Dear Trailhead family, On Sunday, September 12, 2021, Trailhead Church officially launched. That was five years ago this week; it feels like a lifetime ago. I have been a part of six churches in my lifetime. (Not that you asked, but maybe you wanted to). First Assembly of God, Red Oak, Iowa. First Assembly of God, Jefferson, Iowa. Ada Bible Church, Ada, Michigan. Grace Church (later HomeChurch), Broken Arrow, Oklahoma. Fresh Life Church, Whitefish, Montana. And Trailhead Church. Each of these churches was complicated because people were involved. In hindsight, much of the complications were my own. And each of these churches was beautiful because God was involved in shaping people more and more into the image of Jesus. The Red Oak church welcomed my family while I was in diapers. My first memory of that church was playing outside after service in the parking lot and seeing a praying mantis on the brick of the building. I do not remember much else other than it felt like we belonged. I was with First Assembly in Jefferson for the longest. Ages four to twenty-two. My parents and two siblings are still there. The people of that church were family to me and family to my family. Alan and Bonita, Lyle and Iona, Dean and Tiffany, Dan and Vickie, Rod and Jessica, Elaine, Doris, Josh, Jeremy, Jonathan, Jessica, Chris, Katie, Chad, Craig. The list could include hundreds of names. Sometimes a divorce happened, sometimes a death. Also births and baptisms. People left; some came back. I was there long enough, and I knew the people well enough that I had no illusions this was a perfect church. But it was our church. At this church, I learned what a church could be. That congregation, meeting in a pieced-together building, was the fullest picture I have of church. I would never have seen that if I hadn’t been there for so long. I was at Ada Bible Church for only a year before I moved away. That was the shortest I was a part of a church, and that was the first church I chose. Or at least I think I chose it. I walked in after a few weeks of visiting other churches and felt this was my church. I was there until I moved away. Most weeks I sat by myself, but some weeks friends from school joined me. One Sunday, the pastor taught by simply saying the Sermon on the Mount. I don’t know if he was reading from a screen at the back of the room or if he was reciting from memory. I had no desire to turn around and find out; it was one of the best sermons I have ever heard. The first church Cassie and I were a part of as a newly married couple was Grace Church. Much like marriage itself, we chose it and then chose it again and again many times over the years. We had a honeymoon period at that church, and then we didn’t. For many years that we were there, we found it hard to invite people. Some we invited came and then never came back, and we didn’t blame them. I am not sure what to make of those years at that church, but I do not regret being a part of it for twelve years. I once did, but I don't anymore. Some of the best people we have ever known were there, and we still call them some of our dearest friends. Geoff and Lisa, Brandon and Mallori, Nick and Charity, Justin and Sarah, and a host of young adults that stayed at our house way too late, way too often. The church has been reborn as a testimony of God’s faithfulness. I talk to the pastor several times a month. Colton Born welcomed us with enthusiasm the first time we attended the Whitefish campus of Fresh Life. He was the campus pastor, and he was the best. The church did not have a permanent facility, and we never helped with set-up or tear-down. I don’t think we were ever asked. Whether it was God or Colton could just tell we needed a rest, and we got it there. We joined the hospitality team the week before COVID, and that was that. And then we were invited to join a group of people praying about what it would look like to plant a church in Kalispell. We had no intention of joining long-term, but we figured it couldn't hurt to participate for a few weeks of prayer. Maybe it would encourage them a bit. Once again, I don’t know if we chose to join the people of Trailhead (I don’t think we had a name yet, but maybe we did), or if God chose for us. We were just suddenly a part of it. After a few months of praying in living rooms, Easthaven let us use some of their space on Saturday nights. Then Jimmy Karlin met the pastor of the church meeting at 315 E. Evergreen Drive, and before we knew what was happening, we had agreed to lease that space. Over the summer we met, but mostly we remodeled. And then, on Sunday, September 12, 2021, Trailhead Church officially launched. Five years later, I am sitting in my study at 315 E. Evergreen Drive, writing this. They say you never step into the same river twice, and I think that may be true of a church too. So much has changed. What I do know is that God is building something here at Trailhead. I suspect it is something special. I do not know what the finished plans look like, but I think it may look like a community of people who commit to one another out of love for God. That might be about it. Nothing flashy. But it is enough. At least for a lifetime. We are a curious group. Some of us are from the wrong side of the tracks, spiritually speaking, and some of us cannot figure out how to open the communion elements (ok, that's most of us), and some of us are still trying to figure out what following God even looks like, but we have determined that no one walks alone. If you are following after Jesus, even if it's slowly and with a noticeable limp, you will not do so alone. What I have found in this church is that you will have company while following Jesus. Some of your companions chose to be here, some cannot figure out how they ended up here. Maybe a church really can choose you. Regardless, you have company. Traveling companions. The fellowship of those too stubborn or too tired to quit on each other. We are a messed-up bunch, and we have more in common with the woman in the corner crying as she prays “God, be merciful to me, a sinner” than the fellow who has his theology all in order and can map out the end times for you on a napkin. This church takes a different approach to a lot of things, because, you know, we are this church, not another one. We eat a lot of meals together. Not enough, mind you, but a lot. We share the responsibility and privilege of teaching and singing and inviting each other into communion and baptism because, for the life of us, we cannot properly determine who is clergy and who is not. Our gatherings are marked by at least one awkward silence every time, and it's becoming so normal that it's losing its awkwardness. Every Sunday somebody spills their coffee in the sanctuary, and I’m starting to wonder if it's done on purpose so the visitor will feel at home. Genius. I cannot remember ever teaching where a child’s laughter or cries didn't partially drown me out. God, we need more laughter and tears. We have a roof that leaks and people who bring extra produce and eggs to share with others. We are poor, and we are wealthy. People will ask what kind of church Trailhead is, as if trying to determine the breed of a dog in the park. Great question. We are not a purebred species, I can tell you that. I say we are multi-denominational because that sounds better than being mutts. And I wonder if we didn’t end up with some very special characteristics because of our crossbreeding. On Sunday, September 12, 2021, Trailhead Church officially launched. We had no idea what was happening. That is still true today. To borrow an analogy from poet and farmer Wendell Berry, you can bulldoze a field and erect a shopping mall, and it'll be beautiful for a while, but in 20 years it will look old and sad and in the process of being abandoned. Or you can get your hands in the dirt and look slowly around to see what this soil and climate are best suited to grow. And then grow that. It’ll still be producing in a thousand years. I pray that's us as a church. What is the soil and climate God has given us? Who are the people that have chosen this as their people, and what gifting do they bring? That will tell us the kind of church we are. It’s slow faithfulness, but what other kind of faithfulness is there? So rather than a rousing cheer to the next five years, here is to faithfulness today. Here's to walking slowly so the slowest can keep up. Here’s to looking at each other with immense curiosity, wondering what aspect of God they will reveal to us. Here’s to following after Jesus. Together. Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, Forgive me if I’ve said this before, but the church in America has a problem. How do I know this? Because I see it in myself. Maybe a story will help. Once upon a time, Jesus was invited over for a meal. He graciously accepted. The host wasn't so gracious. Jesus entered the host’s home, but the standard acts of hospitality were not shown to him. Was he welcome or not? The question lingered in the air. Before things could get too awkward, something more awkward took place: the local woman who everyone knew and a few people, and by people we mean men, knew really well, entered the home. Such boldness: was she drunk? Here for revenge? Desperate for a tip? She went straight to Jesus and knelt by his feet. Sobbing, Jesus’ dirty feet were soon streaked by the woman’s tears. All those in attendance were mortified and embarrassed and unable to look away. And it only got worse. The woman took her long hair and slowly let it down. One old fellow sucked in a lungful of air as if he had been holding his breath. He probably had been. A few of the more righteous men clucked their tongues in disapproval at this display of immodesty. The woman continued to sob, but now she wiped Jesus’ feet with her hair, transferring the dirt and tears to her hair. The host, a well-respected man named Simon, watched Jesus' face intently, marveling at how calm Jesus was, and how kindly he looked at the woman. Not for the first time, Simon wondered what this teacher was up to. The Teacher was rumored to be a prophet, a mouthpiece for God, a voice calling Israel back to God, but here he was, getting special attention from a woman that everyone knew but nobody would admit to knowing. And now she was kissing Jesus’ feet. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” thought Simon. The whole room began to feel crowded and stuffy, and the men in attendance made sure not to make eye contact with each other, and a few wondered if God would strike them then and there. Finally, the host looked away, having seen enough to make up his mind about Jesus. “Simon,” Jesus said quietly, “I have something to tell you.” A few men jumped at the words, as if caught in an embarrassing act themselves. “Yes, of course, please tell me,” Simon managed to say nonchalantly. Jesus stared at his host with a look on his face that Simon couldn’t decipher. Was it pity? Sadness? Compassion? He couldn’t tell. The rest of the guests didn’t notice Jesus' face turned toward Simon, for they were all staring at the woman; she was now pouring perfume on Jesus' feet! The smell filled the room, making it feel even more confined and now scandalously humid, if humidity can be scandalous. “There were two debtors, one owed a lot, the other little. Neither could pay,” Jesus began as if tears and a woman’s hair and perfume on his feet were completely normal. He was locked into Simon as he spoke. Simon shifted at the table and nodded at Jesus to continue, even though he was now beginning to feel very uncomfortable. “That sort of thing happens,” Simon said, encouraging Jesus to continue. “The lender forgave both debts,” Jesus said, almost a whisper. Simon cocked an eyebrow, surprised at the recklessness of the lender. “Which of the two will love the benevolent lender more?” Jesus asked. Simon cleared his throat and tried not to look at the woman. The question hung heavy in the perfumed air. Simon cleared his throat again and replied more loudly than he intended to, “The one who had the bigger debt forgiven, he would love the most.” “Well said,” Jesus replied, still looking intently at Simon. Simon briefly closed his eyes, and when he opened them, Jesus was no longer looking at him, but now at the woman. And his look was unapologetically tender. Still looking at her, Jesus continued speaking to Simon, “From the moment I entered your house, you failed to offer the most ordinary acts of hospitality towards me. But from the moment this woman entered your house, she has shown the most extravagant acts of hospitality towards me.” “Please make all of this stop,” Simon silently begged God, all the while looking stoic and composed on the outside. “Her sins are forgiven,” Jesus continued, “she is righteous before God.” Someone guffawed in the room, but Jesus did not look away from the woman, and Simon did not look away from Jesus. “The proof is in her actions.” Then, after a long perfume-filled pause, Jesus concluded, “The one who was forgiven little could only find a little love for the one who forgave his debt.” Simon winced and immediately wished he hadn’t. That story is found in Luke's account of the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. And we are left to marvel at something: both debtors could not repay their debt; both debtors were in a completely helpless place. But one debtor could look at the other debtor and say, “Compared to him, I’m not doing so bad.” That is our problem in the American Church. I know this because that is my problem. Or one of them. We (I) can always find someone we are doing better than and convince ourselves that we are doing well. Which is great. It feels nice. Only we still have no hope or means of repaying our debt. For all have sinned. For I have sinned and cannot make the minimum payment. Now what? Sure, someone else’s debt is much larger than mine, but I have a debt I have no way of repaying. It’s crushing me. Dave Ramsey cannot help, nor can applying for financial aid. Can you see what we are doing here? We are being crushed to death by sin, and our response is to look around and say, “Wouldn’t you look at their debt! Now that is truly unfortunate.” This Sunday we are starting a new teaching series called Becoming Alive: the process of abandoning death for life. In this, we will learn from a modern-day equivalent of the women found in our story. Our modern equivalent, those people who have looked their debt in the face and found it impossible, can often be found sitting in a circle, sharing their helplessness with friends and strangers alike. They usually introduce themselves like this: Hi. My name is _____. I am an alcoholic. Yes, you read that right; we have something to learn from our brothers and sisters seeking sobriety. Why? Because they have come to realize that they are a lousy savior and their sobriety rests on more than saying a prayer. And their sobriety needs other people. To live sober requires a complete overhaul. Or maybe it's more like their old self dying so that a new person can be born. This kind of transformation is what we will be taking 12 weeks to walk through as a church. Twelve weeks based on the 12 Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous. (Don’t worry, our teaching will be based on the scriptures as we always strive to do, but you might be surprised to discover how much scripture is in the 12 Steps). A typical AA meeting takes place in an unused corner of a church basement with hard folding chairs, cheap coffee, and stale cookies. No sound system, no fancy lights, no bubbly personalities to make everyone feel better about themselves. A typical church service in our stream of Christianity takes place in a beautifully appointed auditorium with wide, comfy seats, organic artisanal coffee, low lighting to set just the right mood, and pleasant-looking, energetic people on stage. This is why the saying goes that you can go upstairs and hear about miracles, or you can go downstairs and see them. It comes down to our desperation. Or lack thereof. God, help us. In AA, Step 1 is: We admitted we were powerless over alcohol — that our lives had become unmanageable. That is exactly the right place to start. And if alcohol isn't your issue, change the language to reflect whatever your coping mechanism or drug of choice is (i.e., food, shopping, crack cocaine, porn, Fox News, TikTok, etc.) But for those of us who know how to game the system, writer Stephen Haynes suggests that we should have a preliminary step before Step 1, a Step 0. His suggestion for Step 0 is: We admitted that, despite all appearances, we were not fine. We are not fine. Now that is bedrock. Something beautiful can be built from that. So. So let us throw off everything that hinders, and the sin that so easily entangles. Let us show up as a church, not as those who pretend to have it all together, but as debtors desperate for forgiveness. Let us stop hiding and stop pretending so that we can get down to the real business of sin and forgiveness, of being loved and loving, of crying ugly tears that become beautiful when they land on Jesus’ feet. May we be so aware of our lostness that we no longer hide from the rescue party. Would you pray with me? Hi. My name is _________. I am not fine, and I am in desperate need of help. Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, He had sat on the street outside the synagogue for years, asking for a handout. Asking for help, really. He had never seriously thought about going inside, because he was outside and it wasn’t easy for him to go to new places. Besides, he had never been invited inside, and that's how it usually works. You get invited in. Invited into a home, a country, a garden, a debate. You get invited, otherwise you are trespassing. Since he had not been invited in, he had remained out. Most people ignored him, he could tell. If they walked by, they stopped talking or spoke in a hushed whisper. Sure, he was blind, had been since before he could remember, but he could hear them. He knew they were there. He knew they were looking at him while trying to look like they weren’t. But he knew. He was blind, not stupid. Funny how that correlation was often made. He’s blind; he must be dumb. He wasn’t. Not even close. Sometimes his wit did him no favors, like when people spoke in a hush when they walked by, and he would join their conversation. Usually with something snarky. That got him cursed at more than a few times. And once the dam was broken, people could say some nasty things. About him, about his mom, about anything and everything that they knew nothing about. Stuff just came out. He knew how this worked because he was the same way. Once they insulted him, or especially when they insulted his family, game on. He didn’t get many return customers. But one guy wasn’t scared off. That guy had been walking in a group, and he could hear their discussion. He knew they were talking about him, but instead of interjecting, he had listened. It sounded like some guy had asked about sin. Did this man sin or his parents? Something like that. And that had made him snort. His sin? He had been born this way. He had been born blind. He hadn't exactly had a lot of opportunities to sin in the womb. Or had he? What was sin, exactly? He had never heard it properly defined. It usually came down to doing what people with power and authority said to do, and if you didn’t, sin! Sinner! That made him snort out loud. He got called a sinner a lot, presumably because of his blindness. And that was a hard connection for him to see, but then again, he was blind. He snorted again at his joke and considered the ten commands Moses had given them. Probably a good place to start when thinking about sin. No God but Yahweh. Live in a manner that reflects the character of Yahweh. Remember the sabbath; keep it holy. Honor your parents. No murder. No adultery. No stealing. Lying is out. And be happy with what you have; your neighbor's spouse and household are theirs to enjoy, and you have your people and things to enjoy. “Neither he nor his parents sinned,” someone said. That made him snort again. What was that, like three times? He was becoming a real snorter. It was kind of the man to say he hadn’t sinned or his parents, but that seemed a bit much. Sure, he hadn’t looked at his neighbor's wife in a way that would have made Moses grouchy, but that was a failure of his eyes, not his intentions. He hadn’t broken all the commands, but it wasn’t from a lack of effort. But if this man wasn’t going to point fingers, then he was ok with that. The next sound was unmistakable. He was about to get spit on. That happened from time to time, and if he was being honest, he didn’t like it. The curse was on his lips when he realized that no spit had landed on him. Not even a little spittle on his face. And now he heard someone, someone very close by, playing in the dirt. Or mud. It sounded wet. “Can I? The voice asked. Can he what? What was being asked? “Can I touch your eyes?” What weird thing was happening? Why was he asking? Why mud? Why his eyes? Now would be a nice time to see, to know what was happening. He must have nodded. It must have looked like a yes, for the mud was being wiped on his eyes. Oh, great. Was that really spit mud on his face? He gingerly touched it. Yup, it was. “Go and wash,” came next. Yeah, not a bad idea. So he did. It took a while, but he made his way to the little reservoir nearby. The sides were stepped, and he carefully felt his way down. Cupping his hands in the cool water, he splashed his face. It felt good. He did it again. When had he last washed his face? He stood up straight and cupped more water, and let it slowly run over his head. He could feel it sliding down his back, dripping from his beard. He bent over again for more water, but the sparkle stopped him. He froze. The sparkle froze him. He felt lightheaded, and he slumped down in the water, landing in somewhat of a sitting position on a step, waist-deep in the pool. He had seen. It must have been the water. Or the sun and the water. The sun on the water. Whatever it was, he had seen it. In an action he rarely ever thought about, he opened his eyes. Just a slit, then a little more. It was so bright. Light everywhere. Light flooding, pouring into him. He put up his arm as if the light were about to strike him. Eyes a little more open now. Even more light. And color. Color everywhere. The water. A tree. A woman's scarf. Ah, so that's what they look like. And people. So many people. So many people looking at him. He ran. Slipping and tripping, he made it out of the pool and ran. At first, he wanted to get away from all those eyes, all those people. But as he ran, that changed. First, running was wonderful. He had tried running as a child, but that had always ended badly. Best case, a stubbed toe. Worst case, the one time he fell into a fire. So running was out. Until now. Now he ran, and it was glorious. And the people, they were glorious. And their eyes, even more glorious. He found himself making eye contact with every person he could. So many eyes, so much seeing. So much to see. At some point, he started crying. He also might have been shouting, or yelling, or laughing. He couldn't remember. He found his home. It looked so different from what he had imagined, but exactly like he wanted it to look. A few days later, everyone knew. In reality, they all knew that same day, but the story wasn’t clear. But they wanted to know, so he was escorted to the Pharisees. They'd be able to see what had happened. They’d be able to see through the mud. “What happened?” they asked in a tone that suggested curiosity and a lack of curiosity. “Why can you see?” “He put mud on my eyes, and I washed it off, and now I can see,” he said. The verdict was swift. The healer was a fraud. A charlatan. A con. A sinner. It was clear. Clear as day. Nothing muddy about it. He had done this work, this work of healing, on the sabbath. Case closed. Someone had the nerve to suggest that such healings seem improbable from a sinner, but that barely complicated matters. The healer was guilty; facts are facts. One does not heal when one should be sabbathing. Next, his parents were called in for questioning. They had little to say. “Ask him,” was all the Pharisees got. His parents knew the healer was not welcome in the house that taught about Yahweh, and they wanted to be welcomed there. So they said, “Ask him.” And they did. He was called back. Same questions, less curiosity. But now, betraying his healer was wrapped up in religious talk. “Give glory to God by telling the truth,” was their opening. “Condemn your healer with us.” He had blinked at them a few times, just because he liked the feeling of it. His eyes felt so clean, so energized, so wonderful. Their eyes looked different. Sad or angry, depending on the moment. Or maybe scared? Definitely tired, maybe even haunted. These powerful men, haunted? That didn’t make sense. “We know this man is a sinner.” Oh, yes, the questions. Or statements. He wasn't sure what this was anymore. So he put it as plainly as he knew how. “Whether he is a sinner or not, I have no idea.” This drew an angry huff. “But I do know one thing.” Every eye was on him. So many eyes. Yes, they were tired eyes, a few bloodshot eyes, but eyes nonetheless. And eyes are beautiful. Incredibly beautiful. “Yes?” the eyes prodded. “I do know one thing,” he started again, “I was blind, but now I see!” A few moments later, he was thrown out of the synagogue. Strangely, that didn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. Because now, he could see. Jesus then said, “I came into the world to bring everything into the clear light of day, making all the distinctions clear, so that those who have never seen will see, and those who have made a great pretense of seeing will be exposed as blind.” John 9:39, The Message Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, It was so very awkward. Worse than awkward. It felt wrong. The group kept trying to catch each other’s eye to gauge how they were feeling about this. Although they already knew. Thaddaeus was the first to say something. Which surprised a few of them, for Thaddaeus didn’t say a whole lot. A few times, they even forgot he was there. But today Thaddaeus had something to say. “Being here, staying here, is like living in a commode. A commode with excrement everywhere. I feel gross.” So Thaddaeus did have an opinion after all. And the few that heard it couldn’t argue with his conclusion. Peter kept looking off at the horizon, wishing he were far away from this place. Matthew was holding his cloak near him, afraid that it would brush up against people or furniture. Simon the Zealot was just angry, and as each hour passed, he hid it less well. Philip seemed the most at ease, but that figured given his Greek name and background. He was always more open to other cultures, and that caused no little suspicion from a few of the others. Especially the Zealot. But Jesus seemed to be right at home. John was the first to point this out. “Look at how happy he seems,” John had observed while elbowing James. “He seems more carefree, like his guard has been let down.” “Maybe it’s because he is finally away from the scornful eyes of the Pharisees,” Bartholomew said. John and James looked at Bartholomew before looking at each other. John considered this before nodding his head slowly. “Could be,” he offered, wanting to say more about the Pharisees but also unwilling to speak against such a revered group. James said it for him. “I grew up wanting to be a Pharisee. They seemed so in tune with Yahweh, so sure of their place before Him. So right and righteous. But now, now, they seem so lost. Like they wouldn’t recognize Yahweh if he walked right up to them and introduced Himself.” Bartholomew considered this before making his second astute observation in so many minutes. “These Samaritans seem to love Jesus.” Even as he said Samaritan, he had to suppress the urge to spit. But the fact remained that the Samaritans, nearly the whole village, had welcomed Jesus into Sychar and into their homes with open arms. And this hospitality had extended to the disciples, although they responded with less enthusiasm than Jesus. It didn’t help anyone feel better when Andrew said, “We haven’t been this welcomed in Judea or Galilee.” That made Peter uneasy, and he told Andrew to shut up. John looked around to see Jesus still teaching and answering questions while children buzzed around his feet. They were at the house of The Woman. None of the disciples had caught her name, but to be fair, they had not tried. So they called her “The Woman.” The Woman had apparently started it all by talking to Jesus while they had been away to find food. Or had Jesus started the conversation? No matter. The result was that while they had been scouring this cursed village trying to buy a little bread, Jesus had stopped at the well and met “The Woman.” And now they were in her village, talking to her people, and she and her people seemed to find Jesus fascinating. The disciples couldn’t fathom how this could be going worse. John looked away from the rapt crowd to see Matthew make a mark discreetly on a small stick he carried. “What’s that you have there?” John asked, motioning towards the stick. Matthew hastily drew the stick into his tunic, but John persisted. “Is that a weapon?” He only half-joked. “Of course not,” Matthew scoffed. “Just keeping track of how long we have been in this godforsaken village. I’m making a mark for each hour.” “And?” John prodded. “Forty-seven.” Matthew confided, as if revealing his deepest secret. “Do you realize how long this little ‘short-cut’ has taken us? Forty. Seven. Hours.” The last part came out like a hiss. Just then, Jesus' voice carried over the hubbub of the village. “Come along, friends! We'd best be moving along.” The crowd moaned at the news, but the disciples jumped to their feet, making no effort to hide their enthusiasm to finally be leaving. After being gifted more bread than they could eat in a week, Jesus led the procession out of town and north towards Galilee. Jesus seemed content to walk in silence, so the disciples hung back a safe distance, words ready to spill out of them. “I feel defiled.” Judas started it. “Same,” echoed a few of the others. “I like that they liked Jesus, but…” James started, before trailing off. John only shook his head. “You’ll never guess what I overheard as we were leaving town,” he began. Peter was walking the closest to John and immediately responded. “What? What did you hear?” “Several of the villagers had surrounded The Woman and, I’m not making this up,” John clarified, unsure if they would believe him or not, “they said, ‘we know that this man really is the Savior of the world.’” Peter had been ready to respond with a scoff to whatever John had to report, but instead, it felt like the air had been forced from his lungs. Thomas was the first to find his voice, but only to make sure he had heard right, “Savior of the world?” “Yes,” John nodded. “Savior of the world.” Many of the Samaritans from that town believed in him because of the woman’s testimony, “He told me everything I ever did.” So when the Samaritans came to him, they urged him to stay with them, and he stayed two days. And because of his words many more became believers. They said to the woman, “We no longer believe just because of what you said; now we have heard for ourselves, and we know that this man really is the Savior of the world.” John 4:39-42 Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, It wouldn’t be fair to say he was bored. It wasn’t boredom, but excitement. But waiting when you are excited is hard to do. It can feel boring. So he looked around. There wasn’t much to see. Not yet, anyway. The sun had not risen, but the stars were beginning to fade in the east. The stars, so bright and numerous a moment ago, were being overtaken by a greater light. He liked that and considered it some more. Were the stars frustrated that a better light was replacing them, outshining them, making them invisible? Or were they relieved, able to take a breather now that a much more powerful light was approaching? Ok, maybe he was a little bored. He looked towards town again. No movement, although the city was beginning to stir. He wasn’t sure how he knew that, but the homes and streets were beginning to rouse themselves, readying themselves for the day ahead. Imperceptible, but happening all the same. He stooped down to pluck a flower. A lily, he thought. It was beautiful. The pedals were so dainty and precisely formed. The yellow stamens contrasted with the impossibly white petals. All supported and nourished by the stem and roots. And rain and sun and soil. And God. Yes, of course, God. He smiled at the thought. He had heard the story. The story of God standing on a hillside, drawing attention to the blanket of flowers like the one he now held. Gesturing and explaining how the world worked, how relationship works. It had started with a question from God. “Why do you worry about clothes?” He hadn’t been there, but he was pretty sure no one answered God. And that was ok. God knew the answer. “Look at these flowers,” God had continued. Some people probably had guiltily shuffled their feet, hoping God hadn't seen them stepping so carelessly on the object lesson. “These flowers, so elaborately dressed and carefully presented to us today, put Solomon in all his finery to shame! And these flowers do nothing to be so beautifully attired. All they do is flourish under God’s loving care. That’s it.” He liked this story. Another glance towards the city and the trail snaking its way out of town. Still deserted. But the hillside was getting easier to see. That was nice. He had arrived in the dark. He leaned back against the stone and sighed. This was exciting. And what would happen next? He had no idea. He had not been told. To pass the time, he rehearsed his lines. The message was simple, but it was important. He said it in a slow Galilean drawl, then with voice inflections familiar to the coast. A little smoother, a little more watery. The measured staccato of Aramaic sounded right, but he tried it in Greek and Latin just to see how it felt. Greek felt too measured to him, Latin too refined. This message was earthy, human. Aramaic, the language of the commoner, was the right language for this message. He was about to try it in Hebrew when movement far below caught his eye. Someone was awake! But was it his someone? The figure was moving in his direction. And then he saw a couple more forms emerge from the shadows and join the first. They each carried something, and they moved slowly, taking care where they placed their feet in the semi-darkness. A few moments later, he was able to make out their faces. Women. Women's faces, streaked with tears. Sad eyes, no doubt red from crying. Eyes swollen by grief and pain. Their walk was labored, beyond what the steep path would suggest. They clearly carried heavy hearts, in addition to the wrapped bundles in their arms. Before the women could look up and notice him, he silently moved into the entrance of the tomb. He smelled the stone and the slightly damp smell of soil. He took a seat. And waited. A few minutes later, he heard their voices. They sounded surprised and worried. He couldn’t hear everything they were saying, but it sounded like they were relieved and concerned that the entrance stone was rolled to the side. The footsteps slowed further, and now he could hear their breathing. Fast, shallow breaths. No doubt so from the climb and the discovery. Then what little light was able to sneak through the entrance was snuffed out as someone stooped low to enter the tomb. He sat still, not sure how make himself known. He didn’t have long to think, for a moment later all three women had entered the tomb and as their eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, one of them screamed. ‘Please,” he said gently, holding up his arms in a way that he hoped signalled that he posed no threat, “do not be alarmed.” Even as he said those words, he knew they were alarmed. So much for his speech. He continued anyway as the women stood frozen, staring at him, not blinking or breathing. “Was that even possible for them not to breathe?” He considered, before wondering how long they could last without breathing. He’d have to ask about that later. “You are looking for Jesus, yes? The Nazarene who was crucified?” He got nothing. Just six unblinking eyes staring at him, three unmoving bodies crouched before him. No matter, he knew the answer. “He is risen! Look around, he is not here!” That had come out a little louder than he had anticipated, especially considering the acoustics of the tomb. But the loud proclamation seemed to break the trance, and all three women gasped in unison. “At least they are breathing again,” he thought, before continuing with the message. “Look,” he made a gesture towards the stone platform, clearly empty in the murky light. “Go, tell the other disciples, tell Peter, that Jesus is going to Galilee. Remember? There you will see him, just as he told you!” He stood there staring at them, and they stared at him. He blinked, and they blinked too. They were very pale. He wondered if that was normal, too. The staring continued. He hadn’t planned for this part. Should he say more? Should he disappear? He finally settled on pointing towards the entrance and smiling. That seemed to do the trick, and the women nodded, seemingly understanding that the encounter was over. One by one, they stooped low and exited the tomb. He could hear their footsteps. They started slow, but soon they picked up pace. He peered outside; they were now running, fleeing from the tomb. Stepping outside, he noticed the lily he had dropped. Stooping to pick it up, he caught a final glance of the women before they disappeared into the scrub growth and rock. “Do not worry, little ones,” he whispered. “God takes great delight in caring for you.” With those words, he placed the lily at the entrance of the tomb and turned towards the rising sun. He’d completed his part. When the Sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices so that they might go to anoint Jesus’ body. Very early on the first day of the week, just after sunrise, they were on their way to the tomb and they asked each other, “Who will roll the stone away from the entrance of the tomb?” But when they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had been rolled away. As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man dressed in a white robe sitting on the right side, and they were alarmed. “Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “You are looking for Jesus the Nazarene, who was crucified. He has risen! He is not here. See the place where they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter, ‘He is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him, just as he told you.’” Trembling and bewildered, the women went out and fled from the tomb. They said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid. Mark chapter 16 Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, The last few days had been kinda great. We can forgive the disciples if they were getting a little excited. First, Jesus enters Zion, the city of David, with all the trappings and fanfare of a king. It appears the people had finally decided: Jesus was the long-hoped-for Anointed One. All that remained was the official crowning, and that surely wouldn’t be long. This was heady stuff. With the crowds still exuberant, Jesus made his way through the city and into the temple, but crowds, even or especially adoring crowds, have always had a way of slowing travel down, and so Jesus arrives at the temple late in the day, and there is only time for a quick look around the place. No matter, a minor setback. There is always tomorrow. Tomorrow dawns bright and clear, and Jesus and his disciples are up and on the road, headed back to Jerusalem. But, for all the areas in which the disciples excel, having food on hand was not one of those, and Jesus is hungry. No matter, a fig tree is just up yonder. Except it has no figs. Leaves, yes. Figs, no. The disciples, no doubt aware that one of them should have foreseen the need for food, stayed back a respectful distance from the hungry Jesus. But the respectful distance allowed them to hear Jesus quietly address the tree, “No one will ever eat your fruit again.” Strange, yes, but no matter. Jerusalem awaits! Without declaring his intentions, the disciples knew Jesus was headed to the Temple. It had to be the Temple. With Rome's conquest of their land, the Temple was all they had, their tether to their history, their hope, their pride, their God. Yes, the Temple it would be. And the Temple it was. There was a large crowd gathered, and the people noticed Jesus. A hush fell over the usually noisy temple courts, and everyone jostled this way and that to get a good look at Jesus and to hear what he might say. Afterwards, the disciples did remember him saying something. Words from the great prophets Isaiah and Jeremiah. Words, heated words. “Is it not written?” Of course it was written! Written and memorized. Memorized and passed on, generation to generation. “My house will be called a house of prayer, a place of God fellowship, God connection, for all people, every nation.” “But!” “But you have made it something other, something evil, a ‘den of robbers.’” Heated words, indeed. The reason the disciples had a hard time initially remembering Jesus' words was because of his actions. They had never seen Jesus like this. He had removed, no, that’s not the word. Driven. That’s it. Jesus had driven people out of the temple courts. People going about their normal temple activities of buying and selling. People jumping through the appropriate hoops to be good with God. It’s what they did. But Jesus didn't just drive people out. He also vandalized the place. Tables overturned, benches tossed aside, special temple coins and special temple doves rolling and fluttering, clinking and squawking. People barred from moving their products through the temple courts. The big business of exploiting people under the guise of worship ground to a halt. Jesus would have none of it. The disciples shrank back. Is this what no breakfast looked like? Or was something bigger, much bigger, going on here? Regardless, the disciples knew enough to know that the chief priests and Torah teachers would not stand this. They couldn’t. If they allowed Jesus to do this, Jesus had won. They had been dishonored and shamed in their place of business. People would never follow them or their rules ever again. And so the same disciples, who yesterday had been excited and proud to be next to Jesus when the crowds yelled “Hosanna!” now hung back. This could only end one of two ways. Jesus would be placed in power by the people, or the powers to be would kill Jesus. So the disciple watched and waited, but Jesus, apparently satisfied with his demonstration, motioned for them to follow him, and they fell into a quiet line behind him. Out of the city they march, the disciples throwing a furtive glance behind from time to time to see if they were being pursued. The coast was clear. The silence was heavy. They arrived back at the house. “What was that?” they wordlessly asked each other, only to receive shrugs and bowed heads in reply. No matter, a minor setback. There is always tomorrow. Tomorrow dawns bright and clear, and Jesus and his disciples are up and on the road, headed back to Jerusalem. The wondering persists, and so does the silence. Peter didn’t like it. Not one bit. Should he ask the Teacher directly what had happened in the Temple? No. That didn’t feel right. He was learning to hold his tongue. To occupy his mind, Peter slowly scanned the horizon as they walked. The city stood before them. Tall, proud, a triumph of King David. Around them were fields of grain, vineyards, and a few trees. Peter did a double-take. Trees, yes, full and leafy and vibrant. Except one. One tree was withered, sickly, almost dead. “Teacher! Look!” Peter yelled, causing a few of his companions to jump. “The tree you cursed is cursed! It's all withered.” Jesus glanced at his excited friend and stopped walking. “Yes, of course it withered. I told it to.” A few of the disciples who had been hanging back picked up their pace to hear what Jesus was saying. “God is over everything. Everything!” The disciples shuffled their feet as Jesus looked around at them. “Look up there at the Temple Mount,” Jesus motioned towards the city. The disciples gladly did. Sometimes it was hard to make eye contact with Jesus. With every face staring off towards the prominent hill in the city, Jesus continued. “If you understand that God is over everything, and I mean everything, then you could say to that mountain, ‘hey, go take a dip in the sea!’ and it would.” The disciples’ heads turned as one to look out over the sea. The water sparkled in the distance. But it was far off. More than a few imagined the Temple Mount standing up like a creaky old man and shuffling down the slopes towards the sea. A few smiled at the thought, although none would later admit to it. “If you understand, really understand that God is over everything,” Jesus continued, drawing a few disciples out of their daydreams, “if you grasp how in control God is, then no request of him is too much. He can do it.” The disciples liked this and smiled approvingly. The temple shenanigans of yesterday felt far off, and the world was feeling right again. Now relaxed, a couple of disciples were again picturing Old Man Temple plopping himself down in the sea as if for a bath. Now that was fun to think about! “And when you are operating with God in such harmony, such co-creating,” Jesus said before again pausing, allowing his crew to mentally rejoin him, “it is paramount that you are in harmony with everyone. For God is over everything. Everything! Your great acts of co-creating with God must be born out of a place of forgiveness. That is your primary act of creating. Create shalom.” Then Jesus turned and resumed his journey towards Jerusalem and the Temple. “Hurry up, you slowpokes,” he called over his shoulder, “we have a big week ahead of us.” “Have faith in God,” Jesus answered. “Truly I tell you, if anyone says to this mountain, ‘Go, throw yourself into the sea,’ and does not doubt in their heart but believes that what they say will happen, it will be done for them. Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours. And when you stand praying, if you hold anything against anyone, forgive them, so that your Father in heaven may forgive you your sins.” Mark 11:22-25 Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, How are you? We are well here. Although the winter (if we can even call it that) has been strange. Very little snow here in the valley, which means very little sledding with the kiddos. Speaking of sledding, it is entirely possible that I enjoy sledding more than my kids do. I accept this verdict. Also, if the winter Olympics teach us anything about sledding, it is that sledding isn't only for kids. I am passionate about this matter. Can you tell? Moving on. I tried to go snowshoeing once this winter, and I was sorry that I did. It would have been a fine hike, but it was a stretch to invite snowshoes along. And I suspect the entire time the snowshoes were wondering, “What are we even doing here!?” Did I tell you I was invited by my daughter to go on a field trip with her second-grade class? Well, I was, and it was yesterday, and it was supposed to be snowshoeing along McDonald Creek, but instead, we hiked on ice and mud. Anyhew. Enough on the weather report. Have you read any good books recently? I'm currently reading a book called Insane for the Light about how to live our final years so that our death can be a blessing to those we love. I'm only a few chapters in, but these words caught my attention. “To be mature means we have broken the pleasure principle as our fundamental motivation for doing things.” And later, “We are mature when we are more altruistic than selfish.” That’s good. By that definition, Jesus is our ultimate example of maturity. And, for that matter, how to be a blessing in our death. I’m also reading a book about the American bison. It is a fascinating book, but I don't have any quotes to share from it. Speaking of reading, I'm also reading through Mark’s account of the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. Today I read Mark chapter 8. The chapter begins with Jesus (again) feeding a small city's worth of people who have inexplicably forgotten to bring food. Before the miracle, Jesus asks his disciples to problem-solve with him. “Feed these people,” I picture Jesus inviting his followers with an exaggerated wink. After all, they were all in on the joke. Jesus had just fed a group in a situation that was uncannily similar to this. But Jesus tells his followers to feed the crowd, and in what must have been a discouraging moment for Jesus, the disciples are perplexed and indignant that they could somehow feed so many people so far from a Costco. So Jesus feeds everyone, including spoon-feeding his disciples. And just a short time later, Jesus and his disciples are in a boat, crossing a lake, only to discover that they are short of food. (Surprised? No, we are not.) One loaf of bread is found among them. “We are bad at logistics,” they surmise, because they are. And then Jesus speaks. “Beware of the yeast of the Pharisees. And of Herod.” The disciples knew exactly what he was getting at and concluded, “He said that because we forgot to bring bread.” Oh dear. “Watch out for the yeast of the Pharisees and that of Herod.” Interesting. Let’s assume for a moment that Jesus isn’t talking about the disciples' lack of meal planning. The Pharisees had cracked the code of right living and right understanding of God. They had Yahweh figured out. 1+1=2 and all that. If we do everything exactly so, then God will do his thing. And everything will be alright. Which is a wonderful way to think and operate if you are determined to be your own savior. Or become a New York Times best-selling author. But Jesus wasn’t impressed. Which is a bummer if what you're selling is “Live our way; God will be impressed.” Every culture has its religious elites. Sometimes they crown themselves thus, sometimes we do. Regardless of who bestows the mantle, the sales pitch is the same. “We know the way, the truth, the life. We know the way to God.” It has been said in many ways by many people all over the globe, but only One said those words with authority. So after Jesus feeds the crowd, the Pharisees find Jesus and demand a sign. “These are our terms, take them or leave them,” they say. Jesus leaves them. “That is not the way to God,” we are left to conclude. We cannot strong-arm God. Even if it sounds religious. Which is a bummer because trying to strong-arm God could be a simple way to sum up the human experience. “Watch out for the yeast of the Pharisees and that of Herod.” And that of Herod. Herod. Herod is a fascinating character. Son of Herod the Great, Herod Antipas has several appearances in our story. For one, he gives the order for John the baptizer to join himself and his drunken colleagues at a party. However, it is only John’s head that is invited and is ceremonially presented on a food platter. What great sport. Herod Antipas came to power in the family business of ruling and reigning after three of his brothers were deemed unsuitable for the C-suite and were murdered by their king and father. That same king also killed his favorite wife because, you know, irreconcilable differences. Herod Antipas had found John the baptizer a compelling teacher, and he had pondered his words, even if John had an annoying habit of telling Herod that he shouldn’t be sleeping with his brother’s wife. And that’s the thing about Herod, all herods, they think that power, consolidated in themselves, can solve their problems. And those of us under Herod begin to believe the same thing. We’ve drunk the Kool-Aid, we’ve believed the campaign promises, we’ve gained the whole world and found that it cost us only one thing: our souls. What a bargain. “Watch out for the yeast of the Pharisees and that of Herod.” Was Jesus saying to be suspicious of the contaminating effects of the religious and political establishment? Was he telling his followers that it would be so seductive to try and mix a little of the culturally religious and political mindset in with their understanding of following after Him? Was Jesus pointing to obvious places that societies and cultures have long clung to for salvation, telling us that we, too, sophisticated as we are, are also susceptible? Was Jesus insinuating that just a pinch of anything that isn’t of him can affect and infect the whole kit-and-caboodle? Probably. And more. Like any great teacher, Jesus doesn’t tell us, I mean them, the answer. So we ponder, pray, and write letters to each other exploring his words. It's slow work, messy and methodical. But it is necessary if we are to become like him. Btw, I just checked my weather app, and we do have a chance for precipitation in the forecast for later this week, and there is even an icon of a snowflake! But I’m fairly certain we will not be sledding in my neighborhood any time soon. My kids will be only mildly disappointed. Me, on the other hand… Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, “He’s at it again,” Haman mused to himself. For the second day in a row, his neighbor, Old Joshua, was out seeding his field. Nothing curious about that. And if that had been the whole story, Haman would have just minded his own business like every other year when Old Joshua was out seeding his fields. But this year was different. Haman had noticed it right away. Maybe Old Joshua had finally passed from old to senile. Maybe it was time for Old Joshua’s family to be alerted as to the erratic behavior of their father. Old Joshua was plenty strong for a man of his age, and he had no difficulty in walking while throwing the seed. No difficulty at all. And the evidence was right before Haman. Old Joshua had been out in his fields since sunup. Long, purposeful strides covering an incredible amount of land. Strong, sidearm throwing motion. Almost elegant. Old Joshua had done this many times. His body knew the rhythm. Seeding was art when Old Joshua did it. The seed fanned out before hitting the soil. Art, but not science. And that was why Haman had paused on his walk into town to discreetly watch his neighbor. The seed would catch the light of the early morning sun before settling on the earth, blanketing the field’s soil with a covering of seed. But the rich soil in the middle of the field wasn't the only place the seed was being sown. Old Joshua was seeding the path with just as much gusto. And the overgrown areas around the edge of his field. And even the area of his land that was mostly just rock. Haman continued to watch. “Was Old Joshua trying to waste seed?” he considered as more seed settled in a beautifully thrown arc onto the path. “Did his neighbor have a surplus of seed?” Haman thought before shaking his head. No, not even extra seed could explain this seemingly deliberate waste. Another handful of seeds landed in the thorn bushes along the field’s perimeter. Haman turned in disgust and continued his walk to town. He had better things to do than watch his neighbor work. Especially when his neighbor was so bad at it. “Or was he?” Haman decided to be a little more charitable. Maybe the sun had been in Old Joshua’s eyes. Maybe those throws had been less deliberate than they appeared. Haman had almost convinced himself when a shout caused him to look back over his shoulder. Old Joshua had caught sight of him and sent a joyful “shalom aleichem, Haman!” ringing his way at the exact same time Old Joshua sent a cascade of seed into the rockiest portion of his land. Haman mustered a halfway believable “shalom, Joshua” and a halfhearted wave before he resumed his march towards town. That had been no mistake. His neighbor had deliberately gotten his attention while throwing away perfectly good seed. Seed that now had no chance of delivering a harvest. Seed that would wither away and die if it even sprouted. Seed that would never feed a family or produce any sort of return. “What is Old Joshua up to?” Haman said outloud, startling a few birds that had been feasting on the seed Old Joshua had sown on the path. The village came into sight, and Haman pushed the thoughts of his neighbor out of his mind as he reviewed the mental list of his tasks to accomplish before returning home. But one thought he could not keep at bay. And the thought came to him not because of the old man’s actions, but because of his countenance. Old Joshua had appeared immensely happy. Giddy with delight. Bursting with joy. As if he had some sort of good news that he couldn't wait to share with someone, with everyone. Like maybe the seed was so precious, so wonderful, that rather than be stingy by only placing the seed in the soil that would most guarantee a good harvest, he had wanted to bless the parts of his land that would never get such seed sown there. The good soil had received abundant seed, yes, and so had the overlooked, forgotten, despised portions of his land. Now Haman felt he was becoming the crazy one. What had come over him to think such thoughts? So Haman went about his day. And back in the countryside, Old Joshua continued to gleefully fling the kernels of seed indiscriminately all over his land. Again Jesus began to teach by the lake. The crowd that gathered around him was so large that he got into a boat and sat in it out on the lake, while all the people were along the shore at the water’s edge. He taught them many things by parables, and in his teaching said: “Listen! A farmer went out to sow his seed. As he was scattering the seed, some fell along the path, and the birds came and ate it up. Some fell on rocky places, where it did not have much soil. It sprang up quickly, because the soil was shallow. But when the sun came up, the plants were scorched, and they withered because they had no root. Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up and choked the plants, so that they did not bear grain. Still other seed fell on good soil. It came up, grew and produced a crop, some multiplying thirty, some sixty, some a hundred times.” Mark 4:1-8 I cannot read this parable and not consider the wastefully generous nature of the Farmer. Grace and peace be upon you, Grant