Blog
So We Made Amends
November 5, 2026
Dear Trailhead family,
All eyes were on him.
He both liked it and disliked it.
But he was too happy to stop.
“Master!” he said while pulling himself up to his full height. “Master, half of what I have will be given to those in need. And those I have cheated will be paid back many times over for what I took!”
Zacchaeus felt like he should say more, but he had said everything he had to say.
The onlookers, the same group that took every opportunity to remind Zacchaeus of his shortcomings, looked skeptical.
But Jesus was grinning. Zacchaeus tried to remember if he had ever seen a rabbi grin. He didn’t think so.
Jesus was doing nothing to hide his pleasure. Taking a cup, Jesus raised it towards Zacchaeus and proclaimed for all to hear, “Today, salvation has come to this house!”
The anti-Zacchaeus crowd didn’t look amused. But Jesus was only getting started.
“This man,” Jesus gestured towards Zacchaeus with the cup, “This man, too, is a worthy son of Abraham.”
You would have thought Jesus had individually insulted the mother of every onlooker.
If Jesus noticed, he didn't let on. Or seem to care.
“For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost.”
Thus ends the story of Zacchaeus as told by Luke, although Jesus had more to say.
He goes on to tell a story about servants who are faithful, and another who is unfaithful, while the prince is away being crowned king.
A reminder and warning to Zacchaeus to do what he had promised to do.
But the crowd, the group who had a lot of opinions about Jesus eating with Zacchaeus, they also get an honorable mention in Jesus’ story.
The story included a group called the subjects. They reject the prince. They try to sabotage his coronation. It doesn't work. They live long enough to regret their actions.
Luke 19:11-27 is Jesus’ commentary on this short encounter with the short man.
But what I’m curious to explore is Jesus proclamation: Today salvation has come to this house!
How’s that?
Did Zacchaeus earn his salvation?
No more than the prodigal son did.
Maybe it would be more helpful to say Zacchaeus began living in a new paradigm, a new identity and home.
Since I mentioned the prodigal son, let’s go there.
Zacchaeus is the little brother who has been given the world, and he smugly assumes he deserves all that he has.
The crowd, muttering about Jesus eating with a known sinner, is the older brother.
Jesus, with his closing words, echoes the heart of the Father. For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost.
Jesus walks through Jericho, and right about the moment that Jericho was to be an afterthought, he spies a prodigal son. Gathering his robes, Jesus runs to his son, engulfing him in a crushing hug.
Only, it looked and sounded like this: Zacchaeus, come down immediately. I must stay at your house today.
That act of acceptance and forgiveness was all it took; the prodigal entered the father’s house, stunned at his good fortune. Look, Lord! Here and now I give half of my possessions to the poor, and if I have cheated anybody out of anything, I will pay back four times the amount.
Translation: I never imagined in my wildest dreams that I would be welcomed back home. But look at me now- I am the luckiest man alive! I have been ushered back into the family, and my first order of business is to right every wrong that I can. Hold that. I don’t want to stop at righting those wrongs; I want to turn those wrongs into a blessing for everyone!
Ah, that is what salvation looks like.
While we were dying in a pigpen, running from home as fast as we could, yelling curses over our shoulder, Christ died for us.
And at some point, we came to our senses. Not so much because we were sorry for how we treated our Father, but because we were really hungry and filthy and dead broke, and we, quite frankly, had run out of options.
So we devised a short apology that was embarrassingly inadequate, and we found a stick that was roughly our height that we thought would do for a walking stick, and we set out for Home.
The older brother in Luke 15 should have gone after his brother. Am I my brother's keeper?
Yes. Always yes.
Jesus demonstrates a good older brother in Luke 19. For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost. Even if the lost is my idiot brother who has heaped shame on the family. Or a tax collector who has sold his soul for a few bucks.
And Zacchaeus, in awe of being welcomed home, shows not what one does to earn salvation, but what it looks like to be the saved one, the rescued one, the beloved.
I have been made whole; I have been redeemed and restored; I have experienced the breadth and depth of shalom. I can do nothing but express blessing to everyone and everything around me.
That is what salvation looks like.
Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.
Shalom.
And shalom looks like blessing. Like the way God intended humanity to live and love and interact with each other and with God.
It's the lion frolicking with the lamb, neighbors of different political persuasions taking care of each other, it’s there not being any needy among them.
Shalom.
As a church, we are exploring the 12 Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous as a pathway towards becoming more alive, more free and unfettered, more like Jesus and less like the entitled younger son and less like the angry, self-righteous older son.
Step 8 is this: Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.
And Step 9: Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.
To ignore these steps is to be Zacchaeus, enjoying the honor, graciousness, and generosity of Jesus while keeping a foot on the throats of his neighbors.
If salvation begins and ends with you, with me, tucked away down in our heart, that is not salvation. It might be the euphoric feeling the younger son had as he ran away from home, pockets full of cash, or the older son, chest swelled with confidence in his own good works, but it is not salvation.
Salvation means you are healed.
A healed person acts a certain way.
Thinks a certain way.
Lives a certain way.
That is why Jesus tells one person to sell everything he has and give it to the poor before following him.
To be healed, to be whole, get rid of what is killing you.
Make amends when to do so will not injure others.
You are beloved; act like it.
Zacchaeus was a descendant of Abraham. God promised to bless the whole world through Abraham.
And one day, Zacchaeus, bathed in the love of Jesus, moved from being a curse to those around him to become a blessing.
Just like God envisioned.
Today salvation has come to this house.
Grace and peace be upon you,
Grant
More from the Trailhead Blog
Dear Trailhead family, Hospitality is an interesting concept, isn't it? I find the notion of warm cultures and cold cultures, as they relate to hospitality, a fascinating thing. Warm cultures are seen as welcoming and hospitable. More relational. Indirect talk. Inefficient for the sake of relationships. Time is more fluid. Cold cultures are different. Warm cultures originated in (you guessed it!) warmer climates, places where food was more abundant and readily available. Fruit and veggies growing year-round. Unfrozen rivers and lakes. Animals that might take a siesta, but not hibernate. Maybe it seemed less of a threat to share with others. Cold climates needed to keep what they had stored for the long, bleak winter. “Sharing is caring” sounds nice until your 5-year-old cannot sleep due to hunger pains. I do not know how much of this is true, but it's what I was told at one point. Somewhere. By someone. It makes sense to me. Someone, somewhere in scripture, wrote this: If your enemy is hungry, feed them. Which is ridiculous. We can agree on that. It goes on to say, If your enemy is thirsty, give them something to drink. This is not my life verse. If you are into cross-stitch, feel free to not put this on a pillow for me. But, it does make me think. Jesus did this feed your enemy thing. I presume he did it many times, but one time in particular stands out to me. Jesus had just washed his disciples' feet. You remember. The evening meal was in progress. Food, drink, serious talk, laughter. Jesus got up from the table, stripped off his outer garments, and tied a towel around his waist. No one was eating or drinking anymore. Serious talk and laughter ceased. Jesus poured water into a basin and began to systematically wash his apprentices' feet. After washing them, he dried them with the towel. Peter stands out in this story because he confronts Jesus, recognizing that this duty was beneath his master. But Judas says nothing, nor, it would appear, does Jesus say anything to Judas. Just Jesus taking Judas’s feet, one at a time, and carefully washing them. And drying them. I wonder if Jesus was most tender with Judas. I don’t know why, it just seems like something he would do. When Jesus finished washing their feet, he dressed himself and passed a piece of bread… to Judas. God is hospitable. Scripture makes that clear. From Eden (all of this, everything, for you to enjoy! Just do not eat from this one tree) to Emmanuel, God with us, where God himself came to show us the way back to Life and Home, to the new heavens and new earth, carefully prepared for us, the bride of Christ. God is hospitable. And. We have never been easy or good houseguests. Like Judas, we are known to enjoy the generosity of God while remembering a tip we received. PSSST! Hey buddy, I know a place where you can get 30 silver coins. Thirty. Easiest money you’ll ever make! So the pattern repeats: God’s goodness to us, our utter inability to remain faithful. But God does not give up. If your enemy is hungry, feed them. Why? Because that is what God did with me. And presumably, you. One of the bright spots in the history of the Church is that it has a long tradition of hospitality. Providing places for travelers to rest, places for the hurt to be healed, places for the hungry to be fed, places for the homeless/orphan/lonely to be housed, places for those who have nothing to offer to be treated as if they did. And that is the rub. They do. As fellow image bearers of Creator God, they do. The author of Hebrews cautions believers to show hospitality to strangers. Why? Because heaven has a habit of showing up on our doorstep a little hungry and a little thirsty. Could be an angel, could be God. Or it could be Gary from a county over. Why take a chance? Treat 'em all as if they were Jesus. Jesus told a story about a group of people who were getting preferential treatment at a most opportune time. The King has returned and is on his throne. And he is separating people. You, over there. You, over here. One group gets a blessing. The other a curse. The blessed are confused. Why did we get blessed? (I’m not sure I'd need to know the reason if I made the cut, but there’s always one or two who can't leave well enough alone). You're blessed because when you saw me hungry, you gave me something to eat. When I was thirsty, you gave me a drink. I was a stranger, you invited me in. When I was naked, you clothed me. I was sick, and you made me chicken noodle soup, and not just for the soul. And when I was in prison, you visited. We did? Yes. You did. Anything, everything you did for the least of these people created and loved by God, you did for me. The first time I saw a bumper sticker declaring “Montana is Full, Go Home,” I chuckled. But it didn’t take long to learn the bumper sticker wasn't a joke. And I get it; we have a slice of paradise, and we wish it to remain that way. Which is why I still find it startling that God placed humanity in the Garden. Talk about The Last Best Place. Eden was it. But God was not satisfied with a beautiful garden kept for himself, all immaculate and tidy. Right there in Genesis 2 we already see the connection between God and unreasonable hospitality. Then God planted a garden in Eden, in the east. He put the Man he had just made in it. God made all kinds of trees grow from the ground, trees beautiful to look at and good to eat. (MSG) We know the rest of the story. We are living that story. Every time we offer a seat, share a meal, pour a glass, give a coat, or keep company with the lonely, we are stepping into a little slice of the New Eden. We are declaring a truer way to be human. We are ushering in a Kingdom that will never end. And here I thought it was just a glass of water. Grace and peace be upon you, Grant
Dear Trailhead family, “My master says,” the servant began before his voice cracked. “My master says that you are to go to the Jordan. Wash yourself seven times. You will be healed and clean. That is all.” The servant looked visibly deflated after delivering the prophet’s message. (Today we are continuing a story we began last week. You can read part one here ). Naaman took the news without flinching, but inside he was seething. And cursing. This holy man? A conman. Their 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 move away from the promise of water. As they picked up speed, Naaman allowed himself a 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. Without knowing why, Naaman immediately knew the truth: their God was anything but a joke. Still, Naaman was livid. The Jordan? What a river typical of this pathetic little region. At home, they had beautiful, wide rivers. Clean rivers. Rivers that one would gladly bathe in. But the Jordan, the Jordan was a muddy cesspool. The caravan did not get far before Naaman realized they were traveling without a destination. A wave of his hand brought the procession to a halt. Naaman stepped from his chariot and grabbed a handful of soil. He rubbed it between his fingers before flinging it into the sky. A long, slow, carefully enunciated curse followed the dust as it settled back to earth. His words had barely been whipped away by the wind when several servants approached and bowed. “Master,” began the chief steward, “we have seen your bravery and determination on display time and time again.” The servants behind the chief steward bowed again, visibly uneasy. Naaman nearly laughed, but he felt no mirth. “If the prophet’s weasel of a slave had asked you to do something noble,” the steward continued, “something heroic, you would have done so without a thought.” The steward stopped, unsure if he had made his point or not. Naaman glared at this man. The point had been made, but Naaman did not make a habit of letting people off easily. “And?” Naaman prodded, finding the steward's anxiety comforting. The steward took a deep breath and rushed a final question. “What harm in doing the silly bidding of the prophet?” Naaman turned to walk away, but he only completed a half turn before he spun back. “We will return home.” Naaman declared in the tone of a challenge, happy to see his servants wince in unison. They didn’t hear his next words as they returned to ready the caravan. “And we will go by way of the Jordan.” Early the next morning, Naaman disrobed and made his way into the murky water of the Jordan River. His ravaged skin looked more sickly, more deathly, in the morning light than he anticipated. “It's spreading faster,” he thought. Deeper into the river he went, hidden rocks biting into his feet. Finding himself waist-deep, Naaman could feel the cool water rush over his healthy skin. His diseased skin gave no sensation at all. Taking a gulp of air, Naaman sank below the water. He paused underwater, pulling his long hair under with him. All of him would go under, as the instructions had seemed to dictate. Naaman surfaced only long enough to take a breath, then went down again. “Two,” he thought as he settled below the surface. His next time up, he noticed several servants discreetly watching from the bank. They all became very interested in their feet once they realized they had been spotted. “Three,” he thought as he sank again, a bubble of air escaping his mouth. “Four.” Now a few soldiers had led their horses to the water, presumably only because their animals needed a drink. “Five.” “Six.” Standing again, he looked at his skin. No difference. Not a bit. Naaman felt more crushed than he had anticipated. Of course bathing in this sluggish river wasn't going to cure him. He had been deceived. Somewhere the prophet was cackling to himself, pleased with making the foreign dignitary a fool. Naaman began to wade back to shore. “Enough of this!” he wanted to yell, but settled for a fierce slap of the water. Naaman was nearly to the bank when he caught the gaze of his chief steward. The steward said nothing, but he was mouthing something over and over. Naaman squinted against the early morning glare to make out the words. “Hunce mah?” No, that wasn't it. “Once more. Once more. Once more.” Naaman sighed and backtracked a few steps. He would go under once more. Slowly, Naaman sank into the water. The cool water seemed so much colder. It almost burned. “Strange how the water temperature can be so fickle,” Naaman thought, before his eyes sprang open and he attempted to shout underwater. His skin was burning, feeling both painful and exhilarating at the same time. But not his whole body, only his damaged skin. The skin that had no feeling. Or at least the skin that had, moments before, had no feeling. Naaman burst from the water, a shout startling the onlookers. A silly grin spread over his face as he looked at one arm and then the next. Beautiful skin. Smooth skin. Tingling skin. Naaman closed his eyes as he ran his hand over the restored flesh. Only then did he realize that he was crying. (The story of Nathan and the prophet Elisha comes from 2 Kings chapter 5) Step seven of Alcohol Anonymous (and our series, Becoming Alive) is: Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings. Of course, this must come after we “were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character” (Step 6). So we become ready, which is no small task. Our defects have become familiar. Almost family. Saying goodbye isn't easy. We have become dependent on our defects. After all, that's why we adopted them in the first place. But here we are. We are now ready. So we ask God to remove our shortcomings. But that's not exactly right. We humbly ask God to remove our shortcomings. That word is key. Our shortcomings will not go without us giving up our facade. Our dignity. Or so it feels. In reality, our shortcomings were an insufficient fig leaf at best, a threadbare mockery of modesty at worst. But something nonetheless. So we ask him, humbly. Naked in soul and spirit. Some form of pride got us into this mess, and stripped of that is the way out. This shouldn’t surprise us. Jesus, God with us, described himself this way: “I am gentle and humble in heart.” That is the only way to be whole. So we become like him and humbly ask, “forgive us our trespasses…” The unspoken plea is, “God, if you forgive me my sin, will you dispose of it as well?” Haul it away, burn it, bury it. My shortcomings make an impressive pile of filth, one I cannot remove on my own. God, I am begging you; I have lost all hope in myself. Naaman died to his ego seven times in the dirty water of Jordan. And he came up clean. May we be humble enough to receive healing ourselves. Grace and peace be upon you, Grant
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
