Some days in this work end with a policy. Some days end with silence. And some days end with 343 dials , 6 total contacts , 2 people who had already died, 2 who swear they never filled out a form , and 1 very clear message that included the f-bomb and instructions to leave them alone. After a day like that, I had choices. I could have written Lauryn a letter of resignation. I could have poured something strong and kept pouring, purely for medicinal reasons. Or I could do what I’ve learned to do over a lifetime — look for God, and for the Unlikely Altar , even on days like this. So I made an Old Fashioned , sat with the frustration, and went looking for meaning instead of escape. This is what I found. Most days, this work doesn’t feel like selling anything at all. It feels like waiting and hoping. Waiting and hoping for someone to answer a call. Waiting and hoping for a text that rarely comes. Waiting and hoping through long pauses where you don’t know if you helped, were annoyed, or simply disappeared into someone else’s already-full life. Those days get under your skin. They make you second-guess your timing, your tone, your calling. They whisper that maybe you’re bothering people. That maybe this work is foolish. That maybe you should find something easier, something cleaner, something with clearer wins. But I’ve seen what happens when no one shows up early. I’ve seen families blindsided, not just by grief but by decisions they didn’t know they’d have to make so fast. I’ve watched love get tangled up with panic, debt, and shame. I’ve seen people try to say goodbye while also figuring out how to pay for it. Final expense work lets us step into the story before the crisis. Not to scare people. Not to pressure them. Just to slow things down. To give them room. To give love a little help before it’s exhausted. It’s not flashy work. It’s quiet. Sometimes awkward. Often resisted. And a lot of it never shows up on a spreadsheet. Some conversations end with a policy. Many don’t. Some end with “not now.” Some end with silence. Some end because the person dies before anything can be done at all. Those are the ones that hurt the most, because you know exactly how the story will go from there. Still, we show up. Somewhere between the last unanswered call and the first honest breath of the evening, I realized that this too was an altar. Not a sanctuary. Not a success story. Just a kitchen counter, a half-finished drink, and the choice to stay present instead of walking away. That’s the Unlikely Altar . The place where frustration and care sit side by side. Where you tell the truth about how hard the day was and still decide not to quit. We show up because kindness done in advance still counts, even when it’s invisible. We show up because being honest and steady with someone who’s afraid is never wasted. We show up because preparation is one of the most underrated forms of love. I don’t know what your “why” is. Maybe it’s mostly financial. Maybe this work just fits your season right now. That’s okay. There’s no purity test for why we do this. I only know mine. Mine comes from seeing families who couldn’t afford even a simple cremation. Mine comes from watching grief get heavier than it ever needed to be. Mine comes from knowing that a little planning can spare the people you love from a very hard day. Hope doesn’t always look like a win. Sometimes it looks like not quitting. Sometimes it looks like making the next call with the same care as the first. Sometimes it looks like an Old Fashioned on the counter and the decision to look for meaning instead of escape. So we keep showing up. And day after day, I have to remind myself of this simple truth: nothing done with love and honesty is ever wasted.

No one warns you about the nights. People talk about the firsts. The first holiday. The first birthday. The first anniversary. But few talk about the first night. Or the second. Or the hundredth. Because night is different. During the day, grief has manners. It waits its turn. You answer texts. You run errands. You smile when you’re supposed to. You can almost convince yourself you’re doing okay. But at night, grief becomes bold. It becomes rude. All those manners are stripped away. When the house goes quiet, grief doesn’t whisper anymore. It speaks loud and clear. The other side of the bed stays empty. Not symbolically empty, but actually empty. Cold where warmth used to be. Still, where breath once rose and fell in the dark. You reach without thinking, then remember once again that she isn’t there. He isn’t coming back. The bed used to be a shared place. A place of conversation. A place where laughter echoed in the room. A place of intimacy — where you could be fully vulnerable and fully alive. A place where prayers were shared and whispered. A place where silence could simply be, without needing explanation. But now that same bed feels oversized. Like a room built for two that only one person is allowed to enter. Some nights you sleep on the edge, clinging to what feels familiar. Some nights you sleep in the middle, hoping closeness might still be possible. And if you’re honest, some nights you don’t sleep at all. Let’s tell it like it is. Night doesn’t ask how you’re holding up. It quietly tells the truth. And the truth is, you aren’t holding up all that well. You lie there listening to the sounds of a house that suddenly feels like a stranger. Every creak feels louder. Every tick of the clock is heavier. This is where loneliness settles in. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just steadily. People think loneliness lives in the heart. But at night, loneliness lives in the body. It’s the tightness that settles in your chest. The knots that twist your stomach. It’s the questions that arrive at 2:17 in the morning. What if I forget the sound of their voice? Their laugh? How long will this ache last? Is this what the rest of my life looks like? Night has a way of magnifying everything grief touches. Yes, I know people tell you that you are not alone. Friends and family remind you that God is with you. And they mean well, they really do. But at night, faith can feel thin. Even the promises can feel quiet. That doesn’t mean faith is gone. It means it’s quieter than it used to be. Faith after loss often changes its tone. It becomes quieter. Less certain. More honest. The confident prayers from before may give way to borrowed ones. Or to silence. Or to a single whispered name in the dark. If faith feels fragile at night, that doesn’t mean it’s gone. It means it’s carrying weight. This is the part we don’t talk about enough. Night is brutal. But believe it or not, night is also sacred. There is the lamp left on because total darkness feels unbearable. Or that favorite chair that still holds his shape, the one no one else can sit in. And the blanket, the one you reach for because it still carries her scent. These small things become altars. Unlikely Altars , but altars all the same. Quiet ones. This is where love still shows up. Not to fix the pain. Not to hurry healing. Just to sit with you while the world sleeps. Please hear this clearly. If the nights are lonely, you are not broken. If sleep comes in fragments, you are not failing. If the quiet feels louder than the day, you are not doing grief wrong. What you are doing is not weakness. You are loving someone who mattered. You are learning how to breathe in a house that remembers. And even when the room feels empty, love has not left it. Not really.

Every December, the argument returns like a familiar carol sung a little too loud. Is Die Hard a Christmas movie? Some folks hold tight to their cocoa mugs and say, “ No way. ” Others smile the way you smile when the argument is already settled in your heart. I’ve come to believe the debate survives because it isn’t really about explosions or one-liners. It’s about where Christmas actually finds us. When I was preaching, Christmas was rarely quiet. Four or five services on Christmas Eve. Programs to assemble. Bulletins to proof. Candles to count. Microphones to fix. Holy night by way of logistics. I loved the people. I believed the message. But if I’m honest, there were years when I was just muscling through it all, trying to sound joyful while quietly counting the hours until December 26th. Not because I didn’t care. Because I was tired. Christmas had become something I delivered more than something I received. And then, late. After the sanctuaries were dark. After the last “ Merry Christmas ” was said. After the robe was hung back up. Die Hard would sometimes flicker onto the screen. No sermon. No sanctuary. Just a tired preacher on a couch watching a tired man crawl through air ducts, barefoot, scraped up, and refusing to quit. That’s when Christmas found me. First, the setting. Christmas Eve. Office party. Tinsel, teddy bears, and awkward small talk. The soundtrack includes sleigh bells and gunfire, which feels honest if we’re being real about the season. Love arrives on a plane. Redemption arrives barefoot. Second, the plot. A man flies across the country to fix a marriage. He brings a gun, sure, but mostly he brings humility. He learns to say the right name. He learns to ask for help. He learns that reconciliation costs something. If that’s not Advent, I’m not sure what is. Third, the theology of it all. Christmas, at its heart, insists that hope shows up where it shouldn’t. In a stable. In a cubicle farm. In a high-rise named Nakatomi. Grace breaks in during a holiday party and doesn’t bother to RSVP. This is why Die Hard feels like an altar to me. Not a cathedral altar with candles and quiet. An Unlikely Altar . The kind you stumble into while holding snacks. The kind that surprises you with meaning between explosions and one-liners. Because the movie isn’t really about violence. It’s about stubborn love. It’s about a man who keeps crawling through ducts because quitting would be easier, but it would be less faithful. It’s about choosing a relationship over pride. It’s about saying, “ I was wrong, ” and meaning it, even when the building is on fire. And yes, there is a Christmas miracle. Snow falls in Los Angeles. Paper snow, but still. A family is restored. A villain falls. A limo driver gets a tip. The season delivers what it always promises: not perfection, but presence. So, light the tree. Pour something festive. Put Die Hard on the screen and let it preach. Let it remind you that Christmas shows up loud and sideways, that love sometimes limps, and that grace can absolutely wear a tank top. An Unlikely Altar. A Holy night. Yippee-ki-yay, AMEN! 🎄💥

Joy doesn’t usually look like what we think. We imagine joy as bright, effortless, bubbling up like champagne. But Paul writes about joy from a prison cell, not knowing whether he’ll live or die, and he chooses a very different word for it. Not cheerfulness. Not positive thinking. Not “chin up.” Joy, for Paul, is courage. Joy is steadfastness. Joy is the deep, quiet strength that comes from knowing you’re not alone. He says: “Stand firm in one spirit, striving side by side… not intimidated by your opponents. For you are having the same struggle you saw I had and now hear that I still have.” ( Philippians 1:27–30 ) This is joy that stands its ground. Joy that refuses to bow. Joy born not from ease, but from solidarity. When Paul wrote these words, the world was filled with “Neros” — leaders who demanded allegiance through fear, intimidation, and spectacle. They ruled by threat. Paul’s readers knew the pressure well. In their world, refusing to bow wasn’t just countercultural. It was dangerous. Yet Paul tells them: Stand firm. Don’t flinch. You’re not standing alone. You’re sharing the same struggle. This is where joy enters the story — not as celebration, but as resistance. Joy is what rises when fear doesn’t get the last word. Joy is what grows when we stand side by side. Joy is what happens when courage becomes contagious. There was a season not too long ago when I was shifting out of full-time ministry into whatever this next chapter was supposed to be. I didn’t have language for it then; all I knew was that my old identity didn’t fit anymore, and the new one felt unfinished. I wasn’t “Pastor Marty” anymore, but I wasn’t sure who Marty was either. People don’t tell you how disorienting that kind of transition is — how it feels like losing your spiritual address. I remember telling a friend, “I don’t know where I belong right now,” half-expecting him to hand me a pep talk or a Bible verse. He didn’t. He just nodded and said, “Yeah… that season was hard for me too.” That was it. No solutions. No sermon. Just solidarity. But somehow, knowing someone else had lived the same struggle — and survived it — gave me a quiet kind of courage. Joy didn’t show up as excitement. It showed up as “me too”. As proof that being in the in-between wasn’t a sign I was lost — just a sign I was on my way. That moment carried me more than I realized. This is Paul’s point exactly: Joy grows where struggle is shared. Joy takes root where we realize we don’t have to stand alone. Joy becomes possible when someone else’s courage spills over into us. This is the Third Sunday of Advent — the Sunday of Joy. But Advent Joy isn’t naïve. It doesn’t ignore the darkness. It doesn’t pretend everything is fine. Advent Joy is defiant. It’s the joy of people who believe the Light is coming even when the night is long. It’s the joy of refusing to bow to fear, cynicism, or despair. It’s the joy that whispers: It might look like Friday… but Sunday is already on the move. Paul’s readers lived in a world where bowing was the only safe option. Paul invites them — and us — to stand instead. Not alone. But side by side, bound together in Christ’s love. Joy becomes possible not because the struggle disappears, but because we discover we’re in it together. Maybe the Unlikely Altar this week isn’t a manger or a candle or a choir singing “Joy to the World.” Maybe it’s the moment someone says, “I’ve been there too.” Maybe it’s the courage that rises when you realize you don’t have to face your fear alone. Maybe it’s the quiet joy that comes from standing shoulder to shoulder, hearts beating the same hope. Maybe the altar is the shared struggle itself — the place where Christ meets us, strengthens us, and binds us not by our victories, but by our vulnerability. Paul’s words remind us: Joy isn’t something you feel. It’s something we carry — but we carry it together. Grace and peace, friends. And know that we are one Sunday closer to Joy that won’t be denied.

I meant to share this last week for the Second Sunday of Advent — Peace — but maybe it landed right on time. Advent has a way of teaching us that God shows up even when we’re running behind. My Deliverance A Reminder That We Don’t Walk Through Anything Alone Paul is sitting in prison, chained to the floor, waiting to find out whether he’ll live or die — all for saying “Jesus is Lord” in a world where Caesar insisted on that title. He doesn’t know how the trial will go. He doesn’t know if he has weeks or hours. He doesn’t know if he’ll walk out free or be carried out. And yet he writes these impossible words: “And because of this, I rejoice… for I know that what has happened to me will turn out for my deliverance.” ( Philippians 1:18–19) Rejoice? Deliverance? Now? Paul isn’t delusional. He’s anchored. And there’s a difference. When Paul says, “This will turn out for my deliverance,” he’s quoting Job — the sufferer who stood in the rubble of his life and still said, “Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him.” And honestly, I understand that move. You see, there are days when I can’t find the right words to pray. I start, stop, stare at the ceiling… and nothing comes out the way I mean it. On those days, I borrow someone else’s words. Sometimes it’s Niebuhr and his Serenity Prayer — that quiet nudge to accept what is and release what isn’t mine to carry. Then there are days I borrow from St. Francis, asking God to make him an instrument of peace when everything inside me feels anything but peaceful. Many times, I turn to Mother Teresa — who heard Jesus whisper, “Come be my light,” and responded with a simple, steady, “I will never refuse you.” She promised to “do something beautiful for God” and spent her life carrying a small flame into the darkest places on earth. On the days when my own light flickers, I borrow a little of hers. And often, it’s St. Patrick’s Breastplate — my favorite. That long, old prayer that wraps Christ around you like armor: Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me… A reminder that deliverance doesn’t always remove the danger, but it does surround you with Presence. When my voice shakes, I lean on theirs. Their prayers steady me when my own run out. It isn’t cheating. It’s community — across generations and stories. That’s exactly what Paul is doing: borrowing strength from saints before him until he can feel his own again. When Paul talks about deliverance, he uses the word soteria — but he doesn’t mean escape. He isn’t saying: “Don’t worry — I’ll be home for dinner.” Or “These chains are about to fall off.” He knows deliverance might mean life but it also might mean death. What he is saying is: “Whatever happens, I will stay true. My hands will be clean. My heart will be steady. I won’t lose myself.” That’s deliverance. Faithfulness that survives circumstances. He refuses to let despair be his narrator. He refuses to say something he’ll regret just because he’s tired and afraid. That is its own kind of freedom. Paul is quite clear how he will make it: “Through your prayers and the help of the Spirit of Jesus Christ.” If he runs out of strength, someone else’s strength will carry him. If he runs out of hope, someone else’s hope will cover the bill. This is Paul’s theology of community: none of us gets through anything alone. Imagine if we lived that way. It would change everything. That reminds me of what Advent Peace is all about. Advent Peace isn’t calm circumstances or a detour around uncertainty. It’s Christ-with-us — the Presence that keeps your heart from unraveling even when your world is. Paul isn’t peaceful because prison is comfortable. He’s peaceful because he isn’t alone. And that is Advent’s promise. Not escape. Something better – Presence. Maybe the Unlikely Altar this week isn’t a manger or a star. Maybe it’s the prayers you borrow when your own run out. Maybe it’s the saints whose words help you breathe again. Maybe it’s the people whose strength carries you when yours is gone. Maybe deliverance isn’t being rescued — but being carried. And maybe the prayer Paul prayed from prison is the one Advent whispers to us again: “ This will turn out for my deliverance.” Not because the road is easy. Not because we’re strong. But because we are held.

If you’ve ever played Guitar Hero, you know it can trick you into believing you’re one power chord away from the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. My boys played for hours — Freebird, Sweet Child of Mine — and honestly, they were pretty good. But hitting colored buttons on a plastic guitar isn’t the same as playing a real one. There’s knowing about, and then there’s knowing — the kind that comes from touch, repetition, and experience. Paul is praying for that kind of knowing in Philippians 1:9 -11: That your love may abound more and more in knowledge and depth of insight… “Abound” — perissos — means to grow past the edges. To spill over. Paul isn’t praying for love that stays where it started. He’s praying for love that keeps going, that wakes up tomorrow and chooses generosity again. And honestly, that’s Advent: the season when light grows in the dark, slowly and steadily. Advent doesn’t rush. It invites us to let hope grow one small flame at a time. Love works the same way. Paul uses another word — epignosis — the kind of knowing that comes from participation. From actually doing love, not just talking about it. You can know the stories and still not know love in a Christ-shaped way. For Paul, knowledge isn’t worth much unless it leads back to love. That’s what Advent calls us to a faith that moves from the head into the hands, from theory into practice, from information into incarnation. God didn’t send a lecture. God sent a baby — love in its smallest form — growing, growing, growing. I’m in a brand-new career — final expense insurance — something I never imagined after years in the pulpit. Some days I’m hopeful. Other days I’m sure I’m in over my head. And on those days, God keeps using someone to teach me about abounding love. Her name is Lauryn. She’s my mentor in this new world, but honestly, “mentor” doesn’t quite cover it. What she really is… is steady. She doesn’t get much out of my success. She doesn’t benefit if I stay or go. But she keeps showing up — offering encouragement when I’m discouraged, clarity when I’m confused, and a nudge forward when I start looking for the exits. Her support isn’t loud or dramatic. It’s not flashy. It’s faithful. It’s Advent in human form — a small light that keeps showing up, growing stronger, enough to help me take one more step. She’s teaching me that love abounds not through grand gestures, but through consistency — the quiet determination to keep choosing one another. That’s how love grows “more and more.” Paul adds another phrase: that we might be “ pure and blameless. ” Not spotless. Not perfect. The Greek word — proskopto — is about stumbling. Paul is praying that our love would grow in such a way that we don’t cause others to trip over us. We trip people up when we talk a big Jesus talk but don’t live it. When we choose fear over compassion. When we forget we’re supposed to be servants, not gatekeepers. But when love grows — really grows — people breathe easier around us. That kind of love is what Advent asks of us: wake up, light one candle, and let that small flame shape how you treat the world. With the first Sunday of Advent upon us, this feels like the season’s invitation: to let love grow a little more. Not perfectly. Not instantly. Just steadily — the way we trust that one candle means more light is coming. Maybe the Unlikely Altar this time isn’t a manger or a sanctuary. Maybe it’s the small place where someone helps you keep going — where their steady encouragement becomes grace, where you learn in real time that love grows by being practiced. Maybe the Unlikely Altar is the moment you realize that God is teaching you how to love through someone who keeps showing up. And maybe the prayer Paul prayed from prison is the one Advent whispers to us again: May your love abound more and more. One small flame at a time. One act of compassion at a time. One steady step at a time. Because the world doesn’t change in a day. But love grows — quietly, faithfully — until the light is strong enough to see by.

There’s a phrase Paul repeats three times in two verses, and it’s the kind of line you skim past until it taps you on the shoulder: “All of you.” He’s writing from prison. Chained. Cut off from almost everything familiar. And yet he says it like a benediction: I hold all of you in my heart… I long for all of you… I care for all of you. Really, Paul? All of them? Even the difficult ones? The ones who drain the room? The ones who argue, complain, or test your last nerve? And Paul answers with that stubborn, beautiful certainty: Yes. All of you. Our English translations make it sound like Paul is describing emotion — “I feel this way about you.” But the word he uses, phroneō, is deeper than feeling. It’s the mindset, the orientation of the whole self — the place where decisions are made and loyalties formed. Paul isn’t saying, “I feel warmly about you today.” He’s saying, “My whole being leans toward you. You matter to me. My life is tied to yours.” That’s not sentiment. That’s love with roots. Then Paul uses another word — koinos — meaning “ shared ” or “ held in common. ” He’s reminding them (and us) that grace creates its own kind of family. Not the tidy, polite version — the beautiful, annoying, complicated version. We don’t get to choose who grace binds us to. We only get to choose whether we show up to it. Finally Paul reaches for the deepest word he can find — splagchnon . The gut. The bowels. The place where your deepest feelings live. We might say it like this: “ I feel this love for you in my gut. ” But even here, Paul refuses to make the love about himself. He doesn’t say, “I long for you with my gut.” He says, “ I long for you with the splagchnon of Christ.” As if to confess: “ I’m not loving you out of my own strength. Christ is loving you through me.” And honestly — that’s the only way “all of you” ever becomes possible. There’s a line in this passage — “ all of you ” — that I didn’t fully understand until much later in life. And strangely enough, I didn’t understand it completely until after my biological father died. I spent years trying to sort out how to feel about a man who refused to acknowledge my existence. I wanted some kind of reconciliation — or at least some inner peace — but it never came. Not from him, anyway. And now his ashes sit in my closet. That’s its own kind of unfinished story — one I never quite know what to do with. How do you hold someone in your heart who never made space for you in theirs? How do you love someone who kept the door closed? How do you make peace with a relationship that never even had the chance to begin? For a long time, I couldn’t. But after he died, something shifted — slowly, quietly, almost without my permission. Not forgiveness wrapped in a bow or tied up neat.. Not closure. Just a loosening. A softening in a place I’d kept boarded up. And I realized the compassion that began to grow in me wasn’t mine. It wasn’t something I manufactured through effort or maturity. It was Christ doing something in me I could never do on my own. The love I couldn’t find while he was alive began to take shape only after he was gone. Maybe that’s what Paul meant when he said he longed for the Philippians from his splagchnon — that deep, gut-level place where Christ’s transforming work actually happens . Because sometimes the hardest people to love become the very places where Christ does His most surprising work. Maybe “ all of you ” even includes the ones who ignored us, or hurt us, or never became who we hoped they would be. Maybe the altar this time isn’t a table or a church. Maybe it’s a closet holding ashes and questions — a place where grief and grace sit side by side. Maybe it’s the place where Christ heals a relationship we never got to finish, and teaches us how to love someone we never fully knew. Maybe that is the Unlikely Altar. Because the sacred shows up there too — in the tension, in the ache, in the deep-down places where Christ is still doing the good work. And if Christ can create love in a prison cell, and in a grieving heart, He can create it in us, too.

There’s something both hopeful and haunting about unfinished work. A story that ran out of words. A prayer that’s still waiting on an answer. A dream that stalled halfway between vision and reality. We all have a few of those, don’t we? Places in our lives that feel like construction zones — full of sawdust and scaffolding, promises we meant to keep, and prayers that haven’t yet found an answer. That’s the space where Paul writes his letter to the Philippians — from a Roman prison, talking about a good work that God had started and would somehow finish. “I am confident of this,” he writes, “that the One who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Jesus Christ.” If anyone had reason to question that promise, it was Paul. He was chained to a guard, his freedom gone, his ministry on pause. Yet his words breathe confidence, not despair. He looks at his friends in Philippi — people who had risked their safety to stand with him — and he sees evidence of God’s goodness still unfolding. He doesn’t say, “I hope you can finish what you started.” He says, “The One who began this work in you will finish it.” There’s a difference. One puts the weight on us; the other reminds us whose hands hold the hammer. Paul’s language echoes the creation story — the God who began the world with light, called it good, and didn’t stop until it was complete. That same creative rhythm, Paul says, is alive in us. The God who started something beautiful in you isn’t walking away halfway through. Even when you can’t see the plan, even when all you’ve got are pieces on the floor, God is still building something that will one day make sense. From the first sunrise in Genesis to the flicker of a lamp outside Paul’s cell, that has been the way God has always worked: Begin. Call It Good. Complete. Paul’s confidence wasn’t built on theory — it was built on relationship. The Philippians didn’t just send thoughts and prayers; they sent food, support, and friendship. They were what Paul called partners in the gospel — not in a business sense, but in the kind of companionship that costs something. They stood with him when others wouldn’t. And in their faithfulness, Paul saw proof that God’s good work wasn’t stuck just because he was. That’s often how grace works — through people who quietly show up, carrying a little hope when ours has run dry. If you’ve ever looked at your life and thought, “This isn’t what I imagined,” you’re in good company. Paul’s letter reminds us that unfinished doesn’t mean abandoned. Sometimes God’s work looks less like building and more like waiting. Less like progress and more like perseverance. But make no mistake — even the waiting rooms can be altars. Because maybe the sacred work isn’t what we’re doing for God, but what God is still doing in us — shaping patience, humility, and trust. Maybe the Unlikely Altar this time isn’t a table or a church. Maybe it’s the half-built part of you — the one still covered in dust and duct tape — that God refuses to give up on. That's the Unlikely Altar. After all, the sacred shows up there too — right in the middle of the mess. A Roman prison doesn’t seem like the ideal spot for a letter about confidence and joy — but that’s where Paul wrote it. And maybe that’s the point. If grace can write from a prison cell, then it can certainly keep writing in us. The same hands that shaped light out of darkness are still working on you and on me, still carrying the good work forward — even on days when we can’t see it. So take heart. The work isn’t done yet. And that’s good news.

Paul starts his letter to the Philippians the way he starts almost every letter he ever wrote — with two simple words that sound like a benediction and a blessing all at once: “ Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. ” Grace and peace. It’s easy to glide right past them. After all, Paul says it so often it can sound like his version of, “ Dear friends, hope you’re doing well. ” But those words are anything but filler. They’re the opening line of a letter written from prison — a man in chains sending light through a keyhole. That’s the thing about grace and peace. They don’t wait for better conditions. When Paul writes, he doesn’t start with complaints about the guards or the food or how cold the nights are. He doesn’t list his injuries or beg for sympathy. Instead, he offers what he himself most needs: grace and peace. I’ve come to believe that the words we offer the world when we’re hurting reveal what’s deepest in us. For Paul, it was this stubborn conviction that God was still at work, even in confinement — that grace still flowed and peace was still possible. Grace and Peace Paul begins with two words that still have the power to stop me in my tracks: grace and peace. He could’ve opened with something more ordinary — Dear friends , or Hang in there . But instead, from a cell that smelled of iron and damp stone, he chooses a blessing. He leads with joy. Grace — that wild, unearned love that shows up even when we’ve done nothing to deserve it. Grace is the quiet voice that says, “ You’re still min e.” It’s the kind of love that doesn’t wait for you to get your act together. It just walks right into your mess and sits down beside you. And peace — not the fragile kind that depends on calm seas or perfect days, but the kind that holds steady when the waves are high. The kind that whispers, “ You’re okay, even here .” I love that Paul links the two together, because grace without peace feels unfinished, and peace without grace feels forced. Together they form a rhythm — grace that reaches, peace that remains . And maybe that’s what Paul was really offering: a new way to begin. Can you imagine if those were the first words we spoke to each other every morning? Joy to you. Peace to you. Every kind of good to you. How different a day might feel if it started there — not with headlines or hurry, but with blessing. Maybe that’s the secret of Paul’s letter: that even in a place built to break him, he still believed goodness could find a way through the cracks. So what would it look like to practice this? Maybe it starts small — whispering “grace and peace” toward the people you don’t even like. Or toward yourself when that inner critic starts its sermon again. So what would it look like to practice this? Maybe it’s learning to pause, breathe peace, and offer grace instead. When gossip starts — grace and peace . When the argument heats — grace and peace. When you replay the hurt that still stings — grace and peace . Interrupt the old patterns with blessing. The early church actually practiced this. In Acts 14 and 20, believers would commend one another to God’s grace before sending them out. They’d gather, pray, lay on hands, and say, “You are given over to God’s grace and peace.” What if we did that? What if we treated every conversation, every cup of coffee, every parting at the door as a small commissioning — giving one another over to grace and peace before we go back into the world? A Roman prison doesn’t sound like much of a sanctuary, but Paul found one there. Maybe that’s the invitation — to find our own Unlikely Altars , the places where grace still surprises us and peace somehow holds. If I’m honest, I’m preaching to myself here. I could use a little grace and peace most mornings before the second Mountain Dew. So wherever you are today — in traffic, in grief, in the middle of a week that feels like too much — hear this old, stubborn greeting again: Grace and peace to you. Not someday. Not when you’ve earned it. Right now .

Some of the best letters ever written came from prison. Not cozy writer’s retreats, not beach houses, not corner offices with ocean views. Prisons. Paul’s letters from Rome. Bonhoeffer’s from Tegel. Martin Luther King Jr.’s from Birmingham. Each penned behind locked doors, on borrowed paper, with hope that somehow the words might slip past the guards and make it into the world. And they did. What fascinates me is not just what they wrote, but where they wrote it from. It’s one thing to talk about faith or freedom or joy when you’re standing on a stage. It’s another when your only audience is a damp wall and a single beam of light. Paul starts his letter to the Philippians with the same two words he used so often: grace and peace. Not resentment. Not a plea for bail. Grace and peace. As if he’s saying, “Yes, I’m chained up—but I’m free where it counts.” That’s what hooked me. Because I’ve learned that “prison” doesn’t always have bars. Sometimes it looks like grief. Or waiting rooms. Or a quiet house after someone’s gone. Sometimes it’s a job that’s lost its meaning, or a season when God seems to have stepped out for coffee and hasn’t come back yet. We’ve all got our versions. And maybe—just maybe—the letters we write ( or live ) from those places are the ones that matter most. The ones we didn’t plan on writing. The ones that bleed a little truth and hum with hope in spite of it all. When Bonhoeffer wrote from his cell, he wasn’t trying to be profound—he was trying to stay human. He wrote about missing his fiancée, about books he wished he had, about the longing to see the sky. And in between the lines of the ordinary came the sacred: “ Only the suffering God can help .” When Dr. King wrote from Birmingham Jail, he wasn’t crafting a masterpiece—he was answering a letter from fellow pastors who told him to wait. “ Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere, ” he replied, with chains on his wrists and conviction in his voice. And Paul—well, he wrote to say thank you. To encourage. To remind a fledgling community that joy doesn’t depend on circumstances. He wrote about grace, love, partnership, deliverance, and struggle—words that still breathe life into our own small confinements. Maybe the best letters come from prison because that’s where honesty and hope have to share the same cell. And maybe that’s what makes it an Unlikely Altar . A place where faith is stripped to its bones, where prayers sound less like poetry and more like breathing, and where grace shows up in the least graceful places imaginable. Over the next few posts, I want to walk through Philippians chapter one—slowly. Not to decode it, but to dwell in it. To listen for the heartbeat behind the bars. We’ll start where Paul starts: with grace and peace . Then move into gratitude for the good work God’s still doing ( even when it feels like He’s on break ). We’ll talk about what it means to hold people in your heart, to let love abound, to trust in deliverance, and to find solidarity in struggle. You don’t have to be in prison to get it. You just have to know what it’s like to feel stuck—to long for something freer, deeper, truer. This series isn’t about how to escape. It’s about what you can discover when you can’t. Because maybe the sacred still writes letters from the places we’d rather forget. And maybe the God who showed up in Paul’s cell still shows up in ours—reminding us that grace can grow in concrete cracks, and peace can find a way through iron bars. Grace and peace! Let’s open this letter together.

There’s a sound every cyclist knows — the click of clipping in. For me, it’s one of the most satisfying sounds in the world. That tiny, metallic click says, You’re connected. You’re ready. Let’s ride. It’s also the sound I wasn’t sure I’d ever hear again after my crash. A patch of slush, one bad angle, and an ankle full of hardware later, I found myself grounded for months — and eventually years — before I was able to really ride again. Add Sjögren’s Disease into the mix, and the idea of climbing back on the bike sometimes felt more like foolish nostalgia than wisdom. But grace has a way of whispering, Try again. And so, I did. The first time I clipped in again, I smiled. Not because it was easy — it wasn’t. But because I realized the road still had more to teach me. There’s something holy about motion — even slow, hesitant motion. About wind on your face and breath in your lungs. About knowing the ride won’t be perfect but pedaling anyway. Because the truth is, life rarely gives you tailwinds. Most days, it’s a mix of potholes and headwinds and st retches of rough pavement that test more than your legs. But grace doesn’t wait for the perfect road. Grace rides with you — through the wobble, the pain, the wind, and the weariness. What does that really mean? It means grace is the quiet companion drafting just behind you — not pushing harder, but keeping you from quitting. Grace isn’t the coach yelling from the sidelines; it’s the presence that matches your cadence, breath for breath, mile for mile. Grace doesn’t flatten the hills or calm the wind. It rides beside you through them. It steadies your shaking hands when you hit rough pavement. It gives you the courage to unclip when you need to stop — and the strength to clip back in when you’re ready to move again. Grace shows up in the quietest ways — a moment of laughter in the middle of exhaustion, a friend who calls at the right time, a peace that comes out of nowhere when you thought you were done. Sometimes it’s not even words. It’s breath. It’s presence. It’s that deep-down knowing that you’re not riding alone, even when no one else is on the road. And every now and then, grace even lets you coast. The road has become an Unlikely Altar for me — the place where faith and fatigue meet, where sweat becomes prayer, and where I remember that grace doesn’t mean ease. It means presence. When I ride now, I don’t measure distance or speed the way I used to. I measure gratitude — for the ability to move, to breathe, to clip in one more time. Maybe that’s the quiet gift of age, of injury, of illness — you learn that the point was never perfection, but participation. You get back on the bike not because the road is smooth, but because the ride itself is sacred. So if you find yourself staring at a road that looks long, uneven, or uphill, take a breath. Clip in. Start pedaling. Grace doesn’t clear the path. It keeps you company on the ride. You’re never alone on the ride.

Every cyclist knows the feeling. You set out expecting a nice, steady ride—the kind where the tires hum, the sun cooperates, and the wind minds its own business. And then it happens: the headwind. It’s invisible but relentless, a force of nature with a personal grudge. It hits your chest, fills your helmet with noise, and makes every pedal stroke feel like a test of faith. You shift to the lowest gear, tuck down, and mutter a prayer—or, if you’re honest, a few other words not found in Scripture. And the worst part? You tell yourself that once you turn around, it’ll become a tailwind. But no—somehow it’s still in your face. I’ve had rides where I was convinced Texas had suspended the laws of physics. Life has those headwinds too . They don’t knock you over like a crash or startle you like a pothole. They just wear you down, mile after mile. They show up as the quiet resistance that makes everything harder than it should be: The health issue that lingers longer than expected. The work that takes more out of you than it gives back. The grief that refuses to stay in the past. The waiting—on healing, direction, clarity—that seems to stretch on forever. Headwinds don’t announce themselves. They just press in. You keep pedaling, but progress feels slow. Some days, grace feels as far away as the next mile marker. Here’s the strange thing about headwinds: they build strength even when you can’t feel it happening. You may not see your speed on the bike computer, but endurance is quietly forming underneath the strain. The same is true in life. You can’t always measure spiritual muscle when you’re pushing against resistance, but that’s where it grows. Strength isn’t built on smooth roads—it’s forged in the unseen miles where you just keep showing up. Grace doesn’t always calm the wind. Sometimes, grace is what leans into it with you. I’ve had more than a few rides where the wind seemed determined to prove a point. You know the kind—your heart rate’s high, your speed’s low, and your pride’s somewhere in the ditch. You start calculating whether it’s worth just turning around and calling it “training for character.” But here’s what I’ve noticed: the harder the wind blows, the quieter I get. There’s no small talk in a headwind. You just breathe, push, and listen—to your body, to your thoughts, to whatever’s left when everything else gets stripped away. That silence has a way of teaching you something you’d never hear otherwise. Headwinds teach humility. They remind you that no matter how strong or experienced you are, you don’t control everything. You can have the best gear, the perfect route, the right attitude—and still face resistance. And yet, here’s what I’ve learned: the presence of resistance doesn’t mean the absence of grace. Sometimes the two show up together. Grace isn’t the tailwind that makes everything easy; it’s the quiet presence that keeps you moving when you want to stop. I’ve come to believe that headwinds are their own kind of Unlikely Altar . They test you, humble you, and eventually teach you what’s inside you. They remind you that speed isn’t the point—faithfulness is. When the ride’s over, you realize that even into the wind, you made progress. You might not have gone fast, but you didn’t quit. That’s grace, too. B ecause sometimes the holiest moments aren’t when everything lines up perfectly—they’re when the wind is howling, your legs are tired, and something deep inside whispers, “Keep pedaling.” And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

If potholes jar you and gravel unnerves you, crashes just flat-out take you down. Every cyclist knows that sinking feeling: one second you’re upright, the next you’re tangled in a mess of handlebars, chain grease, and pride. Sometimes you get up with nothing worse than road rash. Other times, you limp away with scars that last a lifetime. I know this one by heart. A few winters ago, the Sunday after the Houston big freeze, I was riding the Braes Bayou Trail planning to ride 60 miles before meeting friends for lunch. The pavement looked clear enough, but an innocent-looking patch of slush sent my wheels out from under me. I unclipped but for some reason did it awkwardly, and in a blink my ankle snapped. Just like that, I went from riding free to riding in an ambulance. The 60 miles became 30 miles and the lunch never happened. The aftermath wasn’t pretty. A bunch of screws and plates held my ankle together for a while. My X-rays looked like something from a Home Depot catalog. Eventually, the hardware had to come out because it caused more trouble than it solved. I still keep the X-ray pictures ( the graphics are of my right ankle that was broken ). They’re not pretty, but they preach. Proof that I was broken. Proof that I healed. Proof that sometimes resurrection comes with plates and screws. Today, I carry the memories more than the metal—reminders of both the fragility of the human body and the stubbornness of the human spirit. Life hands us crashes too. The divorce you never saw coming. The diagnosis that stops you in your tracks. The job loss that pulls the rug out from under you. The phone call in the middle of the night that changes everything. Unlike potholes or gravel, these aren’t moments you just “ride through.” They take you down. They hurt. They leave scars. And sometimes they leave you wondering if you’ll ever get back up. Here’s the thing about scars: they don’t lie. They’re honest in a way that words sometimes aren’t. A scar is proof that something hurt you, but it’s also proof that the hurt didn’t win. It tells the whole story—pain and healing, breaking and mending, falling and rising again. Scars are strange that way. They mark the places of our deepest weakness, and at the same time they become signs of our resilience. They whisper both, “This is where you were broken,” and, “This is where you got back up.” My orthopedic surgeon was proud that he’d done the surgeries on my ankle without leaving any visible scars. I told him, half-joking, that I kind of wanted the scars—for the stories, of course. He grinned and said, “Well, I could always draw one on for you.” Without missing a beat, he added, “Then you can just get a tattoo artist to make it permanent.” For a split second, I almost agreed. I can laugh about it now, but the point still stands: scars—real or imagined—carry meaning. They’re proof that you’ve been down, but also proof you got back up. And isn’t that what resurrection really is? Not pretending the crash never happened, but living as proof that it didn’t get the last word. The first ride back after my ankle healed was equal parts joy and terror. My mind kept replaying the fall, reminding me how fragile the body—and confidence—can be. Every turn of the pedal felt risky. Every shadow on the trail looked like another slush patch. But slowly, something shifted. I felt the rhythm again. The tires began to hum. The fear started to fade, replaced by the familiar freedom of the ride. That’s resurrection. Not everything going back to “the way it was,” but the courage to try again after you’ve been broken. Resurrection is about scars that don’t disappear but no longer define you. It’s about grace that meets you in the getting back up. Cyclists trade crash stories the way kids trade baseball cards. Each one carries a mix of pain, pride, and proof of survival. And maybe that’s part of the healing too—learning to laugh at what once felt impossible. I still tell mine with a grin: the slush patch, the screws, the hardware catalog X-rays, and yes—even the surgeon who offered to draw me a scar. Sometimes laughter is its own kind of resurrection. For me, even the crash became an Unlikely Altar. It’s where I was reminded of how breakable we all are—and how much strength we can find in the getting back up. It’s where I learned that scars are more than reminders of pain; they are testimonies of healing. Life’s crashes will come. They’ll hurt. They’ll mark us. But they don’t have the last word. Sometimes they become the very place where resurrection breaks through, where grace shows up, and where we discover that even broken bones—and broken lives—can be made strong again.

Today is World Communion Sunday. Which means that somewhere, in every time zone and in every language you can imagine, bread is being broken and a cup is being shared. In a cathedral, a golden chalice gleams in the candlelight. In a village, a clay jug is passed under a mango tree. Somewhere it’s pita, somewhere it’s tortilla, somewhere it’s store-brand sandwich bread stacked on a plate from Dollar General. Somewhere it’s juice poured from a crystal cruet; somewhere else, it’s grape Kool-Aid in a plastic cup. And in every place, somehow, grace shows up. That’s the beauty of this day. We don’t all look the same, worship the same, or sing the same. But somehow, across all that difference, we are one table. And even though I won’t be sitting in a pew today, this day still matters to me. Because communion has never only belonged to the altar rail. It shows up wherever bread is broken and barriers are broken down. In casseroles left on a grieving neighbor’s porch, when words aren’t enough but lasagna might be. In coffee shared with someone you thought you’d never forgive. In the chips and salsa that disappear between two friends who haven’t spoken in years, laughter somehow louder than the silence that came before. In a hospital room where a nurse breaks a graham cracker in half and shares it with a patient who hasn’t eaten in days. At a kitchen table, where grace is passed not with liturgy but with a smile, a story, and another helping. Communion is always more than bread and cup. Always more than a line down the aisle. Always more than church on a calendar day. Communion isn’t just vertical, between me and God. It’s horizontal too. It’s what binds us to one another, even in our doubts, our baggage, and our brokenness. It’s why Paul called us “one body.” One loaf. One world. I think that’s what I need to remember in this season: God’s table stretches wider than the walls of any church. Wide enough for my stubbornness, my questions, my wandering. Wide enough for saints and skeptics, doubters and disciples, those who are sure and those who are just hanging on. And communion always points forward. It’s never just about what’s on the table right now—it’s a foretaste of the feast to come. That banquet where nobody leaves hungry, nobody gets left out, and maybe Jesus even does the dishes. That vision gives me hope. A messy, beautiful, stubborn hope. Because let’s be honest: communion has always been messy. There are crumbs on the carpet and fingerprints on the chalice. There are juice stains on white linens and laughter in the line. But that’s exactly what makes it real. Grace isn’t polished; it’s passed hand to hand, smudged with fingerprints, and still holy. That’s what makes it real. So today, even without a pew, I’ll watch for the Unlikely Altars . I’ll look for them in kitchens and coffee shops, hospital rooms and sidewalks, backyard barbecues and breakrooms. Anywhere bread is broken and barriers are broken down. Anywhere grace slips in through the cracks of ordinary life. Because communion is always more than one table. It’s God’s table, stretching as wide as the world. And somehow—by some mystery greater than I can explain—we all fit. The crumbs, the spills, the stubborn questions? They’re not proof we’ve failed. They’re proof that grace has come near. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the communion I need most right now. Maybe it’s the communion many of us need most right now. Maybe that is the true meaning of communion. Maybe that is what the bread and juice are really saying: You belong at the table, even when you doubt. You are part of the feast, even when you feel empty. Grace will m eet you here, crumbs and all.

If potholes jar you, gravel just unnerves you. Every cyclist knows the feeling. You roll onto a stretch of loose gravel and suddenly your bike has a mind of its own. The tires skitter. The handlebars wobble. You grip tighter, slow down, and pray you can keep your balance. Even the smoothest ride can turn into a nerve-wracking shuffle when the ground beneath you won’t hold. Life has those stretches too - - the seasons when nothing feels steady. When the GPS of your life suddenly says, “Recalculating…” When the bills keep coming but the paycheck doesn’t. When the path you thought was smooth suddenly shifts under your feet. Gravel moments leave you wondering if you can hold it together. When your road bike hits gravel and starts to slip, the key is to stay relaxed. Tensing up and overcorrecting almost guarantees a crash. The trick is to let the bike move slightly under you, maintain your momentum steady, and make subtle shifts in body weight until you regain your balance. Life asks for the same thing. When the ground feels unsteady - - when the diagnosis isn’t clear, when the job is shaky, when the future feels uncertain - - the temptation is to panic, to overcorrect, to grab the bars of life with a white-knuckle grip. But that only makes the wobble worse. What helps is loosening your grip just enough, trusting that balance can come back, and moving through the uncertainty one steady breath at a time. I once hit a patch of gravel on a bayou bike trail - - a trail I thought I knew well. One second, everything felt fine, the next, I was wobbling like a circus clown. My instinct was to clamp down on the bars until my knuckles hurt. Somehow, I stayed upright. Looking back, I must have looked ridiculous - - half praying, half growling, all nerves. But I made it through. Slowly. Carefully. One shaky pedal stroke at a time. And here’s the thing: gravel often shows up in the most unexpected places. A shoulder you thought was smooth, a bike lane that looked clear - - suddenly it’s loose, unstable, sketchy. One second you’re cruising, the next you’re praying you don’t slide out. Life feels the same way. The uncertainty sneaks up when you least expect it. I’ve felt that same wobble in life. When I was first diagnosed with Sjögren’s Disease, it was like the pavement turned to gravel overnight. The routines I counted on didn’t work the same way. Energy came and went unpredictably. Plans had to be adjusted or abandoned. My instinct was to muscle through. But the harder I pushed, the shakier I felt. And the truth is, it doesn’t matter which part of your life hits the gravel - - your health, your career, your relationships, or your finances. The wisdom is the same: slow down, breathe, and do whatever you can to stay upright. That’s also why I’m writing this. On group rides, gravel isn’t just your problem. If you see it up ahead, the right thing to do is point it out so the riders behind you don’t get caught off guard. A quick finger to the ground, a small gesture - - it’s a way of saying, “Heads up, this could take you down if you’re not ready.” Ride enough shoulders and bike lanes and you learn quickly: loose gravel is everywhere. Calling it out isn’t about being polite - - it’s about keeping people safe. Life works the same way. When you’ve been through uncertain seasons - - health scares, job shifts, grief, or change - - you can point them out for the people coming behind you. Not to scare them, but to say, “You’re not crazy. This road is rough. Slow down. Keep your balance. You’ll get through.” That simple act of looking out for each other? That’s its own kind of grace. Gravel also exposes our illusion of control. On solid asphalt, I can trick myself into thinking I’m in charge. On gravel, I’m reminded just how fragile balance really is. Life’s uncertainties do the same thing. They peel back the illusion and force me to admit: I never had as much control as I thought. And maybe that’s not a bad thing. Maybe that’s the place where trust grows - - not on smooth pavement, but in the loose stones where I learn to lean on something bigger than myself. The good news? Gravel doesn’t last forever . Eventually, the road smooths out. You breathe a little easier. The tires hum again. And when you get there, you don’t take it for granted. You savor it. Life’s uncertainties are like that too. They teach us to slow down, to pay attention, to trust that the uneven stretch won’t last forever. And when stability comes back, we see it as the gift it is. For me, even gravel becomes an Unlikely Altar . It’s where I learn to loosen my grip, to slow down, to breathe. It’s where my prayers sound less like sermons and more like whispers: “God, just get me through this stretch.” And often, that’s enough. The road may still feel shaky, but grace shows up in the very act of staying upright.

I magine standing in a crowd of hundreds of thousands. Ten days of fasting, soul-searching, and prayer have led to this moment. All eyes turn to one man—the High Priest—who disappears behind a curtain to stand before God on behalf of the people. It’s Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. The holiest day of the Jewish year. A day of forgiveness, humility, and a fresh start. But here’s something easy to miss: before the High Priest can carry the sins of the people, he has to reckon with his own. He begins not with the sins of the nation, but with the sins of his own heart. He offers a bull as a sacrifice for himself. He admits his own failures. Even the holiest person in Israel isn’t holy enough to walk into the presence of God without first acknowledging his humanity. And then comes a second striking detail. On this one day, the High Priest takes off his elaborate, jewel-covered vestments—the outfit that signals his status, his sacred role, his authority—and dresses down in plain white linen. Simple clothes. Humble clothes. Human clothes. Can you imagine the scene? After days of fasting and prayer, the crowd holds its breath. The High Priest—no longer dazzling in gold or gemstones, but ordinary, like everyone else—steps into the Holy of Holies. The message is clear: before God, no one comes dressed in status. Only humility. Only honesty. Only as we really are. That moment—the stripping away of status, the exchanging of gold for linen—became its own altar. An unlikely altar. Not the stone altar in the Temple courts, but the altar of humility, honesty, and humanity. That was where the sacred met the ordinary: in the plain clothes of a man admitting he was just like everyone else. And maybe that’s the point. We spend so much of our lives dressing ourselves up—not just with clothes, but with titles, résumés, curated social media feeds, even the smiles we wear when our hearts are breaking. We signal to the world: “I’ve got it together. I’m fine. I’m in control.” But forgiveness and healing rarely come when we’re dressed up. They come when we dress down. When we admit we’ve messed up. When we show up with nothing to hide. When we strip away the roles and the armor and stand there, vulnerable, waiting for grace. I see this again and again in my work. At funerals, grief strips people bare. No one cares about résumés or bank accounts in that moment. What matters are the words left unsaid, the love given—or withheld—and the memories that linger. The sacred comes rushing in, not when we’re polished, but when we’re painfully real. I’ve seen it at weddings too. Beneath the formal clothes and pretty settings, the most powerful moments aren’t scripted. They happen when someone tears up, when a nervous laugh escapes, when the couple realizes this is bigger than their plans. It’s holy, precisely because it’s human. Yom Kippur reminds us that God doesn’t meet us in our perfection. God meets us in our honesty. In our need. In our humility. Tomorrow, Jewish communities around the world will mark the Day of Atonement by fasting, praying, and asking forgiveness—from God, from one another, and maybe even from themselves. For many, it will be a day of deep seriousness. For others, a day of relief, of release, of starting over. But even if you’re not Jewish, the pattern holds: forgiveness, humility, fresh starts. We all need those. We all need moments when we stop pretending we’re fine and admit we’re human. We all need the grace of beginning again. Maybe holiness isn’t found in dressing up, but in dressing down. Not in pretending to be more than we are, but in owning exactly who we are. Because that’s where the unlikely altar waits: not on a stage or in a temple, but in the ordinary, vulnerable moments when we finally get honest enough to let grace in.

If you ride long enough, you’ll eventually meet a pothole. Sometimes you see it too late and hit it head-on. Sometimes you try to swerve and still clip the edge. Either way, the result is the same: a jolt that rattles your teeth, jars your confidence, and makes you wonder if your wheels are still true. On a bike, potholes are a given. Roads crack. Asphalt crumbles. Weather wears things down. Even the best-maintained streets have weak spots. And the thing about potholes? You almost never hit them when you’re expecting to. They sneak up on you, hiding in the shadows, waiting just past the last curve. Life has its own potholes. The job loss you didn’t see coming. The diagnosis that drops in out of nowhere. The phone call that changes everything. Setbacks jar us the same way a pothole does. They shake our sense of control. They remind us how fragile things can be. And if we’re not careful, they can throw us completely off balance. I remember one ride in EaDo when I let my mind wander. I was in the zone, legs spinning, enjoying the day—and then wham. My front wheel found a crater I hadn’t seen. The jolt nearly knocked me over. I pulled to the side, heart pounding, and checked my bike. The wheel held, but the hit had me rattled the rest of the ride. That’s the thing about setbacks—they echo. After you’ve been jarred, even small bumps make you flinch. It takes time to trust the road again. And I’ve felt that same echo in life. I’ve been blindsided before—times when everything seemed smooth and then suddenly, the bottom dropped out. Ministry shifts I didn’t expect. Friendships that cracked. Health challenges that made me feel more fragile than I wanted to admit. Just like on the bike, those potholes left me cautious, hesitant, scanning the horizon for the next crack in the road. When I hit a pothole on the road, my first reaction is usually not very holy. I grumble about the city workers who should’ve filled it. And if the jolt is especially bad, well… let’s just say a few words come out that you won’t find in the hymnal. But the truth is, we do the same thing in life. Something knocks us off balance, and our first instinct is to point a finger. Sometimes we turn it on ourselves, replaying the “ what ifs ” and “ should haves ” until we’re dizzy. Sometimes we turn it on others, blaming people who hurt us, failed us, or just happened to be standing too close when things fell apart. And sometimes—if I’m honest—we even point it at God, wondering why the road wasn’t made smoother in the first place. Here’s the problem: blame never fills the hole. It doesn’t fix the wheel. It just keeps us stuck, staring at the crack in the road instead of finding a way forward. Blame feels satisfying for about five minutes, but it doesn’t heal anything. What actually helps is taking a deep breath, naming the hurt, learning what we can—and then pedaling on. Here’s something every cyclist figures out sooner or later: if you lock your eyes on the pothole, you’re probably gonna hit the pothole. It’s like your bike reads your mind and says, “Oh, that’s where you’re looking? Great, let’s go there.” And worse, if you stare too long at what you’re trying to avoid, you might miss the car, the curb, or the rider right in front of you. Suddenly, the pothole isn’t your biggest problem anymore. Life works the same way. If all I can see is the setback—the thing that went wrong—I’ll end up running headfirst into it again, or crashing into something else entirely. The better move is to lift my eyes, find my balance, and look for a smoother path forward. Sure, potholes sting. They can bruise your pride or even bend your rim. But they don’t have to end the ride. Looking back, I realize potholes have taught me something important: smooth pavement is nice, but it rarely makes me stronger. It’s the potholes that remind me to stay alert, to pay attention, to appreciate the stretches of road that are even and kind. In life, setbacks can do the same. They teach us resilience, humility, patience. They remind us that perfection isn’t promised, but perseverance is possible. For me, even the pothole becomes an Unlikely Altar. It’s the place where frustration turns into prayer—sometimes an angry prayer, sometimes a desperate one, sometimes a simple sigh. The jolt in the road reminds me that I am not in control, but I am not alone. And somehow, grace shows up in the shaken balance, the deep breath, the steadying of hands on the bars.

The road is never perfectly smooth. Not when you’re riding a bike, and not when you’re living a life. I love to ride. My Trek Domane road bike isn’t just a machine—it’s my sanctuary on two wheels. There’s something holy about the rhythm of pedaling: lungs filling, legs burning, tires humming on the pavement. On a good day, it feels like prayer in motion. The wind in my face becomes grace I can feel. Out there, the noise of the world fades, and what’s left is rhythm, movement, and presence. But let’s be honest: every ride comes with hazards. There are potholes that sneak up out of nowhere, big enough to swallow a small child—or at least rattle your fillings loose. There’s loose gravel that suddenly turns you into a circus act, wobbling and praying you stay upright. There are dogs who seem to believe it’s their sacred duty to chase cyclists, even when they have no real plan for what they’d do if they caught you. There are squirrels with a death wish, darting across the path like my front wheel is the finish line of their personal Olympics. And there are headwinds—those invisible walls of air that make you wonder if you accidentally signed up for a spin class called Despair on Wheels. And then there are the crashes. I know this one by heart. After a winter freeze, I was riding the Braes Bayou Trail when my wheels found an ice patch. I didn’t unclip quickly enough, and in a blink, my ankle snapped. Seventeen screws and plates later, I had the kind of X-rays that could stop a conversation. For a while, all that hardware held me together. But it also caused its own complications, so eventually it had to be removed. The scars remain, both visible and invisible—a reminder that sometimes the repairs leave their own marks. Still, the bone is stronger for having been broken. And here’s why I’m writing about all this now: I’m finally back on the road. Sjögren’s Disease makes riding harder than it used to be—my body doesn’t always cooperate the way I want it to. But I’ve missed it more than I can put into words. There’s nothing like that moment when I swing a leg over, settle in, and hear the sharp click of my shoes clipping into the pedals. It’s one of my favorite sounds in the world. That little snap always makes me smile, because it means I’m moving again. It means the ride is starting, no matter what the road holds. For me, the bike has become an Unlikely Altar. Not a marble table in a sanctuary, but a frame on two wheels, carrying me down cracked asphalt and winding trails. Each ride is an offering of breath and sweat, joy and pain. The sound of clipping in feels almost sacramental, like lighting a candle or whispering a prayer. Even the hazards—the potholes, the gravel, the crashes, the scars—become part of that altar. They remind me that God shows up not only in smooth pavement, but in the rough patches too. Cyclists learn quickly: hazards are part of the ride. You can’t avoid them all, but you can learn how to face them. And the more I’ve ridden, the more I’ve realized that life works the same way. We all face hazards that throw us off balance: setbacks that jar us, seasons of uncertainty where nothing feels stable, full-on wrecks that leave us scarred, and invisible headwinds that sap our strength. Here’s the truth that keeps coming back to me: hazards don’t mean the ride is ruined. They mean the ride is real. That’s what this series is about. Over the next few weeks, I want to share what the road has taught me about life: Potholes and Setbacks – the jolts that come out of nowhere. Gravel and Uncertainty – when you have to slow down and find your balance. Crashes, Scars, and Resurrection – the wrecks that leave you marked, but not finished. Headwinds and Grace – the invisible resistance that tests your strength and teaches dependence. Cycling strips things down to the essentials. You can’t control the road, the wind, or the dog with a bad attitude. All you can do is keep your balance, keep your eyes ahead, and keep pedaling. Life’s the same way. Smooth pavement is nice, but it’s the hazards that teach us, shape us, and remind us we’re still moving forward. So clip in, take a deep breath, and join me. The road ahead won’t be perfect—but it will be full of grace, laughter, and maybe even a few good stories about dodging squirrels.

Lee Corso made a career out of three little words: “Not so fast!” Delivered with a grin, a wag of the finger, and just enough mischief to keep everyone guessing, it was part joke, part interruption, part blessing. When he said it for the final time on his last ESPN College GameDay , it struck me that those words might be the sermon we all need. Because if we’re honest, most of us are living way too fast. We rush through conversations, multitask our way through meals, scroll past sunsets we barely notice, and plan the next big thing while overlooking the small, holy things happening right now. We’re always sprinting toward “what’s next,” which means we rarely pause long enough to savor what is. In my work with grieving families, I hear a truth again and again: when someone we love dies, it isn’t the big occasions we miss most. It’s the little things . The way he’d whistle while cooking breakfast on a Saturday morning. The way she’d slip her hand into his during a TV show. The sound of her laugh carrying through the house. Those are the things that stick. The everyday moments we barely noticed while they were happening—until suddenly, they’re gone. And only then do we realize how sacred those little things really were. I miss my Saturday football bets with my stepdad—something we did almost every Saturday for years. It wasn’t about the money (there wasn’t much of that anyway). It was the rhythm: the calls, the smack talk, the friendly second-guessing of coaches who would never hear us. A ritual stitched together one autumn at a time. This year, I’m starting that ritual with my two grown sons. Different Saturdays, same heartbeat. Scores and spreads, sure—but mostly a reason to show up for each other. To hear their voices. To make the small thing big again. And I miss Scrabble games with my mom—the quiet competitiveness, the eye she’d give me when I “accidentally” used a questionable word. I miss her laugh most of all. That sound was its own benediction over an ordinary evening. Kids grow up too fast. Parents pass away too early. The calendar insists we keep moving. But Corso’s raspy little reminder pushes back: Not so fast, my friend. The Bible names this rhythm Sabbath—a weekly way of saying not so fast. Rest. Breathe. Remember you are more than what you produce. Jesus lived with that same unhurried attention: lilies, sparrows, children, a tax collector in a tree. He didn’t rush past them. He saw them. He made the little moments holy. I think that’s the secret inside Corso’s catchphrase. It interrupts our certainty and our speed. It creates a pocket of time where we can notice again—be it a goofy mascot head or the person sitting across the table. When we slow down, the little things become altars : The phone call that doesn’t have a “point” beyond hearing a familiar voice. The grandchild’s drawing stays on the fridge longer than the calendar says it should. The first sip of coffee before the house wakes up. A well-worn game board and a laugh that fills the room. These aren’t headlines. They’re sacraments of the everyday. And if we’re going too fast, we’ll miss them. Lee Corso’s farewell wasn’t just about football or mascot heads. It was about a life spent showing up, savoring the moment, and never taking himself too seriously. That’s what he gave us, week after week—a reason to laugh, to pause, to notice. And maybe that’s what made his catchphrase feel like a benediction. So maybe that’s the blessing we carry forward: Not so fast, my friend. Not so fast when grief feels like it should be over. Not so fast when joy seems too small to matter. Not so fast when life pushes you to hurry past the wonder of an ordinary day. Slow down. Breathe. Call your people. Place your tiles on the board. Make your silly bets. Laugh in the kitchen. The altar might already be right in front of you.

Sjögren's Disease is an autoimmune disease that quietly disrupts the body’s ability to produce moisture - leaving eyes painfully dry, mouths uncomfortably parched, and joints stiff and sore. But it doesn’t stop there. Fatigue, a deep, dragging fatigue, becomes a daily companion. Brain fog moves in like a heavy mist. Muscles ache. Moods shift. And all the while, you still look fine. I have Sjögren’s . I was diagnosed just over two years ago, but looking back, I’ve been struggling with it far longer. I could never figure out why my mouth would go bone dry when I rode, ran, or preached. Or why my eyes were always red and irritated. And these days, it’s not just the dry mouth or eyes; the disease has changed so many aspects of my life. Take cycling, for example. It used to be my happy place - - my prayer-on-wheels. Now I have to give myself a full TED Talk just to get on the bike. Riding 20 miles feels like a cross-country trek. I’ve dreamed of running another half-marathon, but honestly? The thought alone exhausts me. Even typing that feels like remembering someone else’s life. And yes - - others have it worse. People face far more painful, devastating diseases. But still... It’s a quiet toll - - always running in the background. Not dramatic enough to draw attention, not urgent enough to explain why I’m not quite myself. But real enough to shape every single day. And here’s where it gets frustrating: even with a diagnosis, I’m not sure my rheumatologist fully understands the impact. We talk about dry eyes and dry mouth, sure, they’re part of it, but that barely scratches the surface. There’s also the unrelenting fatigue. The joint pain. The muscle aches. The brain fog. The poor sleep. The mood swings. And this general sense that my body just doesn’t bounce back anymore. Sometimes I try to explain how much my daily life has shifted - - how much effort even the “small” things take now. And I get the nod. You know the one. The polite, clinical nod. It’s hard to explain the grief of being diminished by something invisible. It’s hard to describe how lonely it feels when the world thinks you’re fine. It’s hard to keep pushing forward when your body keeps whispering, no, not tod And it’s not just Sjögren’s that is invisible on the outside. It’s the chronic migraines. The long-haul COVID. The autoimmune mystery that doesn’t even have a name yet. The mental illness that hides behind a practiced smile. The pain carried by people who look perfectly fine on the outside. The battles no one sees - - because on the outside, everything looks perfect. We are surrounded by people who are quietly struggling with things we cannot see. And that makes me wonder: what if these unseen battles are Unlikely Altars, too? Could this be what an Unlikely Altar looks like? Not a holy place we walk into. But one we carry around inside us. The altar where we lay down perfection and pick up grace. The altar where we learn to listen to our body instead of pushing through. The altar where we stop trying to keep up and start learning how to be kind—to ourselves and to others. The altar where the broken parts are still beloved. No, I wouldn’t choose this path. But I’m beginning to trust that even here - - even in the dryness, the fatigue, the quiet grief - - there is something sacred trying to emerge. So, here’s my quiet invitation: Let’s give each other more grace than we think is necessary. Let’s assume people are carrying more than they’re saying. Let’s practice kindness—not as sentiment, but as daily practice. You never know what invisible weight someone is bearing. And you never know when someone might look at you and think, Thank God, someone else understands. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.