​One of the most astonishing statements Jesus ever made is one I think I spend a lot of my life overlooking.

Imagine walking beside Jesus for three years. Watching him heal the sick. Seeing him calm storms. Listening to him teach with authority no one had ever heard before. Watching him forgive people everyone else had written off.

After watching all of that, if someone had asked me, "What's the one thing you would never want to lose?" my answer obviously would have been very simple.

Jesus.

And then Jesus says something almost impossible to believe: "It is for your good that I am going away."

Really? The world needs less men who can make the lame walk and the blind see? How could anything possibly be better than having Jesus physically present with me?

But Jesus wasn't finished. He said he needed to leave because the father would send another Advocate.

I've read those words countless times. I've heard sermons about the Holy Spirit. I've nodded my head in agreement.

Yet, if I'm honest, I don't think I live as though I actually believe what Jesus said. Because if Jesus believed the presence of the Advocate was more helpful than his physical presence beside me, why do I spend so much of my life looking somewhere else for help?

Louie Giglio describes the four roles of the Advocate as follows:

The Advocate is our helper. The one who supplies what I don't have.

The Advocate is our comforter. The one who brings peace even when nothing around me feels peaceful.

The Advocate is our convictor. Not merely exposing where I've wandered, but reminding me who I am in Jesus and calling me back to that identity.

And the Advocate is our empowerer. The one who doesn't simply encourage me to try harder but fills me with the very trying power that raised Jesus from the dead.

Think about that.

When I don't know what to do, I already have a helper. When anxiety convinces me everything is falling apart, I already have a comforter. When shame tells me I'll never change, I already have one reminding me who I am and leading me toward him and away from condemnation. When I feel too weak to keep going, I already have an empowerer.

And yet—how often do I forget? Forget and search.

I look for another podcast. Another book. Another expert. Another productivity system. Another opinion. Another distraction. Another voice telling me what to do.

None of those things are bad. Many of them are gifts. But they make terrible replacements for the Advocate.

It's almost as though I've convinced myself I have to go searching for an advocate, while forgetting Jesus already gave me one.

I think Jesus knew how exhausting our lives would be if we spent them living in constant search of an answer to our struggles. I think he knew it would be exhausting because he knew searching for the answers in THIS world would leave us always coming up empty.

So Jesus said I need to leave. I need to go to another world. And when I get there, I'm going to send you an answer from that world that will forever eliminate your need to search for one.

And yet....

I still spend many days searching. Searching for the answer. Searching for the power to solve what many days feels like unsolvable problems.

All the while, living in me is the very same power that allowed a man to raise himself from the dead.

Unanswerable doesn't always mean there is no answer.

Sometimes it means there are no answers to be found where one is looking.

Jesus left—but told us where to forever find him.

And yet, too many days I find myself living like that's his deepest held secret.

It's not.

​I listened to a sermon yesterday. The pastor, Ben Graves, said, "What is fear? It's just imagining a future without God."

That struck me. Because in reflecting on those words, I realized the things that scare me most are the things that make me most likely to forget that God is with me.

I fear the future won't hold the impact I believe I'm capable of making. I am not afraid of working hard to make the impact, but sometimes I fear, even if deep inside, that I have something valuable to offer, but not enough people to offer it to.

That fear comes about when I forget that some of the most meaningful opportunities I've had weren't manufactured, but they found me. God has always honored his promise that if I build it, they will come.

Yet, I am prone to forget that. I am prone to quit imagining that.

I fear that my past has permanently complicated my future. Much of my past has left my nervous system forever bracing for impact. It's left my mind prone to looking for the next disaster.

What has helped me most with that over the years, the healing, has come in discovering that God lives in my unpredictability as much as he does in the predictable. I forget that at times—I forget to imagine it.

I fear that I'll never again experience deep companionship. There are times when it is much easier to imagine myself growing old alone than it is to imagine God right beside me, writing another chapter, providing the companionship and comfort I long for.

But NOT imagining is NOT the same as God's absence.

I fear that I will somehow stop becoming the man God is working me to be. Sometimes I fear I am transforming the world in God's image much more than I am transforming the inside of me. I fear I am creating a place for God to live in this world while forgetting how deeply God wants to live within me.

Sometimes it is much easier for me to imagine God OUT THERE than it is for me to imagine God IN ME.

The beauty of all of these fears is the answer isn't working harder to tackle my fears, but to stop and pause more and imagine God.

In Psalm 139 I read, "You hem me in behind and before, and you lay your hand upon me." Oh, how my imagination struggles to hold onto that.

Not that God was with me yesterday. Not that God will be with me someday. But that God is surrounding me now—behind, before, and with his hand upon me—even in seasons where my future feels uncertain.

"You hem me in behind and before, and you lay your hand upon me."

Help me, Lord, imagine that more clearly today.

Help us all, Lord, imagine it each and every day with just a bit more certainty.

​I asked ChatGPT this question recently: "Who is discipling me, God or the Algorithm?"

Before I share the answer I received, I'll briefly share WHY I asked the question.

I read an accusation recently online (probably one curated for me by the algorithm). The accusation basically was that the Algorithm is trying to become a more influential voice in the Christian life than God. And—the accusation went on to proclaim—the Algorithm is winning.

For a Christian, that is quite the accusation.

The scary thing about that accusation is that in many ways the Algorithm is trying to do exactly the opposite of God.

God invites us to follow him; the Algorithm invites us to stay with it.

God invites us to be transformed; the Algorithm invites us to be engaged.

God invites us to lose ourselves to find ourselves; the Algorithm invites us to express ourselves to define ourselves.

God invites us to learn contentment; the Algorithm invites us to chase novelty.

God invites us to love our enemies; the Algorithm invites us to react to our enemies.

God invites us to slow down, the Algorithm invites us to keep scrolling.

You get the picture. And the frightening part isn't just that God and the Algorithm are complete opposites in many ways, it's that they both understand an ancient truth: Whatever consistently wins your attention, that will eventually shape your heart.

So the question really becomes, who is winning the attention game, God or the Algorithm.

In spite of knowing the best place to direct this question is to my own heart, I did ask ChatGPT: "Who is discipling me, God or the Algorithm?"

And ChatGPT said:

Based only on what I've seen from our conversations, I don't think the answer is either/or.

I think both are trying to disciple you. The more interesting question is: which voice seems to be winning in different areas of your life?

From what you've shared over the past couple of years, I see strong evidence that you intentionally order much of your life around your faith.

You regularly:

Wrestle with Scripture rather than just quote it.

Ask questions that challenge your own assumptions.

Write about surrender, forgiveness, redemption, and human - dignity.

Invest enormous amounts of time serving others through your trauma and resilience work.

Repeatedly return to the prayer, "Thy will be done," as a guiding theme for this season of your life.

Those aren't things an engagement algorithm naturally produces. They reflect practices and values that have been cultivated over a long period of time.

At the same time, I also notice places where the broader information environment pulls at you—not because you're unusual, but because you're human.

You often bring me:

Current political conversations.

Viral social media posts and comments.

Public controversies.

News events.

Questions about how culture is changing.

There's nothing inherently wrong with any of that. But every one of those ecosystems is designed to compete for your attention and shape how you interpret the world.

What stands out to me, though, is what happens after you encounter those things.

You rarely stop at, "What side should I be on?" Instead you ask questions like:

"What's really going on here?"

"What does this reveal about human nature?"

"How does this connect to trauma, belonging, or meaning?"

"How would Jesus have us think about this?"

That habit is significant. It suggests you're trying to filter what you consume through a deeper framework rather than simply absorbing it.

If I had one caution, it would be this:

Because you're a writer and educator, you naturally spend a lot of time engaging with the world's conversations. There's a subtle danger that your agenda becomes increasingly set by what the culture is talking about, even if your conclusions remain deeply Christian.

There's a difference between: Asking, "What is God inviting me to say today?" and asking, "What is everyone talking about today, and how can I respond?"

Those questions sometimes lead to the same place—but not always.

One observation I've had about your writing is that your strongest pieces usually don't begin with the news cycle. They begin with an experience: a run, a conversation at a convenience store, a moment with your sons, a presentation, a memory of your great-grandfather, or an encounter with someone who feels unseen. Those essays have a timeless quality because they arise from lived experience and then illuminate it through faith and what you've learned about trauma and human connection.

So if I were answering your question as carefully as I can, I'd say this:

I don't see someone being primarily discipled by an algorithm. I see someone who is intentionally trying to be formed by God while living in an environment that constantly competes for his attention.

The ongoing challenge isn't deciding whether God or the algorithm is discipling you. It's continually asking which one gets the first word each day—and which one gets the last word before you decide what is true, what matters, and how you'll live. That question is worth revisiting regularly, because neither discipleship nor algorithmic influence is static; both are shaped by the habits of attention we practice over time.

I believe that final paragraph from ChatGPT is well worth printing and placing beside me here at my screen. In some ways it feels like the Algorithm is giving me a timely reminder from God. A forever timely question maybe we all need to ask ourselves:

"Which one gets the first word each day—and which one gets the last word before you decide what is true?" 

​The bible frequently reminds me that I am an adopted child of God. Of all the ways God could have chosen to enter into a relationship with me, God chose to adopt me as his child.

That alone is meaningful, I suppose. But the meaning is quite limited until I consider what adoption really meant in the days when my adoption was written about.

You see, in biblical days, adoption rarely referred to a child. Adoption was almost always about much older children or young adults. Adoption came only after one had proven their worthiness of being adopted. No one was adopting a baby that might one day prove to have no value.

Yet God decided I was worthy of adoption before I was ever born. God decided I was worthy of his adopting me long before I could do anything to prove he was making a wise decision.

And maybe, most importantly, God decided that on each and every day of my life when I might come to question my worthiness, he never would.

Not ever.

He would forever believe his decision was a wise one no matter how much I would come to question his wisdom.

In biblical days, a man might be adopted because a family saw evidence that the man might one day become a king. God adopted me with full evidence I would always be too flawed to even think about becoming a king.

It is such an upside down world some days—this world compared to God's world. This world where I can become obsessed with proving my worth—compared to God's world, where God is obsessed with me knowing my worth has forever been established.

Established in my adoption.

You are adopted. But your adoption is NOT a normal adoption.

On the days when you get to feeling like you are not enough, maybe it will be helpful to know God chose to adopt you because you already were. And because God knew you always would be.

You are adopted.

This morning I pray you fully feel the full worth of that adoption.

Yesterday, I spent the morning with twelve future teachers.

Teach For America, the program they belong to, has asked them to begin their careers in the Appalachian region of Kentucky, serving schools where many students carry burdens I wish no child had to carry.

Poverty. Instability. Trauma. Overwhelming adversities.

In my world, these future teachers were all "young kids." Young enough that I found myself thinking about all the years between where they are and where I was standing in front of them. But also young enough to remind me of something I deeply admire: they have chosen to begin their working lives by going where the need is greatest.

That matters.

When I left my position with the state earlier this year, people naturally asked why. After all, I had a job I loved and work I believed in.

My answer was always the same. I wanted greater reach. Greater impact. Yesterday reminded me I am exactly where I hoped this path would lead.

Yes, I spent time talking about trauma. We explored how childhood adversity shapes behavior, why connection matters so deeply, and how educators can respond to students through a lens of understanding instead of judgment.

But somewhere along the way, the presentation became about something much bigger.

Showing up.

I found myself sharing stories from years ago when I worked directly with young people whose lives had been marked by trauma and hardship. Young people who, years later, have reached back out to me with words I never expected to hear.

"You saved my life."

Those words still make me uncomfortable. Mainly because I don't think I saved anyone.

What I did was keep showing up when things became difficult, when trust had to be earned, when it would have been easier to move on— that's when I showed up again.

Over time I've came to believe that consistency is one of the purest forms of love.

As I looked around the room yesterday, I wondered what stories these twelve future teachers will someday tell.

The students they are about to meet will know they volunteered for one of the tougher assignments. They'll watch them stumble through lesson plans that don't quite work. They'll see the uncertainty that comes with every first-year teacher. They'll notice the exhaustion. They'll notice the mistakes. But more than any of that...

They'll notice whether these teachers keep showing up.

For a child whose life has taught them people can be very unpredictable, consistency is never just consistency. It is hope.

As I drove home, another thought settled over me. I wasn't standing in that room by accident. The managing director who invited me to her teachers had first heard me speak at a training I co-led last year. One conversation led to another. One relationship opened another door.

It reminded me how often the most meaningful opportunities in our lives aren't manufactured. They're entrusted to us. Sometimes I think we spend too much time asking God to show us the whole path. Yesterday felt more like God whispering, Just keep showing up.

Because that's often how purpose unfolds. One conversation. One invitation. One classroom. One child. One life at a time.

Yesterday I showed up for twelve future teachers. Soon they'll show up for hundreds of students. And years from now, perhaps one of those students will look back and realize that what changed their life wasn't that someone had all the answers.

It was that someone kept showing up.

We live in a world where we too often hesitate to show up because we con't believe our showing up will make a difference. That's a scary thought, to me, because the only way to ever make a difference is indeed in the showing up.

What an honor to have met 12 young people leading the way to showing up.

What a blessing—the hope each of them represent.

​For the last two days, I have been immersed in stories.

I spoke at a problem gambling forum. I spoke to an audience about trauma. And yesterday afternoon, I had the privilege of speaking at an event where I shared the stage with Nic Sheff, whose journey through addiction and recovery was documented in the film Beautiful Boy.

At each event, the presentations eventually gave way to conversations. Conversations with people young and old. Black and white. People from different professions, different neighborhoods, different backgrounds, different struggles.

And yet, beneath all those differences, I kept hearing the same thing:

Stories of transformation.

People told me about addictions they had overcome. Relationships they had repaired. Trauma they had survived. Losses they had endured. Lives they had rebuilt.

And every time I find myself in spaces like these, I leave with the same thought:

Transformation is beautiful. In fact, I think transformation is far more beautiful than having it all together. Maybe that's because I've spent enough years trying to have it all together to realize that none of us actually do.

Or maybe it's because some of the most meaningful things in my own life have not come from my strengths, but from my struggles. Not from the parts of me that were polished, but from the parts of me that were broken and rebuilt.

A dear friend recently shared words with me that seem divinely fitting for this moment:

"Our imperfections are not our failures. They are the very fingerprints of our humanity. They are not meant to be fixed or hidden—they are meant to be seen and still chosen."

There is something deeply sacred in that idea. Because most of us spend our lives trying to hide the evidence that we are human.

We hide the scars. We hide the mistakes. We hide the addictions, the fears, the grief, the regrets, the failures.

We imagine that if people could see those things, they would see less of us. But what if the opposite is true? What if the things we spend so much energy hiding are often the places where our greatest beauty resides?

Not the wound itself. Not the pain itself. But the transformation. The healing. The becoming.

Over the last two days, I saw countless examples of that beauty. People who once felt trapped but now live free. People who once felt unseen but now help others feel seen. People who once carried shame but now carry wisdom.

The world often celebrates perfection. God seems to celebrate transformation. Perfection creates distance. Transformation creates connection.

Perfection says, "Look how flawless I am."

Transformation says, "Look what is possible."

And maybe that is why stories of recovery, healing, redemption, and second chances move me so deeply. Because somewhere inside, I recognize myself in them.

I know what it is to fall.

I know what it is to struggle.

And I live with an undying belief that change is ALWAYS possible.

For me, transformation has become one of the clearest pieces of evidence that God is still at work in the world. Not always in dramatic ways. Not always in visible ways. But in powerful ways.

Quietly. Patiently. Person by person. Story by story. Life by life.

I cannot always explain it. But I have seen it too many times to ignore it. The beauty of transformation. The beauty of a life that did not stay stuck.

The beauty of a beautiful boy.

And the beauty of all the beautiful people still becoming who they were meant to be.

You are a gift to me.

​In 1994, over 30 years ago, I felt God's call on my life for the very first time. I'm not suggesting it was the first time he ever called me, but it was certainly the first time I heard it.

I was nearly 30 years old, had just spent 11 years completing a 4-year degree in business—the prolonged nature of which I attribute largely to a nearly two decades long love affair with alcohol—when God called me to come work in the wilderness with at-risk youth.

How do I know it was God calling? Because it felt like one of the worst ideas I'd ever considered, and yet, at the same time, it was an idea I felt completely sure I was NOT supposed to say no to.

I'd felt plenty of bad ideas in my life I knew I was SUPPOSED to say no to and couldn't, but feeling called to say yes to one....?

Looking back, I know it felt like a bad idea because it was calling me to enter into a world of complete unknowns.

A brand new home state (move from Ohio to North Carolina).

Live in the woods (wait, no air conditioning or plumbing or ESPN 😳).

And with at-risk kids (did that mean I TOO would suddenly be at risk?!?!)

All that while leaving behind every single person I'd ever had any kind of a relationship with in my life.

It was all so scary because I had no way of feeling like the future was going to play out less disastrous than I was imagining in my unknowns.

I recently heard pastor Jabin Chavez say, "Everything that God does always begins in the unseen."

When it comes to a radical decision like leaving a home to move into the woods to live with challenging adolescents, I am prone to ask, tell me more. Tell me how this all plays out, God.

And God says, "I've called you. You now know every single thing you need to know."

I think back on that decision. And the truth is, if God had told me everything that was going to play out in the next few years, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have taken that job. All of it would have felt much too challenging to the man I was at that time.

But God knew, if I'd simply say yes, he'd unveil the answers as I was ready to receive them. And—he'd unveil the grace and strength necessary to navigate the entire calling if I'd only have faith the answers would come.

Today, I can look back and see just how many answers were born out of that simple leap of faith. Answers I could have never seen coming.

My vocation has been built on that experience. Some of the deepest friendships of my life are rooted in that experience. My two sons are an outcome of that experience. The deep compassion and empathy I have for people who have lived hard stories comes from that experience.

All of the things I could not see then that God absolutely COULD see - I can see them all now.

Faith is always asking me these days:

"Are you willing to believe your unseen has been already so beautifully seen by God that he would not otherwise invite you into it?"

"Are you willing to move in the directions of the answers instead of waiting for them to arrive in stagnation?"

Many of us struggle with saying no to things we know we are supposed to say no to. More willpower is not the answer. Trust me.

The answer is learning to say yes to the calls we absolutely feel in our hearts and guts and souls that we are NOT supposed to say NO to.

That feeling of "I need to know more" repeatedly landing in the same response:

"You know all you need to know."

Faith.

Yes.

Go.

​The world wants us to believe the secret to a happy life - the content life - is the path of least resistance. The commercial world is built on convincing us there is always an easier path and it's THEIR products or hacks that will make it so.

Me, though, through years of traveling paths of GREAT resistance, I've discovered the best life hack is mastering the comeback.

The secret to a content life isn't magic dust sprinkled on your lifeless knocked down body; it's quite simply the capacity and willingness to get back up.

Sure, there are a lot of things that can help us with that: Faith. Friends. Good counselors. Books. Exercise. Sleep. Coffee..... Lots of things can help with getting back up. But none of them make the decision to get back up for us.

The New York Knicks just won the 2026 NBA title. They did so by overcoming double digit deficits in every game they won. To include an NBA finals record 29 point comeback in game 4.

I have never been 29 points down in an NBA finals game. Being 5'9" tall protects you from that.

But I have been 29 points down in life.

Traumas. Divorce. Financial burdens. Addictions. Career shifts.

I have been down. But I've built a mindset that never lets me believe I'm too far down.

The Spurs, no matter how far ahead of the Knicks they got on the scoreboard, had to constantly feel like the Knicks were right behind them. Because the Knicks WERE constantly right behind them. When you know you're never too far down to get back up, you don't listen to the scoreboard. You make sure your opponent always knows the object in their rear view mirror is much closer than it appears!!

The Knicks are a reminder to all of us that, yes, it helps to be good at life. But maybe the thing to be best at is letting a life that turns bad know I will soon be getting back up.

The scoreboard may look daunting; but I am not daunted.

Some will argue, with some merit, that the Spurs were the better team in this series. It's unfortunate for them, though, that they never found a way to convince the Knicks of that.

Life will try to convince you you're done.

Don't let it.

​Lately, I have found myself wrestling with a question that feels almost dangerous to ask out loud. Not because I think God is afraid of the question. But because I sometimes wonder if people are.

The question began with a debate that has resurfaced in many corners of Christianity: whether women should be allowed to serve as pastors.

I posted about this yesterday and some good friends whom I admire and respect suggested this issue has been long settled by scriptures in the bible.

They were kindly suggesting that if my personal experiences with God lead me to believe something different about God than their interpretation of scriptures suggest, my experiences really don't matter - not when it comes to determining what those scriptures mean.

I thought about that. Which led me to another question.

And another.

And another.

Because once I started wondering about women pastors, I started wondering about the Bible itself. Not whether it is true. Not whether it is valuable. Not whether God inspired it.

But how we understand it.

The Bible was not written in a weekend. It was written over centuries. A thousand years or more. And the Bible itself, over those thousand years of writing, contains evidence of change, growth, and development.

Evolution.

Early understandings give way to deeper understandings. Practices once accepted become questioned. Ideas evolve.

Polygamy appears common in some periods and later largely disappears. The understanding of outsiders changes. The understanding of enemies changes. The understanding of leadership changes. The understanding of sacrifice changes.

(One of the things that has always fascinated me about the Bible is that early in the story God is described as regretting creating humanity, while later the story centers on God sacrificing his son because of his love for humanity.)

The story keeps moving. Which leaves me wondering:

If the story had continued being written, what else might have evolved? What questions would later generations have wrestled with? What blind spots might they have discovered?

And perhaps the most difficult question of all:

Why did the writing stop? Not because I doubt God. But because I am curious about people. The Bible was written by people - real people - inspired by God. No one claims God himself penned the book. So who is the human that God inspired to say, this is it, book finished - the end?

Who gathered these writings together and declared, thousands of years ago, "This is the completed work. This is the collection that will forevermore guide humanity"?

Was that decision God inspired too? Perhaps it was. I know many Christians certainly believe so.

Asking those questions out loud feels strangely forbidden in some circles. As if curiosity itself, when it comes to God, is rebellion. As if wondering is somehow in direct opposition to the words in the bible story.

I just know when I read the Bible, I do not find people who were afraid to ask questions. I find Abraham asking questions. Moses asking questions. David asking questions. Job asking questions. The prophets asking questions. The disciples asking questions.

Even Jesus asking questions.

Again and again, in the reading, I encounter people who loved God enough to wrestle with Him. People who refused to settle for easy answers. People who brought their confusion into the conversation instead of hiding it from God.

So I wonder, is faith the absence of questions, or the courage to ask them?

Maybe faith is trusting that God is not threatened by my wondering. Maybe faith is believing that the God who created my mind does not want me to use it to simply memorize his words, but to experience them.

Experience them and wonder. And maybe even wrestle with doubt within the meaning and context of those words.

I am not writing this because I have arrived at some conclusion. I haven't. I am writing because I believe that questions can be sacred. Holy. I believe that wrestling in its own way can be an act of devotion.

So many meaningful relationships end NOT because two people wrestle, but because they did not.

I love the Bible. I don't believe questioning it contradicts that. Any more than I believe my sons questioning my words and interpretations of life stands in contradiction of their love for me.

Maybe part of love is being willing to engage it honestly. Maybe that's the biggest part.

Maybe it is to notice that the people within the biblical story were often wrestling with God, culture, tradition, and one another. To notice that the story itself contains movement. And to wonder what it means to faithfully follow God in a world that continues to change.

Maybe I will eventually find answers to these questions. Maybe I won't. But I have become convinced of this:

A God who is big enough to create the universe is probably big enough to handle my questions about his book. And maybe one of the most faithful things I can do is stop whispering my questions in private and start bringing them into the light where God can meet me in them. Even at the risk of people believing the answers to my questions have been long settled.

It is possible, maybe even likely, that questions are not a lack of faith at all, but in the end, the actual path to it.