating at what was to come, while others were likely holding their breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. And right there in the middle of all that anxiety, Scripture includes this detail: Jesus breathed on them.2

I always thought that was a strange detail to include in a story about a dead man coming back to life. But it hit me this Easter: dead men don’t breathe. Jesus did. He was fully alive.

I’m learning to breathe these days.

As recently as this morning, I read a post on Facebook, and it set me off. I found myself breathing fast, my mind racing with the words I was going to write as a counter argument to what had been posted, how I was going to feverishly respond, and what I was going to say to set this person straight. And then I caught my breath. I found myself breathing again at a pace and rhythm that made far more sense. Breathing in a way that was trusting God in the midst of it all.

I’ve been on the other extreme, too. I’ve held my breath, wondering what comes next.

A while ago, a friend asked me a question about a journey I found myself on. Candidly, they were asking in a way that felt like the glass was half empty, like all of this was on me, like I had to sort it out on my own. Even as they spoke those words, I felt myself holding my breath, envisioning worst-case scenarios. And then I caught my breath. And I began to breathe again.

A couple of observations about breathing again.

Sometimes we have to step away from the thing that’s disrupting our breath. Either it’s accelerating our breathing or causing us to hold it, and we need to find a quiet place. Jesus did this. Scripture tells us he often withdrew to a quiet place.

One place I particularly enjoy is the back row of the sanctuary here at Eau Claire Wesleyan Church. There’s something about the quiet paired with the illuminated cross at the front of the room that helps me catch my breath. I’m also finding that a weekly conversation with a trusted friend about faith and Jesus and intimacy with God has been incredibly helpful. Dave Horne has been that kind of friend for me, and I’m grateful for him. He helps me catch my breath.

Certain thoughts accelerate my breathing. I have to. I should have. I’m sick and tired of it. Those thoughts and others like them tend to be accelerants for my breathing.

While other thoughts tend to make me hold my breath. How is this all going to turn out? Where is the money going to come from? What if things don’t succeed? What will people say?

And then there are thoughts that help me catch my breath. One of them pops up on my phone every single day at 7:30 a.m., a thought Steve Cuss has written about that has helped me a great deal. It’s simply this:

God is with me. God is ahead of me.

That little thought is an anchor for me. Whatever I find myself in the midst of, God is with me, and I am not alone, so I can breathe through it. And whatever I find myself walking into, I can enter it at a pace that’s in step with the Holy Spirit.

I’m 53 years old. And like a young child learning to walk, I find myself learning to breathe.

I’d invite you to learn to breathe with me.

God is with you. God is ahead of you.

May those words bring peace to your heart and rhythm to your breath today.

Eight years ago, our family arrived in Hayward, Wisconsin in the dead of winter. I remember stepping outside in my early days in Hayward and thinking I had never in my life felt cold like that.

I had no idea I was home.

For eight years we raised our kids here. We cheered at games, shoveled driveways, sat around tables, and slowly, we became part of a place and a place became part of us.

This past December I accepted an invitation to serve as the pastor of Eau Claire Wesleyan Church, just down the road 108 miles south of Hayward. And with that, we sold our house.

Anyone who’s ever made a move knows there’s a wide range of emotions that come with the territory. Joy and grief tend to show up together, uninvited, and not always at convenient times.

One afternoon, while I was nostril-deep in boxes making assessments of what to keep, what to donate, what to throw away, and what to try to sell on Facebook Marketplace, I found myself asking: How do I best mark this moment? With these people? In this place?

For both of Julie and me, this is the end of a significant life chapter. While Julie will continue her work with the county in a hybrid format, there is no mistaking that for our family, the page is turning. We are stepping into a new story together.

So I want to do what I imagine a lot of people feel like doing when a chapter ends but don’t always get the chance to say out loud. I want to say thank you.

Thank you to Steve Gerich — you are a friend, and you were a big part of what brought me to Hayward in the first place. Your encouragement and kindness and our thoughtful conversations about theology and M*A*S*H have meant more than you know.

Thank you to Matt Albrecht — you helped us find the house, then helped us sell it, and in the years in between you showed up as a friend. That’s the part I’ll remember most.

Thank you to the teachers and staff at Hayward Community Schools — you were part of the village that helped to form and raise our sons. I am truly grateful.

Thank you to every coach who poured into our sons along the way. The investment that you made in them mattered much.

Thank you to my pastor friends and colleagues in the Hayward area — I hold each of you in high regard. I extend a special thank you to Pastor Joel Bacon: your friendship, your encouragement, and your support for me and my family have been a genuine gift. You introduced me to rømmegrøt and lutefisk. I am, believe it or not, grateful for those things too.

Thank you to Gary Nathan — I can say with confidence that every time I saw you out and about, I walked away encouraged. Every time. You bring so much joy to this community.

Thank you to Evan Smith at the Hayward Barbershop — for haircuts that doubled as therapy. You may not have known that’s what was happening, but it was.

Thank you to Mike Bratley and the team at Hayward Funeral Home — it was a joy to serve alongside you. I have deep respect for the work you do and the dignity with which you do it.

Thank you to Tera Neibauer — you were among the very first people we met when we moved here. Your kindness to Julie and me set a tone for everything that followed.

Thank you to Dalton Hessel aka The Northern Nerd — for helping keep social media sane. I still think about your post during COVID where you compared walking through Hayward to walking through a college campus. I laughed then. I smiled while writing that sentence just now.

Thank you to our friends at Hayward Wesleyan Church — you are dearly loved. May you keep seeking to connect every life to Jesus.

Thank you to Joe Naylor at Naylor’s Automotive: For keeping our cars on the road and providing a kind of “garage floor philosophy” that always came with the repairs. It’s a rare thing to leave a mechanic feeling both treated fairly and thoroughly entertained, but you managed to do it most every time.

Thank you to my friend Don Runyon — 90+ years old and you made me laugh so many times. I always enjoyed our lunches. You taught me to fish and to hunt. You taught me to clean fish and to skin a deer. These are things my father had not taught me and I am grateful that you filled that gap.

And last, but certainly not least — thank you to Mama and her family at Main Street Tacos.

The night I interviewed in Hayward, you served me a bowl of pozole. It was cold and dark outside, and that soup was warm, and I remember thinking — if I end up moving here, I’m going to do my best to keep these people in business.

I have deep gratitude for you, Mama. For your family and for that table in the corner of Main Street Tacos.

I’ve already started my search for tacos in Eau Claire, and I’m finding that good tacos are easy enough to come by — but people like you are a much rarer discovery.

There is a benediction I’ve heard many times here in Hayward. It is one I’ve come to appreciate. It’s the way my friend Pastor Joel Bacon closes every service at First Lutheran Church. As I turn the page toward Eau Claire, these are the words I’m carrying with me 108 miles south as a regular reminder:

Go in peace. Serve the Lord. And be someone’s good news.

Thank you, Hayward. Thank you for being good news to me.

Note: For years, my mother insisted that I needed to write this story down. She was right — I just needed thirty years to get around to it. There is no moral lesson here, no tidy takeaway, no three-point sermon waiting at the end. It’s just an “all too true” story from the life of a very young, very green pastor.

Thirty years ago, I began my pastoral ministry in Coldwater, Michigan. I was fairly fresh out of college, full of energy, and serving the Coldwater Wesleyan Church — a congregation of eighty people whose average age was, conveniently, also eighty. In my mind, I wasn’t just a local preacher; I was pastoring the largest church on the planet!

Early on, I heard whispers about a certain “quirky” shut-in. We will call her Ellen. The legendary tales that I had heard about her were vast and included her annually buying multiple Christmas trees every December, decorating them fully, and then returning them all to the store on December 26th for a full refund! Every year. Without fail.

One morning, I was dressed for a funeral — freshly ironed shirt, sharp tie, suit pants, jacket, and overcoat — when I found a new message on the church’s old-school answering machine. It was Ellen. Her tone was urgent. Her dog had died, and she needed someone to “come bury it.”

I called her back. She was distraught. Her grief was real. The dog was gone, and she needed me to “come immediately and take care of it.”

Being a rookie in the field of deceased dog removal, I turned to the experts — or at least the people I hoped might be experts.

The Very Part-Time Church Secretary: She just laughed. “You’re on your own, Pastor.”

Seasoned Local Clergy: My seasoned pastor friend was no better. “I’ve never handled a dog’s death. Good luck on that!”

Animal Control: “Is the dog a threat?” they asked. I told them it was dead. “Then we can’t ‘control’ it. If it starts breathing again, give us a call.”

The Police: They told me to call Animal Control. When I told them I already had, they promised to send backup — but only if Ellen turned out to be a “threat.”

The Fire Department: “Is the house on fire? No? Then no.”

The Funeral Home: They offered to sell me a lovely urn and even cremate the dog, but as for the “retrieval”? That was a DIY project.

After exhausting every “phone-a-friend” option I could think of, I realized that I was on my own. So I did what any rookie pastor would do: I grabbed the sturdiest shovel in the church storage closet and headed out.

Ellen’s house was a picture of neglect — peeling paint, scraggly bushes, and a porch that seemed to be sinking into the earth.

I should include that we were in that bleak window of late Michigan winter where the snow had melted into dirty gray slush, yet the frost still held the ground as hard as concrete.

Ellen was waiting on the porch in her nightcoat and slippers. “I’m Pastor Chad McCallum,” I said. “I’m here to take care of the dog.”

“I know who you are,” she breathlessly chirped. “I want him buried in the backyard by the doghouse so he stays close to his home!”

I headed straight for the yard. For ten minutes, I slammed that shovel against the frozen tundra. It was like trying to dig a hole in a parking lot. Eventually, I negotiated with Ellen and settled on a “shallow grave” in a flower bed near the house, hoping the foundation’s warmth had softened the soil enough to make it work.

Once I had a respectable shallow grave, I headed inside to claim the dog.

The bedroom was a spectacle. It smelled like a kennel that hadn’t been cleaned in months. The floor was “carpeted” in layers of old newspaper, much of it covered with — well, I’ll let you paint that picture yourself.

In the corner sat a dog basket. A simple chain ran from the dog’s collar to a chest of drawers nearby.

I stood there in my funeral finery, thinking: This is it. This is the culmination of four years of ministerial studies. It all comes down to this moment. I crouched down on the soiled newspapers and reached out to unhook the chain, intending to carry the dog and its basket together to their final resting place.

Then it happened. Like a bolt of lightning, the moment my fingers touched the metal leash, the “dead dog” snapped its eyes wide open.

To be clear, the dog didn’t just wake up. It roared to life. It was a whirlwind of barking, jumping, and slobbering that pinned me back against the floor and those soiled newspapers.

“What’s all that racket in there?” Ellen hollered from the living room.

I scrambled up, wiping dog saliva from my face and brushing the evidence of my adventure (I will spare you the details) off my suit coat. I walked into the living room and made the most profound theological declaration of my career:

“Your dog is not dead. He is very much alive.”

Ellen immediately broke into a dance that would have made a Pentecostal proud. “You healed him!” she cried. “It’s a miracle!”

“I didn’t heal him,” I panted. “He was asleep. He didn’t come when you called for him this morning because he’s on a three-foot chain attached to the dresser!”

Ellen didn’t care about the physics of the chain. In her mind, I had healed her dog. She hugged me and kissed my cheek, and I felt like the Prodigal Son returning from the pigpen.

With that, I departed, and I left the shallow grave open in the backyard. Call it pastoral intuition.

When I returned to the church, the secretary took one look at my disheveled state and asked how it went. “I’d tell you,” I said, “but you’d never believe me.”

The story grew legs.

It traveled all the way to Florida. My grandfather called from his retirement community: “I hear you have the gift of healing. I’ve got plenty of neighbors down here who could use a touch!”

“I only do dogs, Grandpa,” I told him. “I’m sticking to my niche.”

A month later, the call actually came.

I was out of town, so a lay leader went in my place. He used my pre-dug hole, said a prayer, and later told me he was glad his experience was “less dramatic” than mine — and that he did indeed bury the dog, basket and all.

I wasn’t a dog owner then, and I’m not one now. But if your pet is “mostly dead” and you need someone to check the chain — I’m your guy.

Imagine being Peter. You’re one of the twelve closest companions of the Son of God. You’ve walked on water, albeit briefly. You’ve seen transfiguration on a mountaintop. You declared, “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God,” and Jesus called you the Rock.

Then a servant girl asks if you know Him, and you fold like a lawn chair in a stiff breeze!

Peter’s denial and failure is one of the most painfully human moments in all of Scripture, but God kept the story going after the failure.

It was Charles Spurgeon who once said, “The Lord gets His best soldiers out of the highlands of affliction.”

Peter was about to become one of the greatest soldiers the church ever produced. But first, he had to walk through the darkest night of his life, and the same might be true for you.

Two Trials, One Night

Mark structures this passage as a “Markan Sandwich” where he takes one story and inserts it inside another, so you’re forced to read them in light of the other. Think of it as a theological BLT. You’re supposed to taste everything together as the outer story underscores the inner story.

On one side: the trial of Jesus before the most powerful religious court in the world.

On the other: the trial of Peter before a teenage servant girl.

Spoiler alert: Peter doesn’t hold up.

The Sanhedrin convened in the middle of the night and couldn’t get their witnesses to agree. One commentator said of their gathering, “The entire weight of organized religion, political power, and manufactured evidence, and they couldn’t construct a coherent lie about Jesus.”

The high priest cuts to the chase: “Are you the Messiah, the Son of the Blessed One?”

And Jesus, with soldiers flanking him and a cross waiting just outside the city, looks Caiaphas in the eye and says: “I am. And you will see the Son of Man seated at the right hand of Power, and coming with the clouds of heaven.”

Jesus claimed divine authority. He claimed He would one day be the Judge of the very men judging Him. He didn’t hedge. He didn’t negotiate. He spoke with courage, boldness, and authority.

The Night Peter Became All of Us

Peter followed Jesus at a distance after the arrest. That deserves credit. Everyone else scattered. But Peter sat with the guards, warmed himself at their fire, and did his best impression of someone who had nothing to do with any of this.

He’s noticed. Not by a soldier. Not by a Pharisee. A servant girl.

First denial. “You were with the Nazarene, Jesus.” Peter: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Second denial. Another servant girl repeats the accusation. Peter: “I do not know this man.”

Third denial. Bystanders press him on his Galilean accent. Peter: “(Peter) began to call down curses, and he swore to them, ‘I don’t know this man you’re talking about.”

The man who said, “Even if I have to die with you, I will not deny you,” is now calling God as his witness that he doesn’t know Jesus.

The rooster crows. Peter remembers. And he throws himself down and weeps.

That Greek here isn’t polite, dignified weeping. This is a man collapsing under the weight of who he has become.

If the story ended here, it would be tragic. But there is more.

The Morning Peter Became a New Man

After the resurrection, the disciples went back to fishing. They catch nothing all night. A voice from the shore tells them to cast the net on the right side. The net fills. John says to Peter, “It is the Lord.”

Peter gets dressed, jumps in the water, and swims to shore.

When he reaches the shore, here is what he finds:

“A charcoal fire in place, with fish laid out on it, and bread.” (John 21:9)

This is a powerful picture. The Greek word for that fire is the same word used in John 18 to describe the fire Peter stood beside when he denied Jesus.

This is not an accidental detail.

Jesus didn’t just feed Peter breakfast. He took him back to the scene of the crime. The last time Peter stood by a charcoal fire, he denied Jesus three times. Now, beside a new charcoal fire, Jesus asks three times: “Peter, do you love me?”

Three denials. Three affirmations. One fire for failure. One fire for restoration.

I like how John Ortberg describes what Jesus is doing in this scene. “Jesus is meticulous about our healing. He doesn’t patch us up. He redeems the very scenes of our worst moments.”

Here is what I love about this story. Peter, who couldn’t face a servant girl, would go on to preach on Pentecost and see three thousand people come to faith in a single sermon. Church history tells us that he was eventually crucified upside down, at his own request, because he said he was unworthy to die in the same posture as his Lord.

The man who swore he didn’t know Jesus died proving that he did.

That is what grace does to a person.

Three Questions for the Shore

Which fire are you sitting beside? Are you close enough to Christianity to feel respectable, but far enough from Christ to avoid real commitment? Peter was at the fire. He just wasn’t with Jesus.

Have you heard your rooster? Has there been a failure, a conversation, an all too painful realization where you saw yourself clearly and didn’t recognize the person you saw? The breaking is not the end of your story. It is the beginning of your restoration.

Will you let Jesus make you breakfast? Restoration isn’t something you achieve by being more disciplined or more consistent. It’s something Jesus initiates. He went to the shore. He built the fire. He cooked the fish. He waited. He is not waiting for you to get yourself together before He offers to restore you.

One Last Detail

The Gospel of Mark is widely believed to be based on the eyewitness preaching of Peter himself. The church father Papias recorded that Mark, “wrote down accurately everything Peter remembered.”

Which means Peter told this story on himself! He didn’t edit it out. He didn’t soften the servant girl into a Roman soldier. He told the whole, hard, humiliating truth — because a man who has been forgiven much has nothing left to hide.

That is the signature of genuine restoration. You stop managing your image and start telling your story.

Across two thousand years, that story is reaching someone today who needs to know: the rooster has crowed, Jesus has built the fire, and breakfast is ready.

Come to the shore.

This past Sunday at Eau Claire Wesleyan Church, we walked together through Mark 14:12-26. We talked about how God goes before us to prepare the way, how He gently unearths what is hidden deep in our hearts, and how He gives us something tangible to cling to for security and confidence.

Communion is that anchor. It is a physical reminder of His past faithfulness, His presence in our current breath, and His unwavering reliability in our future.

That was the focus of the sermon, but as I was finishing my sermon prep, one small, quiet sentence in verse 26 set my mind thinking further.

“When they had sung a hymn, they went out to the Mount of Olives.”

I grew up in a house that was filled with song.

It was the kind of home where we would break into the Doxology as a dinner prayer. We would sing, “Praise God, from whom all blessings flow; Praise Him, all creatures here below; Praise Him above, ye heav’nly host; Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen.” This was immediately followed by a casual, “Amen, pass the mashed potatoes.”

When we visited my grandparents in Oklahoma, a full-blown hymn sing was liable to break out in the living room at any moment, voices layered in harmony singing the greatest hits of the church hymnal and Bill Gaither.

Because of my background, the detail in verse 26 felt personal to me.

I learned last week that the Passover meal traditionally concluded with the Hallel—Psalms 113 through 118. These aren’t just polite religious poems; they are emotion-filled songs of deliverance, survival, and stubborn trust.

Close your eyes and imagine the scene.

Jesus, lifting His voice to sing Psalm 116: “I love the Lord, for He heard my voice... He delivered my soul from death.”

Imagine Jesus leading the melody of Psalm 118: “The stone the builders rejected has become the cornerstone... This is the day the Lord has made!”

Jesus sang those specific words.

He sang them immediately after Judas left the room. He sang them, knowing Peter’s denial was only a few hours away. He sang them knowing that the darkness of Gethsemane was waiting just across the valley. He sang them knowing that the agony of the cross was soon to come.

He didn’t sing because the pain wasn’t real or because the darkness wasn’t coming. He sang because He knew the story was far from over. He sang because the Father could be trusted even when the lights went out.

You may be walking into something incredibly heavy today. Perhaps it’s a conversation you’ve been dreading, a grief that feels like a physical weight, or a future that looks like a blank, uncertain map.

Go out singing anyway.

Not because everything is fine, but because the victory has been won, and the King is coming back.

Find a melody and hold on to it.

Maybe it’s the Sunday School simplicity of “God is so good, He’s so good to me.”

Maybe it’s a gritty refrain of gratitude: “So I throw up my hands and praise You again and again, ‘cause all that I have is a Hallelujah.”

Or maybe it’s a song of spiritual vigilance: “This is how I fight my battles... it may feel like I’m surrounded, but I’m surrounded by You.”

While I was writing these words, I reached out to my dad. I asked him what song he would choose as his anthem for these days and he pointed me toward this one: Lead me, Lord, lead me in thy righteousness, make thy way plain before my face. For it is thou, Lord, thou, Lord only, that makest me dwell in safety.

The songs we exhale and repeat in our hearts and on our lips become the soundtracks of our lives. They are the anthems that hold us together when the world feels like it’s pulling us apart.

My throat is raw from preaching yesterday, and my voice is more than a little raspy and slightly congested this morning, but there is still a song I am singing. It’s a piece by Andrew Peterson. The chorus is a simple, ancient confession that has sustained many through the night: “I believe He is the Christ, Son of the living God.”

I am learning that we do not sing to ignore the darkness. Instead, we sing to remind the darkness who is actually in control. Whether your voice is strong today or as raspy as mine, I hope you find a lyric that tethers you to the truth. Take a breath, find your melody, and remember that even on the most painful roads, we never walk or sing alone.

We sold our house. It was a bit of a whirlwind. Multiple offers. Listed on Wednesday night, a signed offer by Friday night. In the world of real estate, that’s the best-case scenario. In the world of the human heart, it’s a lot to process in forty-eight hours.

In so many ways, life is in a “good” season.

I’m settling into my new role as the pastor of Eau Claire Wesleyan Church, and Julie and I love what is happening here. The kids are growing—graduation on the horizon for Chase, it’s fun being close to Miles, and Jack is finding his stride at his new school. We have an apartment that is comfortable and meets our needs. Even the Michigan Wolverines are having an epic year on the basketball court! There is goodness, progress, and so much positive all around us.

That’s why yesterday caught me completely off guard.

The phone rang with a number I didn’t recognize. It was a recorded call from the Sawyer County Record, letting me know our subscription to the newspaper was ending. The automated voice on the other end gave me standard, sterile options: Press one to renew; to allow your subscription to lapse, do nothing.

Julie and I had just talked about this a few days prior. We agreed that since we were moving from Hayward, we didn’t need the local paper anymore. It was a practical, logical decision. So, I hung up the phone.

And immediately, my eyes filled with tears.

Maybe it was the finality of an automated recording telling me a chapter was over. Maybe it was the realization that we really are moving away from a place we love, and the “links” continue being cut one by one.

I found myself thinking of those quiet moments each week spent unfolding the paper—the ritual of looking for pictures of the boys and their latest exploits in the community. I remembered the times Julie and I would point at a headline and ask, “Oh, did you know about this?”

There’s something about a small-town newspaper that keeps you woven into the fabric of a community, and letting that subscription lapse felt like pulling out a stitch that had been part of what held us in place.

We often try to force ourselves into a binary choice—to be either “happy” about the new chapter or “sad” about the old one. We think that if we are grieving, we must be ungrateful, or if we are celebrating, we must be forgetting.

But this is the strange complexity of being human: we can be perfectly satisfied and even excited about our “now” while still deeply grieving our “then.”

I’m learning moment by moment that God meets us right in the midst of that tension. He is the God of the new beginning here in Eau Claire, and He is the God of the memories in Hayward.

Today, I’m okay with tears and gratitude sitting at the same table.

If you’re currently standing in a “good” season but find yourself blinking back tears over something small and seemingly insignificant, don’t rush to fix it. You aren’t divided; you’re just human, and I am learning that being human means having a heart big enough for both.

There is a five-word phrase tucked into an ancient story in Mark 14 that I haven’t been able to shake. It’s a quiet sentence Jesus spoke, almost as an aside, yet it carries significant weight: “She did what she could.”1

Not what was expected. Not what was convenient. Not what was left over.

She simply did what she could.

Here’s the scene.

Jesus is having dinner at a friend’s house in Bethany. He’s reclining at the table, casual and unhurried, among friends. A woman named Mary enters, her hands wrapped around an alabaster jar of perfume. She isn’t there for the meal or the small talk; she is there for Him, and she’s carrying a year’s wages in her hands.

The perfume? Pure nard. This is the good stuff. The kind of thing you’d keep somewhere safe and definitely not bring to a dinner party. She not only brought it to the party but also broke it open and poured the contents over Jesus.

No half measures. No carefully unscrewing the cap to pour out a tasteful, socially acceptable amount. She broke the jar, which meant it was unrepeatable. Irreversible. Once you shatter an alabaster jar, you cannot save the rest for later.

The reaction was immediate and ugly.

“Why this waste of perfume?”

The critics in the room did some quick math on the back of their napkins.

“It could have been sold for more than a year’s wages and the money given to the poor.”

And they rebuked her harshly.

Then Jesus spoke up.

“Leave her alone. She has done a beautiful thing.”

A beautiful thing. It might not be understandable in human terms, but the very thing the critics called a waste, Jesus called beautiful.

For most of us, “beautiful” feels out of reach because we live in the tension between what we could do and what we actually do.

We all have a version of generosity we’ve planned to step into “someday”—once the debt is settled, the margin is wider, or the kids finally sleep through the night. We’ve become experts at measured generosity. It’s thoughtful, proportional, and profoundly comfortable.

But the woman in that room did something irreversible.

She didn’t just give a gift; she shattered the vessel. That jar likely represented her dowry, her financial security, and her future in the most literal sense. When she broke it, she wasn’t just making a donation. She was pouring out her safety net. She was making a silent, fragrant declaration: “Jesus is worth more than my backup plan.”

The reaction was immediate because the math didn’t add up. The critics saw waste; Jesus saw worship. They actually agreed on the cost; they just disagreed on the worth. One side calculated the price, while the other recognized the Treasure.

The reason this story stings is that we usually find ourselves sitting with the guys with the napkins, doing the math. We’ve mastered the art of “someday,” convinced that our true calling starts once life stabilizes. But this story reminds us that while the critics are busy calculating the cost of the perfume, the fragrance is already filling the room.

I’ve started hearing “she did what she could” as both a description and an invitation.

A description, because practically speaking, she didn’t manufacture something she didn’t have. She brought what was actually in her hands.

An invitation, because it implies that what you actually have is enough. The resources you have in your hands right now. Bring it and break it on the feet of Jesus.

Most of us are carrying a jar.

It’s that thing we’ve been turning over in our hands for years—a dream, a difficult apology, a gift, a surrender. We keep setting it back down on the shelf, waiting for the “right time,” waiting for the fear to fade so we can finally feel ready.

But here is the truth: The feeling of readiness is a myth.

Mary didn’t break the jar because her heart stopped racing; she broke it while her hands were shaking. She didn’t wait for the fear to go away. She acted, and the courage was found in the breaking.

Two thousand years later, we are still talking about her. We don’t remember the names of the critics. We don’t celebrate the men who sat at the table doing math on their napkins. Their “reasonable” objections have been lost to the dust of history.

But her? Her we remember. She did what she could. She poured it all out. And in the eyes of the only One who matters, the waste was worth it.

The room is quiet now, and Jesus is looking at you with that same unhurried, graceful gaze. He isn’t asking for the jar you wish you had, or the one you’ll have “someday.” He’s looking at what you’re holding right now.

What’s in your hands?

This piece grew out of a sermon on Mark 14:1–11. The passage deserves the kind of unhurried attention we rarely give anything these days.

He is considered the best figure skater in the world. American Ilia Malinin is nicknamed the “quad god” for his extraordinary quadruple jumps. He came into the 2026 Winter Olympics having not lost a competition in two years. He was the favorite. The defending champion. The one everyone expected to win.

And then, on Friday, in his freeskate in Milan, he fell apart.

Early in his program, he bailed on his signature quadruple axel, the jump that made him famous, and did a single instead. He nailed one quad, then bailed on another, turning a planned quad loop into a double. Then he fell. And then he fell again. The crowd went quiet. His coaches watched helplessly from the stands. Something was obviously very wrong.

Bewildered, here is what he said afterward:

“Going into this competition I felt really good, this whole day I felt very solid, and I just thought that all I needed to do is go out there and trust the process that I’ve always been doing with every competition. But of course, it’s not like any other competition. It’s the Olympics, and I think people only realize the pressure in the nerves that actually happen from the inside, so it was really just something that overwhelmed me and I just felt like I had no control…I just felt like all the traumatic moments of my life really just started flooding my head, and there were just so many negative thoughts that just flooded into there. And I just did not handle it.”

When I read those words, I stopped scrolling and just sat with them for a moment.

Because I know that feeling. And I have a hunch you do too.

I used to think I was the only one.

I was convinced that I was the only person who got anxious before standing up to speak in front of a crowd. The only one who felt that sudden, suffocating rush of negative thoughts when the moment mattered most. The only one who would have a tidal wave of adrenaline show up uninvited, right when I needed to be fully present.

Deep down I knew that I wasn’t the only one. But in the moment, when the tidal wave is at its tallest and the water is over your head, the not so silent whisper you hear is that you’re the only one. That everyone else has it together and that something is fundamentally wrong with you.

I want to say clearly today: you are not the only one.

We all carry traumatic moments. Hard, deeply painful experiences that leave a mark, sometimes a scar, sometimes even an open wound. Moments that, long after they’ve passed, still have the potential to resurface without warning.

Ilia Malinin was standing on the biggest stage of his life, having skated perfectly for two solid years, and in an instant his past came flooding back and his body forgot what it knew to be true.

That’s not weakness. That’s being human.

I listened recently to a talk by pastor and author John Ortberg, and he referenced what he called the “90-second rule.” The idea is grounded in neuroscience. The physiological response to a trigger, the actual chemical surge in the brain, lasts about 90 seconds. After that, it’s our own thoughts that keep the wave going. Which means there is a window. A real, biological window where we can choose to pause, breathe, and begin to recalibrate.

Now, I’m not naive about this. I don’t think the 90-second reset is a magic switch. The wave may still come. Anxiety doesn’t disappear because you know a technique. Trauma doesn’t vanish because you breathe through it once. I am in no way promising a life of flawless performances with no falls.

But here’s what I do believe. The Bible talks about taking every thought captive (2 Corinthians 10:5). Not every other thought. Not the big thoughts. Every. Thought. This has often felt like an impossible standard to me, but I wonder if that 90-second window is exactly where that happens. That brief pause before the thoughts fully take over is the moment where we get to decide what we do with them.

That’s not self-help. That’s a spiritual practice with ancient roots.

In those moments when I feel the flood waters rising, I’ve learned to steady myself with two simple truths I first found in Steve Cuss’s book, The Expectation Gap.

The first is this: God is with me right now. Not in some abstract theological sense, but here, in this moment, in this anxiety, in this room, in this body that is struggling. The Psalmist wrote, “Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence?” The answer, of course, is nowhere. There is no version of your worst moment where God is absent. He is present in the flood.

The second is this: God goes ahead of me. Whatever it is I’m walking into, the hard conversation, the scary diagnosis, the moment of performance, the thing that has me wound up and fearful, God is already there. He has already gone before me into that space. Isaiah 52 says, “The Lord will go before you.” That’s not poetry. That’s a promise. And it steadies me because it means that God is already there..

I don’t have a quick fix to offer.

The 90-second pause, taking your thoughts captive, reminding yourself of who is with you, none of this is a one-time solution. It is a moment-by-moment practice, built slowly, repeated daily, refined through failure. Some days you land the jump. Some days you fall twice in front of the whole world.

But here is what I know: even in the falling, you are not alone. The flood does not have the last word. And the God who created you is both beside you in the water and already standing on the other side of it, waiting.

Ilia Malinin will skate again. He will train and compete and he will no doubt face that wave of uninvited thoughts one more time. And when he does, my hope for him is the same as my hope for you. Not that the hard moments stop coming. But that we learn, slowly and surely, that we don’t have to face them alone.

Which of those two truths from Steve Cuss resonates more with you today: that God is with you in the struggle, or that He has already gone ahead into the thing you’re dreading? I’d love to hear which one steadies you more right now.

When I was in 5th and 6th grade, my family lived in Concordia, Kansas. Just outside of our small town, right off the side of the highway, stood an old church building that was literally collapsing in on itself. The roof sagged and buckled. The windows were shattered. The wheat fields around it were creeping up and slowly swallowing it whole.

As I recall, out front sat a faded, hand-painted sign that read: New Hope Church. Often when we drove by that old church, my dad would shake his head and jokingly say, “They should change that sign to ‘No Hope Church’!”

I think about that church sometimes.

How many churches feel like they’re one bad year away from becoming that church in the wheatfields of Kansas? How many pastors lie awake at night wondering if their church is going to make it? How many faithful saints show up week after week, wondering if anyone even notices anymore?

The statistics are sobering. According to Lifeway Research, roughly 65% to 70% of Protestant churches in America are either plateaued or declining. Depending on your research, somewhere around 150 churches close their doors every single week. Not every month. Every week.

The emotional toll is real: Pastors want to quit. Leaders feel a sense of futility. Members wonder if they’re wasting their time. Volunteers burn out trying to do the work of ten people.

And underneath it all is that question that hangs in the air of every established church, every aging congregation, every place where the paint is chipping and the pews aren’t as full as they used to be:

Is there hope?

Not hope in some vague, “let’s think positive” Tony Robbins kind of way. I mean real hope. Biblical hope. The kind of hope that looks at a dying situation and believes God can breathe life into dry bones.

A Desperate, Knee-Bent Plea

Even the writer of Psalm 85 wrestled with this question when he wrote: “Will you not revive us again, that your people may rejoice in you?” (Psalm 85:6)

This isn’t a triumphant declaration. It’s a desperate, kneeling plea. The Psalmist is saying: “God, we’re dried up. We’re worn down. We are wiped out. Will You breathe life into us again?”

This is a “Scrappy Prayer.” It’s the prayer of a people who know that unless God shows up, the wheat fields win.

And here’s what I love: God still answers “scrappy prayers” like this one.

The Power of Scrappy

I recently read Thom Rainer’s book Scrappy Church, and it’s been a powerful reminder that God still has a plan and a purpose for struggling churches. The book tackles the question of how a church can turn around, and for that matter, whether it’s even possible.

To save you reading the book, I’ll tell you that Rainer states in no uncertain terms that it is absolutely, unequivocally, resoundingly possible for a struggling church to turn around…there is hope!

The hope that Rainer speaks of is not raw optimism. It is not naivety about the challenges. The hope that Rainer writes about is grounded in the undeniable evidence of what God has done and is doing all around the world.

The Original Scrappy Church

The early church in Acts was the definition of scrappy. They had no building…just borrowed living rooms. No budget…just shared resources. No strategic plan…just obedience. They had no marketing team, no worship band, no podcast, and no social media strategy!

What they did have was this: a handful of ordinary people with an extraordinary God. A humble hunger to be available. A singular, bold, game-changing message: Jesus rose from the dead.

That was their entire arsenal.

And on the Day of Pentecost, that scrappy band of 120 believers watched God add 3,000 people to their number in a single day.

The same God who moved then is the same God we worship now. What He did in Acts 2, He can do today.

Six Scrappy Transitions

Drawing from Rainer’s book and the patterns we see in the early chapters of Acts, I want to outline six specific transitions that God uses to transform ordinary congregations into churches that bear fruit in every season. Each of these transitions starts with surrender, not size.

1. From Excuses to Ownership

We’re really good at excuses in the church:

• “We’re too small.”

• “We don’t have enough money.”

• “We’ve always done it this way.”

• “The big church down the road has all the young families.”

But an excuse says “I can’t,” while ownership says “God can.”

In Acts 4, when religious leaders commanded Peter and John to stop preaching about Jesus, their response was: “Which is right in God’s eyes: to listen to you, or to him? You be the judges! As for us, we cannot help speaking about what we have seen and heard.” (Acts 4:19-20)

No excuses. Just ownership.

Jesus told the disciples in Acts 1:8: “You will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes on you.” Notice what He didn’t say—not when you get a bigger building, more money, or when you get your act together. Just when the Holy Spirit comes.

That’s all they needed. And it’s all we need.

Pastor Jim Cymbala of the Brooklyn Tabernacle puts it powerfully:

“Let us never accept the excuse that God cannot work in our situation…that our particular people are too rich, or too poor…too inner-city or too suburban…too traditional or too avant-garde. This kind of thinking is never found in the Word of God. No matter what…we can see God do things just as He did in the book of Acts, since He has never changed. The only changing that can occur is within us. Let us purpose in our hearts to change in His direction and see Him do incredible things to the praise of the glory of His grace.”

Did you catch that? The only change that can occur is within us.

God hasn’t changed. His power hasn’t diminished. His promises haven’t expired. What needs to change is us.

The shift: Stop making excuses and start taking ownership of God’s calling on our lives.

2. From Obstacles to Allies

When problems arise, our natural response is to see them as threats.

Financial pressures? Panic.

Attendance declines? Despair.

Leadership shortages? Stress.

But what if obstacles are meant to unite us as a church?

Acts 2:44-45 tells us the early church responded to intense persecution not with “every man for himself” but with “we’re in this together.” They shared everything they had. Acts 4:32 says they were “one in heart and mind.”

Obstacles didn’t divide them. Obstacles unified them.

The shift: See challenges as opportunities that bring us closer together and make us stronger.

3. From Limitations to Abundance

Sometimes we’re so focused on what we lack that we can’t see what we have. But Jesus takes what you have and multiplies it. He doesn’t wait for you to have enough. He starts with what’s in your hand.

In Acts 3, when a lame beggar asked Peter and John for money, Peter said: “Silver or gold I do not have, but what I do have I give you. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, walk.” (Acts 3:6)

The man didn’t get a few coins. He got his legs back.

The shift: Offer what we have to God and watch Him turn it into more than enough.

4. From Despair to Joy

Acts 5:41 records that after being flogged, the apostles left “rejoicing because they had been counted worthy of suffering disgrace for the Name.”

They had just been beaten with whips. And they were rejoicing.

The early church understood that joy is not the absence of problems. Joy is the presence of Jesus in the middle of the problems.

The shift: Choose to celebrate God’s faithfulness and find joy even in the midst of struggles.

5. From Fear to Courage

Fear is real in the church. Fear that we’re going to run out of money, lose more people, or even fail. So sometimes we end up playing it safe.

But Acts 4:13 tells us that when the religious leaders “saw the courage of Peter and John and realized that they were unschooled, ordinary men, they were astonished and they took note that these men had been with Jesus.”

That courage came from being with Jesus.

Courage is not the absence of fear. Courage is obedience in the presence of fear.

The shift: Move forward with confidence because we know God walks with us every step of the way.

6. From Impossible to Possible

Somewhere along the way, we stopped believing in miracles. We stopped expecting God to do the impossible. We settled for survival instead of revival, maintenance instead of mission.

But remember Acts 2 tells us of a scrappy group of 120 believers in a borrowed room, and God added 3,000 people in one day.

That’s not possible. Unless God does it.

The shift: Believe God can do far more than we ever dreamed, and we get to be part of it.

The Conviction of a Scrappy Church

On page 24 of Scrappy Church is a section that many on our church board underlined when they read the book. Rainer writes of a scrappy pastor who shared with him: “We believe with all our hearts that God still has a plan for our church.”

Rainer writes, “It is that dogged determination in God’s plan for the church that fuels them forward. They see their mission as God’s mission and, because it is truly His, they will not be deterred.”

That’s the conviction of a scrappy church. Not arrogance. Not denial. But dogged determination that God still has a plan. And if God has a plan, you don’t give up. You don’t quit. You make the transitions. You surrender to His work. And you watch Him do what only He can do.

You Are Not Too Small

The tree in Psalm 1 that stays green in every season is not green because it gave itself a pep talk. It’s green because it’s planted by streams of living water, and it draws its life from an everlasting source outside itself.

This is not a “fix your thoughts, and you can fix your life” approach. This is an invitation from a loving Heavenly Father who longs for His church to be evergreen, no matter its age.

You are not too small. You are not too broken. You are not too old. You are not in the wrong location. You are exactly who God wants to use.

The same God who moved at Pentecost is moving today. The same God who breathed life into dry bones can breathe life into your church, your ministry, your calling.

So stop making excuses and start taking ownership.

Stop focusing on limitations and start offering what you have.

Stop letting fear paralyze you and start taking courageous steps.

Stop settling for survival and start believing for revival.

Be a scrappy church. Be planted by streams of living water. And watch God do what only God can do.

The Table in Fishers, Indiana

There’s a table at a Panera Bread in Fishers, Indiana, where an incredibly hard conversation took place that resulted in me not eating at Panera for over 8 years.

It was the fall of 2017. That morning, I received a text from my supervisor asking me to meet him at Panera Bread. I thought it was just another meeting. It wasn’t.

What followed was one of the hardest conversations of my professional life. The kind where you feel the ground shifting beneath your feet and the air being sucked out of the room.

I was devastated.

Eight Years of Avoidance

It goes without saying that what happened at that table was not Panera Bread’s fault, but that day forward, I made a conscious decision not to eat at Panera Bread.

I wouldn’t grab lunch.

I wouldn’t eat the bagels.

I wouldn’t even get a cup of coffee.

If somebody suggested, “Let’s meet at Panera,” I would quickly redirect. “How about somewhere else?”

This wasn’t rational. I knew that. Even as I type these words, I realize that my response was a bit extreme. Panera Bread didn’t do anything to me—they just happened to be the location where a painful conversation took place. But the human heart doesn’t always operate on logic, and sometimes a place can become so intertwined with a difficult memory that you can’t separate the two.

Every time I saw the familiar sign—the green and orange logo, the promise of warm bread and soup—I felt that sinking feeling in my stomach all over again.

The uncertainty. The grief. The weight of that conversation.

So I avoided Panera Bread. For over eight years. Until December of 2025.

December 2025: A New Beginning

It was my first day on the job as Lead Pastor of the Eau Claire Wesleyan Church in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. The church had kindly given me a stack of gift cards to help with meals during the transition. As I flipped through them, one caught my eye.

Panera Bread.

My first thought was immediate and instinctive: “I’ll have to find someone to give this card away to.”

Then I caught myself. That was absolutely ridiculous. Here I was, starting a new chapter in a new city, in a new role, and I was still being held hostage by something that happened over eight years ago in a completely different state.

In a moment of courage and resolve, I made a decision and said out loud, “I’m going to Panera Bread for lunch today.”

That day before I walked into the restaurant, I said a short prayer, and I asked God to heal a really hard memory.

Then I opened the door.

I was promptly greeted by one of Panera Bread’s employees. I should be clear, this greeting was not just a perfunctory “welcome in” thrown over a shoulder while multitasking, but a genuine, warm engagement. She made eye contact. She smiled. She made me feel seen.

At one point, I asked her what her name was, and she joyfully said, “My name is Marty—it rhymes with party!”

I laughed and said, “Well, my name is Chad, and it rhymes with Dad, and I will not forget your name!”

She didn’t know it, but in that moment, something broke inside of me. A grip that had held me for far too long loosened.

As I left that day, I remember thinking, “I want to be a regular in this place.” And I have tried to be.

Just the other morning, as I finished a cinnamon crunch bagel with cream cheese, I saw Marty and wished her a good morning. My heart was filled with gratitude.

You Never Know What Someone is Carrying

I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened in that exchange on the day I met Marty.

Marty wasn’t trying to heal anyone. She was just being herself—warm, welcoming, present. She was doing her job with excellence and with heart. She certainly had no idea that the person walking through the door that day at lunch was carrying some heavy baggage.

But that’s the thing about hospitality. You never know what someone is carrying when they walk through the door. You never know what wound might be healed by a simple welcome.

A few days ago, I wrote a letter to Panera Bread corporate to tell them about Marty. I wanted them to know that she had restored Panera Bread for me as a place of welcome. I wanted them to know that her warm greeting had helped heal a painful memory.

I recognized that my story probably fell well outside of what they normally receive in their comment box. But I thought they should know the difference that a warm welcome can make.

Hospitality really is transformative.

I’ve been thinking about this in the context of the church I now pastor. How many people walk through our doors carrying wounds we know nothing about? How many people are avoiding places—or even avoiding God—because of painful associations?

And how many of those wounds could be healed by a simple act of genuine welcome?

Marty didn’t need a theology degree to minister to me that day. She didn’t need to know my story. She didn’t need special training. She just needed to be present, warm, and welcoming.

Sometimes the most profound ministry happens in the most ordinary moments.

Writing Ourselves into Each Other’s Stories

I still remember that table in Fishers, Indiana, and I probably always will. But now, when I think of Panera Bread, I think of a different table—one in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, where I sat on my first day as a pastor in this community and experienced the healing power of a warm welcome.

I also think of Marty, whose name rhymes with party, and who probably has no idea that she’s part of my story now.

I’m reminded that we’re all writing ourselves into other people’s stories every single day. With every interaction, every greeting, every moment of presence or absence, we’re either adding to someone’s burden or helping to lift it.

We never know which greeting might be the one that breaks something loose. We never know which welcome might be the one someone desperately needs.

So maybe the lesson is this: Be like Marty. Show up. Be warm. Be present. Make people feel seen.

You never know who might be walking through the door carrying years of pain, hoping for a reason to stay.

And Marty, if you ever read this (and I fully intend to share this with you): Thank you. Your name does indeed rhyme with party, and you threw one for me that day. I’m deeply grateful.

I like to write.

There’s something about putting words on a page that carries a certain therapy for me. Writing helps me clean out the cobwebs in the corners of my mind and sort out the depths of my heart.

I typically like to write stories—little vignettes we can learn from and glean wisdom. I really do like to write words that end on a hopeful note.

But I do not like to write articles like this.

Some time ago, I shared with a friend that “my desire to stay well-informed on current events was being outpaced by my need to maintain the health of my own mind and soul.” That is true right now.

I don’t know that we were built for this: sitting on the couch during the evening news, watching footage of a man and a woman shot in the street in Minneapolis, the yelling, the shouting, and then both sides lining up to state their case.

This post is a lament.

I think it was Jeff Manion who said that lament is coming before God and saying, “God, things are not going well, and we need to talk.”

So this article is a lament of a weary pastor.

I’m not weary of pastoring people—I love the role of pastor, I love the beauty of the church—but I’m weary of trying to find the right words. I’m weary of violence and bloodshed. I’m weary of childish immaturity on both sides of the political aisle and at all levels of our politics.

We have got to be better than this.

I pray we are better than this.

I pray that the parts of us that are better than this would begin to break through and bubble up and prevail.

Today I sat at our local library. A homeless woman sat just a few feet away from me. “Just trying to stay warm for a little while today,” she said. Across the way, a homeless man was snoring in a chair, totally oblivious to the world around him.

I lament the times—correction, I confess the times—that I’ve turned the other way, times that I have been grateful for my own warmth while so much of the world is suffering.

God, I wonder what you’re trying to teach us in these days. I wonder what you’re trying to stir in our hearts.

I don’t believe that you caused these things.

I do believe we live in a world where you allow things to happen.

I absolutely believe, God, that you want us to learn from these things, to grow through these things.

I remember reading in the scriptures some time ago about how creation is groaning.

It sure seems that way these days, God. It seems like there’s groaning in the streets.

Sometimes the groaning sounds like shouting—shouting at each other.

Sometimes it feels like too much for our hearts to handle.

Too much for my heart to handle.

When I read the Psalms of lament, they often end with the writer turning a positive note toward God. And even as I process this lament, I’m realizing how hard it must’ve been for the writers of those Psalms to say the words, “But God, I trust in you. I rely on you.”

On the wall of our apartment here in Eau Claire, there’s a painting that says, “I set the Lord before me; because he is at my right hand, I will not be shaken.”

God, that’s my prayer.

Even when my heart is weary, when my soul is overwhelmed, when I’m not real sure how to respond—God, I want you to be before me.

God, hear my prayers. Bring peace to these streets. Quiet my heart. I set you before me. Sustain me in these days.

Selah

On December 28, 2025, I preached a sermon at Eau Claire Wesleyan Church titled “Daring to Dream Again: Ten Reasons for Hope in 2026.” It was a message centered on finding the courage to hope, even when past disappointments make dreaming feel like a risk. Since then, I’ve adapted my notes into an article format, which I’m sharing with you here. I hope that it inspires and encourages you as you step into this New Year.

Is It Safe to Dream Again?

That was the question an exhausted and uncertain little boy asked his mother after he woke up night after night, haunted by recurring nightmares. “Is it safe to dream again?”

Some of you know exactly what that question feels like.

You’ve dreamed before. You’ve believed for something better. But now when you dream of what could be, past disappointments get in the way. Instead of breakthrough, you got a brick wall. Instead of progress, you got stuck. Instead of growth, you got disappointment.

Present realities get in the way too. You look in the mirror and wonder if there is a way forward. You feel weary and worn. Like the builders in Nehemiah, you think, “There is too much rubble.”

This dreaming tension is true for us individually, but it’s also true for the church. Sometimes churches can become hesitant to dream again. A steady stream of disappointments and discouragement bubble up. The harsh reality of what is readily apparent weighs heavy. The rapid change happening in our world leaves us spinning.

Change can stir up questions:

• What if the things I like change?

• What if the things I don’t like don’t change?

• What if we grow and lose our sense of community?

• What if things get uncomfortable?

Here’s the great news: The foundation for daring to dream again is not rooted in some new thing. Instead, it’s rooted in what is still the same.

Let me give you ten anchors that will steady us when everything else is shifting.

1. God is Still God…and He is Good at It!

In the midst of change, God remains our unchanging foundation.

“I the LORD do not change.” (Malachi 3:6)

“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.” (Hebrews 13:8)

When everything around you shifts—God’s character, God’s promises, and God’s presence remain constant.

God is not flustered by the stock market. God is not losing sleep over partisan politics. He is the same God whose wonders we read about in the Bible—the God who parted the Red Sea, who saved His people through an orphan who became queen, who transformed St. Paul’s heart on a moment’s notice.

Colossians 1:16-17 tells us that by Him all things were created, and in Him all things hold together. He rules the world and runs the universe with his feet up! Twenty-four hours a day, fifty-two weeks a year, three hundred sixty-five days a year, God is at work in the world, and he’s good at it.

It might feel like everything has fallen apart in your life, like things are coming apart at the seams, like you pulled a loose thread on a piece of clothing and suddenly the whole thing came unraveled.

I want you to know that God is still God, and he’s good at it. You can trust him with everything.

2. Jesus is Still Changing Lives

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!” (2 Corinthians 5:17)

The New Testament is filled with stories of life change. These weren’t just religious conversions—they were radical shifts in identity, career, and character.

Jesus is still changing lives today.

Jesus is still changing the lives of persecutors like Saul of Tarsus—a blind encounter with Jesus on the road to Damascus turned the enemy of the church into its greatest missionary. He wrote thirteen books of the New Testament and eventually died for the faith he once tried to destroy.

Jesus is still changing the lives of outcasts like Mary Magdalene—a woman tormented by seven demons became one of His most devoted followers and was the first witness of the Resurrection, commissioned by Jesus to tell the Apostles He was alive.

Jesus is still changing the lives of the corrupt like Zacchaeus—after Jesus invited Himself to lunch, Zacchaeus’s heart moved from greed to generosity. He didn’t just stop stealing; he promised to give half his goods to the poor and pay back anyone he cheated fourfold.

Jesus is still changing the lives of the impulsive like Simon Peter, skeptics like Thomas, and those carrying social stigma like the Woman at the Well.

Jesus hasn’t stopped redeeming, restoring, and renewing people. No one in our world is too far gone. No one is a lost cause. Everyone who hears can be made new.

3. The Holy Spirit is Still at Work in Our World

The Holy Spirit is actively working in multiple ways:

Transforming Lives and Growing Fruit - “But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.” (Galatians 5:22-23)

Convicting of Sin - Jesus said, “When he comes, he will convict the world about sin, righteousness, and judgment.” (John 16:8)

Guiding Us to the Truth - “The Counselor, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you all things and remind you of everything I have told you.” (John 14:26)

Empowering Us to Proclaim Christ - “When they had prayed, the place where they were assembled was shaken, and they were all filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak the word of God boldly.” (Acts 4:31)

Giving Us Spiritual Gifts - First Corinthians 12 tells us the Spirit distributes gifts—wisdom, knowledge, faith, healing, miracles, prophecy, discernment—to each person as He wills for the common good.

Empowering Us to Worship - “Be filled by the Spirit: speaking to one another in psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs, singing and making music with your heart to the Lord.” (Ephesians 5:18-19)

Leading Us - The Holy Spirit often spoke to and directed His people in the New Testament. In Matthew 4, Jesus was led by the Spirit into the wilderness. In Acts 16, Paul and Barnabas were clearly led by the Spirit to go to Macedonia. Romans 8:26-27 reminds us the Spirit intercedes for us when we don’t even have words.

Henri Nouwen wrote, “What needs to be guarded is the life of the spirit within us. Especially we who want to witness to the presence of God’s spirit in the world need to tend the fire within with the utmost care.”

We cannot heal, convict of sin, free people from addictions, or save souls—only the Spirit can. Seek His help with expectancy and boldness.

4. God’s Word is Still True

In a world where every value is questioned, Scripture remains our reliable guide.

“The grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of our God endures forever.” (Isaiah 40:8)

When culture shifts and opinions change, we have an anchor in unchanging truth. Hebrews 4:12 tells us, “For the word of God is alive and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart.”

There are lots of things I don’t understand. Let’s focus on what we do understand: Love your neighbor. Forgive your enemies. Turn from sin and pursue Jesus.

5. God Still Uses Unlikely People

Alistair Begg said, “The people that God chooses to use are some of the most unlikely people at the most unlikely times—ordinary people chosen for extraordinary tasks.”

Moses wrestled with his words and self-doubt. Gideon felt too weak for the task. Jeremiah felt inadequate to be a prophet, saying, “Alas, Sovereign LORD, I do not know how to speak; I am too young.” The Centurion Soldier believed Jesus had the power to heal but felt undeserving to have Him come to his house.

First Corinthians 1:26-29 tells us God chooses the foolish things to shame the wise.

David Platt wrote, “This is the beauty of God’s grace that we see all over the Bible. God chooses the unlikeliest of people. Think about the disciples—these men were not the most well-educated. They were not the smartest, the most influential, or the wealthiest. Many different reasons why you would not choose this group of men, and yet Jesus called them by name, drew them to himself, and used this small group of unlikely, uneducated, unschooled, ordinary men to literally turn the world upside down, to alter the course of human history.”

God specializes in using people who don’t feel adequate. As 2 Corinthians 12:9 promises, “My power is made perfect in weakness.”

We might think, “I’m not gifted,” or “I don’t have the skills.” But God specializes in using people who don’t feel adequate.

6. God Still Specializes in Doing a Lot with a Little

Five loaves and two fish fed five thousand people. A widow’s oil and flour never ran out during famine. What looks like scarcity to us is often an abundant opportunity to God.

When we are totally submitted to Christ and we allow Him to touch what we have with His blessings, we too have the potential to touch the multitudes. Whether it’s our talents, resources, or life experiences, when we bring them to Christ, our little becomes much when it is placed in the Master’s hand.

As the old song says, “Little is much when God is in it. Labor not for wealth or fame. There’s a crown, and you can win it, if you go in Jesus’ name.”

7. God Still Specializes in Bringing New Life

Ezekiel saw a valley of dry bones come to life. Jesus raised Lazarus after four days in the tomb.

“Behold, I will do a new thing, now it shall spring forth; shall you not know it? I will even make a road in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.” (Isaiah 43:19)

God makes a way where there seems to be none. Romans 6:4 tells us, “We were therefore buried with him through baptism into death in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may live a new life.”

Second Corinthians 5:17 states, “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!”

I don’t believe in lost causes—not because I am an optimist, but because I am a Christian! The cross shouts that life can come from death.

8. God Still Has Plans and a Purpose for Each One of Us

Maybe you feel like you’ve missed your moment. Maybe you think your best years are behind you. Maybe you’re wondering if God can still use your life for something meaningful.

Listen to what God says: “For I know the plans I have for you. They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope” (Jeremiah 29:11).

Did you catch that? God has plans for you. And they’re good plans. Plans that give you a future and a hope.

Ephesians 2:10 tells us something stunning: “We are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.” Before you were born, God was already preparing good works specifically designed for you. There are things only you can do. People only you can reach. Contributions only you can make.

You’re not an accident. You’re not a mistake. You’re not too old, too young, too broken, or too ordinary. You are God’s masterpiece, His workmanship, His handiwork. The same God who painted sunsets and carved out canyons created you with intention and purpose.

And here’s what seals it: Philippians 1:6 promises, “He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.” God doesn’t start things He doesn’t finish. He’s not done with you yet. The work He began in you—He’s committed to completing it.

Your story isn’t over. God’s plans for you aren’t exhausted. There’s more ahead than what’s behind.

9. God is Still Building His Church

Let me tell you something that should fill you with confidence: Jesus made a promise about His church, and Jesus keeps His promises.

“I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not overcome it.” (Matthew 16:18)

Notice who’s doing the building—“I will build.” Not you. Not me. Not a committee. Not a strategic plan. Jesus himself is building His church. We get to participate, but He’s the architect, the builder, and the foundation.

And notice what can’t stop it—”the gates of Hades will not overcome it.” Not cultural opposition. Not declining attendance trends. Not generational shifts. Not even the gates of hell itself can stop what Jesus is building.

The church has survived Roman persecution, the Dark Ages, corrupt leadership, theological controversies, world wars, and every prediction of its demise. And it’s still here. Still growing. Still transforming lives. Why? Because Jesus is building it, and what Jesus builds cannot be torn down.

Ephesians 4:15-16 gives us the beautiful picture: “We are to grow up into Christ, from whom the whole body, joined and held together by every joint with which it is equipped, when each part is working properly, makes the body grow so that it builds itself up in love.”

Every part. Every person. Every gift. When each part is working properly—when you show up, when you serve, when you use your gifts—the whole body grows and builds itself up in love.

There’s nothing like the local church when it’s working right. Not a building—a body. Not an organization—an organism. Not a social club—a supernatural family. Christianity is inherently supernatural, and churches should expect God to work beyond what can be humanly explained.

The church isn’t a museum for perfect people. It’s a hospital for broken people. It’s not a social club for the elite. It’s a family for the orphaned. It’s not a fortress to hide in. It’s a launching pad to change the world.

And Jesus is still building it. Right here. Right now. Through us.

10. Humility Before God is Still the Way Forward

Here’s what I’ve learned: The distance between where we are and where God wants us to be isn’t crossed by striving harder, trying more, or doing better.

It’s crossed by surrender.

Second Chronicles 7:14 lays out God’s prescription for revival: “If my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and I will forgive their sin and will heal their land.”

It starts with humility. Not programs. Not strategies. Not better marketing. Humility.

James 4:10 makes it even simpler: “Humble yourselves before the Lord, and he will lift you up.” You want to go higher? Go lower. You want God to exalt you? Humble yourself. The path up is down.

Micah 6:8 cuts through all the religious complexity and asks the fundamental question: “What does the LORD require of you?” Here’s the answer: “To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.”

Walk humbly with your God. Not arrogantly. Not self-sufficiently. Not in your own strength. Humbly. Dependently. Surrendered.

The Wesleyan Covenant Prayer

John Wesley understood this deeply. He believed that Christians should regularly renew their covenant with God—not out of obligation, but out of love. Not to earn God’s favor, but to respond to the grace already given.

In 1755, Wesley created a covenant service where believers could formally surrender their lives afresh to God. The covenant service became a tradition in Methodist churches, often observed on New Year’s Eve or the first Sunday of January—a way to begin the year not with resolutions we’ll break, but with surrender we can sustain.

Let me share the Wesleyan Covenant Prayer. As you read it, let these words search your heart:

I am no longer my own, but yours.

Put me to what you will, place me with whom you will.

Put me to doing, put me to suffering.

Let me be put to work for you or set aside for you, praised for you or criticized for you.

Let me be full, let me be empty.

Let me have all things, let me have nothing.

I freely and fully surrender all things to your glory and service.

And now, O wonderful and holy God, Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, you are mine, and I am yours.

So be it.

And the covenant which I have made on earth, let it also be made in heaven. Amen.

This prayer isn’t comfortable. It’s not safe. It’s total surrender. Put me to doing or put me to suffering. Praised or criticized. Full or empty. All things or nothing. Whatever you want, Lord—I’m yours.

But here’s the paradox: This kind of surrender is where we find true freedom. This kind of humility is where we encounter God’s power. This kind of emptying is where we’re filled.

The path to God’s power is through surrender and humility. Always has been. Always will be.

So Is It Safe to Dream Again?

Yes. A thousand times, yes.

It’s safe to dream again because God is still God—and He is good at it.

It’s safe to dream again because Jesus is still changing lives—and yours could be next.

It’s safe to dream again because the Spirit is still at work—in you and through you.

It’s safe to dream again because God’s Word is still true—you can build your life on it.

It’s safe to dream again because God still uses unlikely people—people just like you.

It’s safe to dream again because God does a lot with a little—so bring Him what you have.

It’s safe to dream again because God brings new life—even to dead things.

It’s safe to dream again because God has plans for each of us—and His plans are good.

It’s safe to dream again because God is building His church—and nothing can stop it.

It’s safe to dream again because humility before God is still the way forward—surrender leads to power.

Will You Dare to Dream Again?

Dream, because God is greater than your past disappointments.

Dream, because God is stronger than your present circumstances.

Dream, because God will do immeasurably more than we could ever ask or imagine.

Dream, because with God, nothing—absolutely nothing—is impossible.

Not because our circumstances have changed. Not because we have a foolproof plan. Not because we’re confident in ourselves.

Dream again because we’re confident in God.

And God is still the same.

As we step into 2026, may this be our prayer:

God, if you’re coming by our city, don’t pass us by. Come and do what only You can do. Revive us. Renew us. Restore us. Use us. Because what is still the same keeps us stable, gives us hope, and fuels our dreams.

May the faithful love of the Lord never end. May His mercies begin afresh each morning. No matter what comes your way this year, God you promised to weave it together for our ultimate good and Your glory.

So we enter this new year with confidence that God is indeed able, through his mighty power at work within each one of us, to accomplish infinitely more than we could ask or imagine.

We enter this year with big prayers and bold faith. For God is greater, and He is not finished with us yet.

In a time filled with vitriol, be a carrier of peace.

In a day filled with ugly words, be a whisperer of hope.

In a season filled with heaviness, be a burden bearer.

In a path filled with hardship, be a gentle guide.

In a maze of searching, fix your eyes on Jesus.

Selah