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

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

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