Over the past year, I’ve found solo riding to be one of the best ways to force myself into sabbath mode. Today, with my wife 8 time zones away, I pushed aside my to-do list and chased a paradoxical concoction of adventure and rest.
Sometimes, Jesus does multiply loaves and fishes. Sometimes, he puts booming voices in front of large crowds. Sometimes, lives are changed by words said on bright stages. My life has. I’ve learned over the past few years, though, that Jesus does a lot of work outside of the spotlight. That has proven especially true on my journey with him. Some of the most fulfilling conversations of my years in ministry have happened when hikers’ headlamps have lit up my J7 reflector or R9 sign.
It might be selfish of me; but before I start an outdoor adventure or leave on a big trip, I ask Jesus to reveal his heart, his character, or his glory. Before my first flight toward the Arctic Circle, that prayer came with a visual hope: to witness aurora borealis in person for the first time. For this trip, I added a second prayer request: “God, will you show me why you put the desire in me to go on this trip—why you wanted me to search for you in the Arctic Circle?”
I asked the bride if there was anything she’d like me to incorporate into the homily. She said, “restoration and redemption.” I looked into her eyes on the sidewalk next to the courthouse where we filled out the paperwork. I knew those words were her story. I met the groom half an hour before the ceremony and chatted about his journey to this moment. His life story showcased those two words, too. In case you have some pain you’d like redeemed or brokenness you’d like restored, here’s what I said to the bride & groom. I hope the human vessels of Jesus’ love in your life will likewise help you realize that healing through their acceptance and affirmation, challenge and loyalty.
As the world raged into and through 2022, I sought out two kinds of books this year: (1) those that spoke truth into the dysfunction and (2) those that showcased an antithetical mood or a winsome antidote. That’s not by accident. This year, I wrote more than 60,000 words for a memoir about the darkness surrounding my childhood faith and the beautiful ways that trauma was redeemed. I’ve been drawn to narratives similar to mine and tales foreign to my lived experience. I’ve let my heart be broken by nonfiction stories, and then I comforted that broken heart with equally-true tales of shared humanity. In contiguity of these books, I’ve learned how to live in the tension between the world as it should be and the world as it is. Here are the forty books I read this year in the order that I would recommend them.
In short, I’ve discovered that the Bible isn’t what I’ve thought it was. In a good way. It’s not a proof text for my preferences and proclivities. It’s not a security blanket to wrap around my political stances or any patriarchy. Jesus didn’t look like me, and his kingdom doesn’t look like my country has at any point in its history. And the best part? The real deal—whatever I someday will understand fully—is better than the constraints of my biases.
The protesters in Iran right now don’t hate Iran—just what Iran has become. They’d love a flourishing environment where freedom and equality wafted in the air they all breathe. Iranian women and those they’ve inspired dream of a place with liberty and justice for all. For me, “justice” means tov, the ancient Hebrew word God used over and over when he surveyed his pristine, yet-unfallen creation. I long for a country and a church where everyone is treated as though they were made in the image of God—because they were. I pray for a nation and religion where those who endanger the safety of women and children have boundaries placed around them to protect other potential victims from harm.
This non-glamourous setup has heard hosts admit surprise that I had anything spiritually profound or practical to say. These pillows have heard a host (who had hate-read the first few chapters of my book) pull random quotes and tell me how unbiblical and gutless I was. But, mostly, this bright & cozy spot hosted fun discussions between curious and thoughtful people.
God knows we won’t recognize most of what he’s doing around us, and he still lavishes those blessings on us. He hides wonders around the world for us to eventually find. I imagine he waits in anticipation as we bumble around the Easter eggs of his character that he’s stashed in the nooks and crannies of our lives. Gracious, he “hides” his blessings right out in the open, where we’re blindfolded by our myopia.
Saturday, several of my church buddies and I ran the Upper Gauley through Hurricane Ian’s rain in a private raft. The water was 58ºF. The air was 49ºF. The mist rising off the water and around each fold of the gorge made it feel like we were paddling through a scene from Jurassic Park. None of us wore GoPros. But it wasn’t just scenic. We got to pound and paddle our way through some wild water.
Crystal and I got married when I was 22. For our twenty-second anniversary, Crystal and I returned to one of our favorite sports (and my favorite city in the world): Vancouver, BC. She’s half Canadian, and I’ve spent half my life with her. So, Canada seemed like a fitting place to celebrate.
I’ve spent a summer, paying my way into recorded conversations because my life isn’t interesting enough to enough people—and in particular the “right” people. I got my money’s worth from this publicity tour, because I learned that the life I have offline is a full one, an enough one.
I’m not done dreaming. In fact, my dreams prove far more ambitious now than any I had when she said, “I do,” on a Maryland beach. I’m not the man she married, but she has adapted to every version of me.
Nate and I spent Labor Day weekend, riding a Can-Am Maverick Trail over and between Utah’s beautiful mountains. At every turn, we saw rugged beauty—sometimes in robust forests and other times in barren dirt. We challenged ourselves along precarious ledges and over obstacles that required careful crawling. We came home having conquered anxious moments and having cheered each other on while we did. The title of this album came from all the times we paused to consider whether we should try a “high consequence” stretch of trail. Almost every time, Nate would pause, survey the situation, and say, “The worst thing that happens is we die.” Haha.
In just over 30 hours, I rode my motorcycle 530 miles. Those miles took me to Tennessee, West Virginia, and parts of Virginia I’ve never seen. We powered through a hail storm and rode ourselves dry over 100+ miles. I had a bear run out in front of me, and I almost became a hood ornament on a Toyota Tacoma in a blind curve. I successfully survived a steep rutted hill climb and a section of trail made out of 57 stone.
Today’s the day! Barnes & Noble has sold my book online since last November; but as of today, you can buy it off the shelf at their Lynchburg, VA, store. I signed all three copies currently in stock.
The other day, I blurted out to Crystal, “The clouds have been amazing this summer!”
Vulnerability scared me. It often still does. The precipice of self-revelation can and has felt like the moments in an airplane right before I jump out of it or walk out onto a biplane wing for some aerobatics. “Well. Here goes nothing.”
My adventurous friend, Dave Kountz, saw Top Gun Maverick and decided the best way to celebrate his birthday was flying into the danger zone. I’m so grateful he asked me to join him on a crazy caper that included some intense moments thousands of feet off the ground.
We joined with hundreds of other MINI drivers on a scenic drive through rural Virginia, including on roads none of us had driven and places we’d never seen. So much fun! It was a long day—12 straight hours together—but those hours were filled with adventure, wonder, good conversations, laughter, and cheering for each other.
Why wouldn’t Jesus want us to absorb all we can be, all of what life can be? He said he’s the way, the truth, and the life. I’ve never felt more alive than in moments after I held my fear, acknowledged it, and then leaned into it. Why wouldn’t Jesus challenge our atrophy, apathy, and comfort, if he knew there was a beautiful scary experience waiting on the other side of surrender?
My life changed forever 3 years ago today. I was standup paddle boarding on an incredible helicopter expedition in British Columbia with Aaron, Ryan, Tony, and Ralph. When we got back to civilization, I got a text from my wife explaining that law … Continued
My brother-in-law, Sam, and I drove and hiked around the archipelago nation of the Faroe Islands. From almost every person we told that we heard, “Where’s that?” Well, these 18 islands within the Kingdom of Denmark erupt from the North Atlantic Ocean southeast of Iceland and north of Scotland. And every bend in their roads and trails wows you with a ruggedness that distracts you from almost all thoughts but amazement.
Woody’s two-word invitation made me ponder a four-word promise Jesus made before he headed back to heaven. As he told his first-century followers to go and make disciples, he assured them, “I am with you.” That promise goes well with his command not to be afraid and his foretelling of the Holy Spirit’s omnipresence. But this morning, I heard something different in that claim: an invitation to access him.
Out in the dark on Sunday mornings, my heart’s been buoyed. The people showing up before the sun aren’t disgruntled. They haven’t given up. Even if they’ve chafed under a mask indoors, they’ve counted that small inconvenience as a tiny sacrifice for their mission. Having seen Jesus move in their midst, they remained driven to keep chasing kingdom advances. These folks weren’t trudging with slumped shoulders through a weekend morning on which they’d rather be sleeping in. No: they had smiles on their faces, pep in their step, and joy in their greetings. They radiated an energy that I absorbed and tried to take to my now-smaller asphalt team an hour later.