Dear Trailhead family, If the intel was good, it would change everything. However, the intel was from a young girl who had been swept up in a raid a short while back. She seemed sincere, happy to help. But still. It could all just be the result of a child’s overactive imagination. Or it could be true. And that was something. Naaman sighed, seeking a comfortable position, sleep once again eluding him. He almost had to laugh; here he was, at the peak of an astounding military career. He had shown a keen mind for military strategy and the ability to recruit and inspire farmers and peasants and turn them into ruthless killers. Or not, depending on what he needed of them. This rabble that made up his fighting force feared him more than the enemy, and they listened and obeyed Naaman with precision. But if Naaman were to laugh, it would be a bitter laugh. A few years ago he had noticed a strange spot on the skin of his arm. The coloring was off. It felt rough, like a rash, but it was no rash. The thing spread, and Naaman faced reality- no matter how successful he was on the battlefield, he could not defeat this enemy crawling up his arm and taking over his body. Leprosy would get the last laugh. The gods had looked at him and, in their indifference, had settled on a curse. Naaman was defeated. But was he? The servant girl had told his wife that there was a holy man, a prophet, in Israel who healed. Naaman’s wife quickly passed on the news. After all, being married to a man who had leprosy was a curse on her as well. Living in separate quarters, their only interactions were from a safe distance, and she fretted over her future once Naaman became too weak to defend his family from the political vultures that were always circling. Naaman received the news in his typical stoic way. But his mind was anything but calm. He had heard the rumors that there was something unexplainable about Israel, or at least Israel’s god. Their god had a reputation. When he acted, anything could happen. Naaman chalked most of the stories up to propaganda, but still, if there was a bit of truth to these stories, Israel’s god might be able to heal him. Naaman resigned himself to the fact that sleep would not come again tonight and made his preparations. He would seek permission to find this holy man and pay whatever cost was demanded of him to be healed. Sensing a unique opportunity, Naaman's master enthusiastically supported the plan. Either Naaman would be healed, and the country could continue its unprecedented military prowess, or Naaman would be humiliated, thus prompting his countrymen to seek vengeance. Either way, a win. Loaded with gifts for Israel’s king, the pack animals and attendants made an impressive sight as Naaman’s caravan made its way towards Israel. Obscene amounts of silver and gold were carted along while a small army of Naaman’s best fighting men protected the treasure and people from opportunistic bandits. Naaman was greeted with all the ceremony and suspicion that a foreign dignitary would expect. And he understood the mind games that such a visit would unleash, but he was resolute: “We come in peace. We only seek the holy man who can heal.” A week passed, and then two. Naaman’s hope was melting into impatience. Rage would soon follow, and then his small army would peacefully march away, only to return with a fiery vengeance. And yet, with each night of tormented sleeplessness, the words of the servant girl haunted his mind. “There is a prophet in Samaria.” More painful turning, never any relief. “He can cure leprosy.” Finally, Naaman was given directions to the holy man. The horses and chariot of Naaman were impressive as always as they pulled up to the front of the holy man’s compound. Surely they had been spotted an hour ago by the plume of fine dust the animals created, like a brown cape flying behind the caravan. The chariot stopped. The men waited, looking straight ahead, waiting for the customary display of hospitality that must come from the master of the home, no matter how humble the place. Nothing, only quiet. The horses began to paw the ground, agitated to be close to water without drinking. The men too felt the agitation. Honor dictated that they wait not much longer. Weapons would be drawn at any moment. The window for peace was closing. Then footsteps. A lone man, barely old enough to grow a beard, opened the gate made with twigs and moved tentatively towards Naaman’s chariot. “My master says,” the servant began before his voice cracked. He appeared on the brink of crumbling completely. “My master says,” the servant tried again, visibly willing his body not to shake, “My master says that you are to go to the Jordan. Wash yourself seven times. You will be healed and clean. That is all.” Naaman took the news without flinching, but inside he was seething. And cursing. This holy man? A conman. This god? A puppet. This lack of hospitality and honor? Wars had been started over less. Naaman barked at his charioteer, and the horses began to move slowly, reluctant to distance themselves from the promise of water. As they picked up speed, Naaman allowed himself a covert look back. The servant remained stockstill, planted in his spot, eyes closed. But beyond the servant, just inside the rickety gate, Naaman spied a slight old man, leaning on a staff. Jerking his head forward, Naaman felt his mouth go dry and his heart race. Naaman immediately knew the truth: this was no joke; this was anything but a game… (To be continued next week.) In the meantime, we sit with Step 6 of becoming alive: “were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.” What defects exactly? You know, all of them. The ones we discovered and catalogued in Step 4 when we made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves. The same ones we admitted to God, ourselves, and another human being in Step 5. Or we didn’t. Some steps take a little while to surrender to. Like Naaman, we must become desperate enough to travel to a foreign land to seek healing. We must put aside the luxury and security of hiding long enough to seek wholeness. We have to become ready to have God remove all these defects of character. That is Step 6. We have looked at our sin, and we have pulled our sin out into the light by confessing. But it is still ours. We have possession. Like a cancerous growth that we no longer try to hide, it is still a part of us until we ask the Surgeon to bring his scalpel and remove it. And this likely will be painful. It can be confusing. Our defects of character have been so coddled and welcomed that we view them as family. Unruly family, sure, but we have become accustomed to the dysfunction. And if accustomed dysfunction has become the default operating system of our life, wiping it clean will not be easy. Or enjoyable. You’ll be left with an empty house, all echoey and strange. Lonely and unfamiliar. And if this sounds scary, you're on to something. It is. In Matthew’s account of the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, he records the words of Jesus: When an impure spirit comes out of a person, it goes through arid places seeking rest and does not find it. Then it says, “I will return to the house I left.” When it arrives, it finds the house unoccupied, swept clean and put in order. Then it goes and takes with it seven other spirits more wicked than itself, and they go in and live there. And the final condition of that person is worse than the first. That is how it will be with this wicked generation. (Matthew 12:43-45) Clearly this isn't good. Will we remove a few character defects, only to replace them with others? Maybe. But let’s not. A critical piece of working the Steps of AA is that you do not do so alone. You have a sponsor. A person who has worked the steps and can guide you on your journey. A person who can point out pitfalls or pull you out of pits you have fallen into. They are far from perfect, but they are there for you. And that is what you need. The Holy Spirit is the ultimate Sponsor, and we must learn to lean heavily on him. But a good ol’ fashioned human being who loves you and will be truthful with you is of critical importance as well. So tentatively take Step 6. Be willing to have God do surgery. And once we are willing, He will. That is Step 7. At the risk of getting ahead of ourselves, kick out your crutch of character defects. You’ll wobble for sure. But as your hands fly out looking for something to grab a hold of, the Spirit will be at your side, more than capable of holding you up. And hopefully, I pray, you have a human who can also grab your hand to steady you. A cord of three stands is not easily broken. But a cord of one or two is. Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, This past Sunday, Russ invited us into Step 5 of Becoming Alive: Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs. Aah, no thank you. I suspect a few of us have an issue admitting to God the exact nature of our wrongs. We live in a finely-crafted pretend world where we make the rules, and rule numero uno is this: if I don’t tell God, God doesn't know. It's a strange land with a low population. But it's home for some of you. But most of us are convinced that God knows, so telling him isn’t so hard. So we do. However, before we can tell God, we must encounter the exact nature of our wrongs ourselves. That was Step 4; like exploring a new hiking trail to learn the contours of our heart, we come around corners to be surprised by an agitated bear in our path. It frightens us, but the longer the standoff occurs, the more we recognize the beast is our beast; it is the unbridled passions and lusts that we have fed and made our pet. Only now do we realize that we have lost control of them. Having made a searching and fearless moral inventory (“Yup, that beast is out to kill me”), we are now able to admit to ourselves the exact nature of our wrongs. Which leaves just one more element of Step 5: Admit to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs. And here is where the little attorney that lives in all of us takes over: Does the “another human being” have to be alive? Do they need to understand my language? Does my 6-month-old count? Can I seek out the worst person I know so they’ll scoff at my sin? Can I kill the person immediately after I tell them? What if I skip this portion but promise to do better? Let me be clear: these Steps are not for the faint of heart. But we are not opossums, and playing dead when we feel threatened is not a valid life hack, so what are we to do? Answer: find a human being who can handle what you have to admit. Why? Because not all human beings are equipped or ready to hear what you have to admit. Not all human beings should be told what you have to say. But one should be, so find your one. And what a gift it would be if you were able to be that one for someone else. Maybe a story about Jesus will help. One day, Jesus was teaching early, like dawn early. A crowd came, coffee mugs clutched desperately in their hands, the steam rising as a sweet-smelling sacrifice. (Zero translations have that last part). Before Jesus had even finished up the intro to his message, the religious elites pulled a woman before Jesus. It was obvious the woman did not want to be there; she sobbed with her head bowed, hands pressed into her face, her whole body shaking. The young woman was pushed towards Jesus until she was standing right before him. Jesus, who had been sitting, looked up. The woman let out a gulping sob before she pressed her hands more desperately into her face, never once looking at Jesus or the crowd, who were now very awake. In a loud, clear voice, the spokesman of the religious elite admitted the exact nature of this woman's wrongs to God, herself, and every human being within earshot to hear. “Teacher, this woman was caught in the act of adultery!” The elite spokesman seemed pleased by the shocked look on the crowd's faces, but he became downright angry when he glanced at Jesus. Jesus remained seated, looking at the woman, not an ounce of surprise on his face. “Teacher,” the elite spokesman pressed his case, “In the law, Moses commanded us to stone such a woman.” Still nothing from Jesus. “What do you say we should do?” The crowd leaned in, daring not to breathe lest they miss the Teacher’s reply. The woman continued to sob, but even her sobs seemed a little quieter, as if she too didn’t want to miss the teacher’s words. Instead of words, Jesus leaned forward and began to write in the dust at his feet. This went on long enough that the whole religious regiment began to grow restless and press Jesus for an answer. “What do you say? We have the law as given to Moses; why won’t you speak?” Jesus continued to stare at the ground as he wrote, until finally, he straightened up. Looking around at Israel’s most prominent and devout religious leaders, Jesus commented, “You are correct; stoning it is.” A few of the up-and-coming teachers of the law glanced around for an adequate stoning stone. “And here is how we will do it,” Jesus continued, somehow looking directly at the most eager Pharisees. “Those without sin will throw the first stones.” Silence. No shuffling feet, no bawling babies or sheep, no muffled coughs or whispered commentary. Only silence. Even the accused woman had gone quiet, although it may have been from utter exhaustion. The silence was broken by a quiet thud, and then another. A half dozen stones fell to the ground as one by one, the oldest of the Pharisees and teachers of the law slowly turned away from Jesus and the woman and walked away. The younger members of the group looked quizzically around before they too turned and hurried to catch up with their elders. Slowly, the whole crowd realized that they had other places to be and commitments to keep, and they strolled away, feigning indifference and boredom. Minutes later, it was only Jesus and the woman. Raising her head, the woman looked around. Jesus too looked around, following the woman’s gaze. “Where are they?” he asked the woman. “Has no one condemned you?” The woman took one more look around the deserted temple courts, as if to be sure, and stammered her words, “No one, sir.” At this, Jesus’ shoulders relaxed, and the tension in his face disappeared. “Then neither do I condemn you. You are free to go.” Jesus motioned towards the temple entrance. “But,” He added, a look of deep concern and gentleness on his face, “abandon this life of sin that’s trying to kill you.” (The story is found in Mark chapter 8, verses 1-11) The exact nature of the woman's wrongs was declared to Jesus. And in so doing, Jesus was also presented with some of the exact nature of the accusers' wrongs. And yet, he listened calmly. Was there condemnation? No. Was there judgment? Yes. Abandon the life that is actively killing you (but that is Steps 6 through 12). So find a human being who will listen with gentleness, who has lived long enough to realize their own sin, and who will, if they give advice, give life-giving advice. We have come this far; no need to lie to ourselves, no need to lie to God. And from this story, we know how God will respond. All that is left is to find your human being. And if someone finds us, willing to admit the exact nature of their wrongs, may we respond with love: Prodigal, welcome home. Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, I’m not so sure I like the 12 Steps. Why? Because. I have my reasons. One reason is that they are nosy. Like a dog that thinks you are its friend, the Steps stick its nose where proper society knows you do not sniff. But I have more reasons. Another is that the 12 Steps push against something that seems foundational, if not structural, to our accepted way of doing church. Or evangelism. I’m talking about hurry. (You know that hidden fruit of the Spirit that we all act as if it exists, but Paul inexplicably failed to include in his list.) In contrast, the Steps are not in a hurry. Or at least they do not appear to be. I, on the other hand, have been steeped in the culture of hustle Christianity. Some of it was covert messaging, but much of it was overt. We want new converts signed, sealed, and committed by the end of the service. Or conversation. Or conference. Or Gospel pamphlet. But the Steps are slow. (In all honesty, I feel we are doing them some violence by rushing through them a week at a time.) Often as I’m reading a Step, I will assume it is asking me to do more than it really is; I’m ready to rush on. This week’s step, Step 4, exposes what I mean. “We made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.” And then what? And then repented to God and made amends to people? No. That’s Steps 7 and 9. Step 4 is only “We made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.” That’s it. Just that. But hold on. Let’s consider this. That is a lot. Maybe more than some of us have ever done. So yes, just a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves. Nothing more just yet; that is enough for now. That is enough that it should not be rushed. Jesus had this same annoying habit, the habit of not rushing on to the important things. Take his life, for example: is it just me, or does Jesus’ childhood seem like a waste of time? Like while Jesus was learning to speak and walk, to be potty trained and taught to read, people were living and dying all over the world. And over here we have the Savior of the world learning to count on his fingers. “One. Two. Three. Four. Seven.” “Oh, so close! Let’s try again.” “One. Two. Three. Four…” God, hurry up. Or, Grant, slow down. Because maybe there are things that can only be accomplished slowly. Maybe some things are so important they can only be done slowly. (Have you ever tried to comfort someone quickly? “There, there," you say as you pat them on the back, "Say, who’s hungry!?” I rest my case.) Cassie and I once had the opportunity to view the Sistine Chapel. I don't remember the chapel building, but I do remember gazing at Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam and The Last Judgement. Paintings 500 years (give or take a few years) old. What struck me as much as the paintings was the silence of the crowded room and the lack of cameras or phones. (Embarrassingly, I missed the part about no photography and started to take a picture before a guard quickly suggested that I didn’t.) The artwork was so important and beautiful, sacred even, that it should only be experienced in solemn silence and with complete attention. Kinda like taking a moral inventory of ourselves. Part of what we need to understand when we take a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves is that we do not do so alone. We do so with God. “Search me, God, and know my heart.” Second, we must understand that not all the inventory is bad. This is no witch hunt. We turn over the logs and lift the rocks of our heart, soul, mind, and strength, to see what is there. No more assuming, no more hiding from what is there. When we see beauty or goodness, we make inventory of it. And when we are confronted with something malformed or hideous, we make inventory of it. Then scoot over a bit and look under another log or rock. “What’s this?” we say, and then make inventory of it. Nothing to fear, nothing to hide, nothing to prove, for “I am with you.” So we venture slowly, thoroughly, fearlessly. But why? Why spend time looking for things that God has promised to forgive? Wouldn’t we all just rather keep them hidden, stuffed under a blanket called Grace, out of the way in an unused corner? Or better yet, at the bottom of a sealed-off well in a far-off province in Asia? I know I would. However, hiding and healing are always opposed in these matters. John Ortberg writes in his helpful book Steps, "Some people fail to see the urgent need for self-examination because they misunderstand grace. They think grace is an excuse to avoid self-examination, when actually self-examination (done with God’s help) is a vehicle to help us receive healing grace.” John goes on to say, “Grace allows the inventory to be fearless. Truth demands the inventory to be searching.” So we do. We make a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves. A good way to begin your searching and fearless moral inventory is to set aside some time. Fifteen minutes is a start; 30 is better, a couple of hours better yet. But start soon with whatever you have. Grab a pen and paper. Old-fashioned, yes, but no possibility of your list getting accidentally sent to your spouse or boss. Or mom. Or pastor. And then begin. You could start with the 10 Commandments as interpreted by Jesus in Matthew chapters 5-7 (“you have heard it said, ‘do not murder,’ but I tell you…) or by the seven deadly sins (envy, pride, sloth, greed, anger, gluttony, lust). Maybe you would like to journey through your journal for inspiration, or go through the contact list in your phone to see what emotions well up. Maybe you decide to take the next 24 hours to see what surfaces throughout the day. Just know that your first list will not be complete, nor will the second or third. But it’s a beginning. Eugene Peterson often used the phrase “every step an arrival,” borrowed, I believe, from a poem by Denise Levertov. Eugene wasn’t referring to the 12 Steps, but he was referring to every small movement we make in our spiritual walk. Every step an arrival. But I would like to use that phrase as we move through the 12 Steps: every step is an arrival. Every step has the potential to bring us into deeper union, deeper communion, with God, others, ourselves. It's the process of abandoning death for life. And as you already know, it's not a quick process. But you won’t be left behind; we need not rush. Just take one more step. Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, Today's letter is from Jessica. It's very likely you know Jessica, or at least you would recognize her if she was pointed out. I've known Jessica for several years now and have come to this conclusion: she is one of the most courageous Jesus followers I know. I trust you will find her writing as thought provoking as I did. And Jessica, thank you. Grace and peace be upon you all, Grant The Hokey Pokey The Becoming Alive teachings have been so good and have had me feeling (tissues anyone?) and thinking quite a lot. Hi, my name is Jessica. I’m in desperate need of a savior. I struggle for control because the illusion of it makes me feel better…I guess. I like to be in control. I’m often thinking if I could just manage this thing or that, my life would be so much easier. Ah, hello delusion my old friend. I think maybe it’s in our human nature to seek control. When I was a kid, growing up in rural southern Michigan, my dad would take us to the local skating rink a few Saturdays a month throughout the winter. He probably saw my mom needed a break. I think maybe he enjoyed the “peaceful” downtime sitting in the snack bar overlooking the rink while my siblings and I skated counterclockwise (sans the one song that was a clockwise) for the two hours of open skate. So many 80s and 90s songs were skated to (Tiffany, Paula Abdul, MC Hammer, Wilson Phillips). One could even make special requests with the DJ. I’m sure mine was a John Melloncamp or Beach Boys hit. One particular song was played every open skate and invited everyone to join in a circle in the middle of the rink. This song was the Hokey Pokey. It wasn’t my favorite, but I participated. You know the song! Don’t you? In case you didn’t grow up doing the Hokey Pokey, let me catch you up to speed. The song goes: You put your right hand in. You take your right hand out. You put your right hand in and shake it all about. You do the Hokey Pokey and you turn yourself around. That’s what it’s all about. This song goes on and on and on with arms, legs, and head and maybe even a backside, until you get to the verse of putting your whole self in and taking your whole self out. Doing the Hokey Pokey on skates was not an easy feat, people. That rubber brake at the front of the brown rental skate was your friend. Our recent teachings following the 12 steps of AA have had me thinking about the Hokey Pokey. Don’t worry, I’ve been paying attention. Here’s what I’ve been thinking. In order to put my faith and trust in Jesus, I have to put my whole self in his care. All of me. I’m more inclined to offer up just part of myself. Like maybe an arm or a leg or something. But Jesus invites us to trust Him with our whole selves. Not my left leg or right arm or my head, but my whole self. My whole self! And here’s the thing. My whole self feels like a lot to put in another’s care. There are parts of my life I foolishly think I can manage without Jesus. Like for sure my relationships. I’ve got those. Or my level of worry or stress or my emotions. I’ve got that. Finances? Check. Or fill in the blank. Yep, I’ve got that too. But the truth is, I don’t have it under control. None of it. I need Jesus. Desperately. So I look to Jesus and remind myself I need him…a lot. I notice I might start my week or my day off well (Look at me! I’m trusting and leaning into Jesus!) only to recognize some time later I’ve drifted. Ope, I’ve taken control again. My self tends to drift, tends to momentarily (and sometimes not so momentarily) think I’ve got this. I want to trust wholly and then I find I’m vying for control again. Hi, my name is Jessica. I’m in desperate need of a savior. Here’s where I’ve landed: trusting in Jesus is a day-to-day, minute-to-minute surrender of my whole self. Jesus, am I trusting you with my whole self? No, I am not. Let me refocus and surrender. Again and again and again. The end of this silly song wraps up with putting your whole self in and the lyrics “that’s what it’s all about”. I think it’s true.

Dear Trailhead family, A letter from Cassie and Grant. For you. Enjoy. Volunteering at church. For me (Cassie), those three words feel a lot like when my kids ask me to close my eyes and, with the most serious of voices, exclaim, “Don’t peek!” I’m thinking, “Whoa, little friend! We just entered this scenario together! Give me a chance to actually obey your command, please.” The child takes my hand, then asks accusingly, “Are your eyes closed?!” I answer, “Yes, my eyes are closed.” But who am I kidding? I absolutely just lied to my kid because my eyes are slightly open, but I have my head bowed so they can’t tell. I am not walking into whatever surprise they have for me blind. Why? Because they will definitely walk me over a field of Lego on the floor or right into a wall. I don’t know that I have actually ever been injured during one of these invitations, but I have been injured elsewhere, and this situation feels especially designed for damage to my body to take place. This little human wants to lead me by the hand with my eyes closed. Um, no, thank you. Yeah, so that’s what I think about when I think about serving or volunteering at church. What comes up in you when you read the words “volunteering at church?” I (still Cassie here) was in vocational ministry (where you receive a paycheck) for 5 years, and Grant has been in vocational ministry for 7 years. However, we have served The Church as volunteers for something like 60 years combined. Grant and I both grew up in The Church in families that were passionate about serving The Church. Between the two of us, we have volunteered with every age group from the nursery to youth group and young adults to the “grown-up” service. We have sung in choirs, on worship teams, and in the bathroom while we cleaned the toilets. We’ve taught from the stage and scrubbed coffee stains on the floor. We’ve led small groups and done every job in the sound booth. We’ve given out hugs as door greeters and turkeys as part of a food assembly line. We’ve sorted clothes, built and painted walls, and prayed with reluctant strangers and sobbing teenagers. And there was this one time when we created a maze for kids, and we dressed like pirates, and another time when we cracked eggs on our heads. Also for kids. (I'm realizing in real time how much fun stuff has been with the kids and youth!) Please hear my heart, I mention our church volunteering experience not to impress, but to point out that Grant and I have some miles logged in this area, and for that reason we have become pretty passionate about what serving The Church practically looks like. We have seen and experienced over and over again the beauty and power of serving The Church. And we have been burned by and burned out by The Church. Some of those wounds are still festering, while others are healing. We are not here to sugarcoat it. Where there are people, there is the possibility for both experiences. Like all churches, Trailhead can always use help. However, we are committed to doing this differently. Not perfectly. And we won’t claim that we won’t ever mess it up (because we will many times over), but we come to you out of the gate, possibly before you’ve even walked through Trailhead’s doors, showing you our callouses and scars and wounds from serving The Church. Then allow us to point to Jesus and tell you how he has or is currently healing and restoring and forming us so that it is not Grant and Cassie who lives but Christ who lives through us. Maybe there are other people that have been affected by our service to Jesus and his Church, but the two primary people that have been affected are (insert us raising our hands here) the two of us. We believe that if you’ve committed to Trailhead Church, you’ve become part of the family. Like a family, we all have a part to play in taking care of each other and taking care of our house. I (Grant here. Thought I’d just pop in. How are ya?!) see our church much as you might a family; each member changes the dynamics of the family. If Frankie is missing from family dinner, the dinner is different than if he were there. We miss his lighthearted (but long stories), and now we realize that others get a chance to talk more. It’s never better without Frankie, but it is different. If Suzy is back from school and appears to be settling into the guest bedroom for the long haul, that changes the family too. Everyone shuffles around, makes room, remembers that Suzy likes to do the dishes but very much dislikes cooking (and we dislike it when she cooks), and so she is incorporated into the rhythm of the family. It’s noticeably different with her home. Church is like that. We are a different church with you here than if you were not. Your presence or absence changes us. You come with gifting and experience that make us more complete, more whole. You might also come with a little baggage, and that is ok too. Jesus had a special invitation for those with more than carry-on luggage (Matthew 11:28-30). With that, we take Ephesians 4:12 to heart; we are here to equip and release God’s people (not our people) to the work of ministry. What’s the purpose of apostles, evangelists, prophets, teachers, shepherds? It's to give God’s people everything they need to get down to the real business of “Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.” AND (Cassie) we know people are often coming through our doors weary and broken and wounded. These verses from Ecclesiastes come to mind: There’s an opportune time to do things, a right time for everything on the earth: A right time for birth and another for death, A right time to plant and another to reap, A right time to kill and another to heal, A right time to destroy and another to construct, A right time to cry and another to laugh, A right time to lament and another to cheer, A right time to make love and another to abstain, A right time to embrace and another to part, A right time to search and another to count your losses, A right time to hold on and another to let go, A right time to rip out and another to mend, A right time to shut up and another to speak up, A right time to love and another to hate, A right time to wage war and another to make peace. So, here is the invitation concerning serving at Trailhead. Ask the Spirit, what is right for me now? Maybe this is a time not to serve and to simply attend , allowing time for crying and lamenting and to be quiet and sabbath and healing. Or maybe the Spirit is inviting you into a time to serve . A time of planting and birthing and speaking and making peace. We make space for and celebrate both! And we encourage you to ask the Spirit often, “What is right for me now?” Life tends to be a bit of a rollercoaster; circumstances change. You’re not locked into your yes or no from last year indefinitely. Welcome to Trailhead Church, we tend to do things a little weird here. So, here is what we know: This is Jesus’ church. You and I cannot and should not do all the things. Jesus is the Savior of the world, and Trailhead Church, you and I are not. If there are not enough people to make something happen, then maybe it doesn’t need to happen. A no is equally as beautiful as a yes . We appreciate a yes, and we value a no around here. Collectively, we are the body of Christ - there are times for the body to work and times for the body to rest . We value both. So let’s end with this: Spirit, what is right for me right now? Grace and peace be upon you, Grant and Cassie

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