“Come near to God and he will come near to you.” — James 4:8

Sunday nights were the worst. When I was single, living on my own, and fumbling through the whole adulting thing, loneliness was an unwelcome and persistent companion. On many dark Sunday nights, when those heavy feelings settled in, I’d get in my car and drive to a favorite park. Under a grand old tree, I’d sit and search for a peace I couldn’t manufacture. Often in tears, I cried out to a God I didn’t really know—for help, for relief, for something.

I kept returning to that spot because, somehow, I felt closer to Him there. I felt heard. And thankfully, the ache of Sunday nights usually surrendered to the distraction of Monday mornings, where the noise of life smothered the loneliness for a while.

Our church just finished a study of the book of James. James—the brother of Jesus—never pulled his punches. His letter reads like a collection of proverbs that hit hard. But when we read it through the lens of a loving spiritual father, we see his true intention: he wants his spiritual family to flourish. He echoes the themes of his big Brother’s Sermon on the Mount, unpacking the keys to an abundant life with surprising tenderness.

Because of the punchy, proverbial style, it’s easy to miss the breathtaking promises woven through the book. James 4:8 is one of them. I was stunned again by its simplicity: When we draw near to God, He will draw near to us. Not might. Not occasionally. He will. Said another way, God is irresistibly drawn to anyone who genuinely wants to be with Him.

Jeremiah echoed the same promise centuries earlier: “You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.” (Jer. 29:13) These words were spoken to exiles who felt abandoned and forgotten in Babylon. God assured them He had not let them go. He invited them to seek Him wholeheartedly, promising that He would be found and that He would restore them. And He kept that promise.

Our modern exile didn’t come from Babylon—it came from COVID. Its damage went far beyond physical suffering. The isolation it unleashed still ripples through our world. We are relational beings, created in the image of a relational God. We need one another. And even more, we need Him.

In ancient Israel, that truth took physical form in the tabernacle—the dwelling place of God among His people. A mobile sanctuary where heaven brushed earth, reminding Israel that the Holy One was not distant or abstract but present in their very midst. In our day, He tabernacles with us by His Spirit who resides in every follower of Jesus. Immanuel—God with us.

The young man under that tree all those years ago—crying out to a God he didn’t really know—was already being met by the God who knew him completely. I was living out a promise I’d never heard: when we draw near to Him, He always draws near to us. It’s not a feeling; it’s a fact. His nearness is covenantal, not circumstantial.

Run the play.
Seek Him with all your heart.
Immanuel—God with us.

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Finding Our Place in the Story

1. Where are the “Sunday night places” in your own life—the moments or spaces where loneliness, fear, or uncertainty still surface—and what would it look like to bring those places honestly before God?
2. James promises that when we draw near to God, He draws near to us. What is one practical way this week you can take a single step toward Him, trusting that He is already moving toward you?
3. In seasons that feel like exile—disconnected, isolated, or unseen—how might remembering Immanuel, God with us reshape your sense of belonging and hope?
4. Who around you might be experiencing their own “Sunday night loneliness,” and how could you embody God’s nearness to them in a simple, tangible way this week?

Can both fresh water and salt water flow from the same spring? — James 3:11

Followers of Jesus are transformed from the inside out, not the outside in.

That dynamic is everywhere in the Gospels. The religious leaders spent generations longing for their Messiah… and when He finally arrived, all they wanted was to silence Him. The irreligious dismissed Him outright. Even today, Christians often struggle to understand one another. Why? Because what we see is shaped not by our eyes but by our hearts.

Tim Keller often said religion and irreligion are two costumes worn by the same impulse: self-salvation. One tries to earn God’s approval through moral performance; the other tries to escape God’s authority through personal autonomy. Both keep us in the driver’s seat—tired, anxious, and empty.

But the gospel offers something far better—not performance, but overflow. When grace seeps all the way down into the basement of your soul, it frees you from proving yourself and fills you with a joy that can’t help but spill into obedience, compassion, and worship. Gospel grace changes your heart posture. It turns Scripture from a rulebook into a love story. The gospel doesn’t just change your status; it changes your source.

Jesus promised that whoever believes in Him will experience “rivers of living water” flowing from within (John 7). That promise rests on the new heart and new spirit God foretold in Ezekiel—what Jesus called the new birth. New life produces new overflow.

And then He invited us into apprenticeship. In fellowship with the Holy Spirit, we learn to think, act, and live the way Jesus would if He were living our life. Apprentices grow by training with the Master day by day—not by performing for His approval.

Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.
— Romans 12:2

The gospel is an invitation to participate in God’s new creation story—one that gives freedom, meaning, purpose, and hope both now and forever.

But here’s the key: the gospel also trains us to see. Two people can look at the same Jesus, the same Scripture, or the same circumstance—one sees burden, the other sees beauty. One sees duty; the other sees delight. Overflow begins not with behavior but with a new lens.

Fresh water and salt water don’t come from the same spring. Transformation flows from the inside out—from a heart that sees Christ clearly.

Run the play. Followthe Invisible Jesus.
He is pleased with you. He’s not grading your performance.
Let the living water overflow—from a heart posture shaped by grace.

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💬 Finding Our Place in the Story

1. Where do you see performance shaping your heart posture more than overflow?
2. What helps you slow down long enough to see Jesus clearly instead of through old assumptions?
3. Corporate: How can our community cultivate a shared heart posture where grace—not performance—shapes how we see, speak to, and treat one another?

“But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s special possession, that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light.”
— 1 Peter 2:9 (NIV)

The church doesn’t have a mission; God’s mission has a church.

I grew up in a small blue-collar town where nearly everyone went to Mass. I’ve been going to church since before I was born—and for most of the last twenty-five years I’ve served in various Protestant leadership roles. That’s a lot of church.

When we lived in Milwaukee, I noticed how neighborhood bars dotted nearly every block. When we later moved South, it was churches instead—sometimes two or three on the same street. It’s no wonder people equate church with buildings, brands, or institutions.

But that’s not what Jesus had in mind when he said, “You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church.”

In the Greek of the New Testament, the word translated church is ekklesia, literally “a calling out” or “the called-out ones.” In ancient Athens, the ekklesia was the civic assembly of citizens called out from private life to govern the city.

When Jesus said, “I will build my ekklesia,” He was describing a movement—a people summoned to establish His kingdom on earth. He was announcing the beginning of the tikkun olam, the repairing of creation, inaugurated by His resurrection as the down payment on a new heaven and a new earth.

He wasn’t talking about an earthly temple, but about living stones being built into a spiritual house—a holy priesthood—with Himself as the Cornerstone. (1 Peter 2)

Jesus’ use of ekklesia connected His followers to Israel’s story: a people called out of the darkness of slavery into the light of covenant relationship. That Old Covenant failed through human weakness, but now, under the New Covenant, His called-out ones are:

Not a building.
Not a brand.
But a people summoned for purpose—the visible expression of heaven’s rule on earth.
Mobile. Relational. Kingdom-minded. Living stones.

Somewhere along the way, we built buildings around the movement. We began to equate church with:

• Sunday services instead of seven-day sentness,
• Attendance instead of apprenticeship,
• Institution instead of incarnation.

Local churches are vital—they’re embassies of the Kingdom. But when we shrink ekklesia to a single address, we forget it’s more like a network of ambassadors than a club of attendees.

The movement became a monument.
And monuments don’t move.

Remember: The church doesn’t have a mission—God’s mission has a church.
We don’t go to church; we are sent as the church.

So here’s the shift we’re invited to make: to see the church not as a destination… but as a distribution center.

Every follower of Jesus is a royal priest somewhere:
A teacher shaping young minds, or a student mastering a subject — that’s ekklesia in the classroom.
A business owner leading with integrity, or an employee doing great work — that’s ekklesia in the marketplace.
A retiree praying over their neighborhood — that’s ekklesia in the cul-de-sac.

Every believer…
Every vocation…
Every corner of creation — is part of the field where God is working.

Run the Play

You are the church —
called out…
sent forth…
for the good of the world and the glory of God.

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Finding Our Place in the Story

1. Where have I reduced “church” to a location or event instead of living as part of God’s sent people?
2. What does it look like to live as ekklesia in my daily environment—family, work, or neighborhood?
3. How can our local church function more like a movement than a monument?

“Only be careful, and watch yourselves closely so that you do not forget the things your eyes have seen or let them fade from your heart as long as you live. Teach them to your children and to their children after them.” – Deuteronomy 4:9

Looking back with gratitude so you can move forward with grace.

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Have you ever wondered why most New Year’s resolutions fail? According to Baylor College of Medicine, 88% collapse within the first two weeks. Another study suggests that only about 9% make it to year’s end.

Still, something deep stirs in us every time the calendar flips. We long for renewal, for a fresh start—something that feels like resurrection in miniature.

Many years ago, I discovered a better way to honor that instinct. Instead of drafting resolutions and to-do lists, I began taking a spiritual inventory—a brief look back at the year behind me and a fresh set of prayers for the year ahead.

It’s a sacred pause: a time to remember how God moved, to record His faithfulness, and to anchor our stories in gratitude. In ancient Israel, people built altars to mark where God had revealed Himself. My “altars” are journal pages and prayer notes that bear witness to His steady goodness.

Can you recall the three most important things on your mind on December 31, 2010? The two best things that happened in 2012? Or what you were lifting up to God in prayer?
I can. While writing this, I opened those old pages—and immediately, I was transported back. Faces, moments, prayers, even tears. And through it all, one refrain: God was faithful.

“For everything that was written in the past was written to teach us.” — Romans 15:4

Taking inventory cultivates a grateful heart. Gratitude reframes the past and reshapes our future.

So on this New Year’s Eve, skip the resolutions. Instead, grab a pen—or your iPad, or that half-used notebook—and take time to review 2025. Scroll through your photos. Jot down the highlights, the answered prayers, the surprises. Then, dream with Jesus about 2026. He loves to meet you there.

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Run the play.
Replay and capture 2025’s greatest hits.
Sketch the 2026 prayer playbook.

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Happy New Year!

“The virgin will conceive and give birth to a son, and they will call him Immanuel” (which means “God with us”). — Matthew 1:23

Two of my oldest brothers went to high schools that took them away from home. As the youngest, I found it confusing — a roller coaster of emotions: grief and sorrow when they left, but pure joy and excitement when they returned for the holidays. I don’t remember many of the gifts we exchanged each Christmas, but I will never forget those feelings.

Their presence was the greatest Christmas present.

One of my favorite worship lyrics says, “You didn’t want heaven without us, so Jesus, You brought heaven down.” On this Christmas Eve, may the wonder of the miracle of Jesus’ birth — His choice to take on human flesh so that He could be present with us — overwhelm all our senses and become our defining reality.

Run the play. Be wholly present for others.
Merry Christmas! 🎄

“Do not consider his appearance or his height, for I have rejected him. The LORD does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart.” — 1 Samuel 16:7

The currency of God’s Kingdom isn’t wealth, power, position, or even theology. It’s influence—earned through humility, spent through obedience, and measured by transformation, not applause.

Our friends Paul and Kathy Little serve as Christian missionaries to Marines and Drill Instructors at Parris Island, SC. Together with their team, they meet these men and women at their greatest point of need—spiritually, emotionally, and practically.

When we visited the base, it was obvious that Paul and Kathy were more than welcome guests. They were beloved. Everywhere we went, Marines greeted them with bright eyes and genuine smiles. You could feel the shift in the atmosphere.

That’s Kingdom influence—the divine capacity to move hearts and shape outcomes through the quiet authority of a life aligned with God’s heart.

Paul and Kathy carry that in abundance. They are a wellspring of living water to thirsty souls.

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Throughout Scripture, God’s great heroes were stewards of this same currency—Moses, Joshua, Caleb, Joseph, David, Esther, Mordecai, Daniel, Nehemiah.
Each rose to profound influence, not because they sought position, but because their intimacy with God gave them invisible authority. They carried Heaven’s weight into earthly situations.

“For if you remain silent at this time, relief and deliverance for the Jews will arise from another place, but you and your father’s family will perish.
And who knows but that you have come to your royal position for such a time as this?”
— Esther 4:14

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While the world measures influence by reach, followers, and likes, the Kingdom measures it by obedience, faithfulness, and fruit that lasts.

Cultural influence flows from personality, charisma, and carefully crafted image.
Kingdom influence flows from presence—the presence of God resting on a yielded heart.

Social media influencers build platforms to be seen.
Kingdom influencers build altars to make Him known.

One chases visibility. The other carries weight.
One manipulates perception. The other manifests transformation.
One fades when the algorithm shifts. The other echoes through eternity.

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Run the Play

• Seek Heaven’s currency—earned through humility, spent through obedience, and measured by transformation.
  
• Remember: People don’t care how much you know until they know how much you care.
  
• Carry the presence of God into every room you enter. That’s how Kingdom ground is taken.
  

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Finding Our Place in the Story

1. When have you witnessed someone quietly influence others because of their intimacy with God rather than their position or platform?
   
2. What area of your life needs to shift from pursuing visibility to cultivating presence?
   
3. How might you “spend” your influence this week—not for recognition, but for transformation that honors the King?

“The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.”
— John 1:14 (NIV)

God is faithful, and the King is alive. He is returning soon.
Come, Lord Jesus. Come quickly. (Maranatha.)

Advent — The Holy Waiting Room of the Soul

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My paternal grandmother lived more than four hundred miles away, making her visits rare but delightful. The four young Jette boys would anxiously count down the days until Grandma Jette arrived. Our excitement grew with each sunrise.

Because I was so young when she died, I don’t remember much about her—but I’ve never forgotten the feeling of anticipation and the joy her presence brought. Pure delight.

Just as those young Jette lads anticipated their grandmother’s arrival, we now find ourselves in another season of expectation. Last Sunday marked the first of four Sundays—and the twenty-four days—leading up to Christmas, when the world pauses to celebrate the birth of Jesus.

The word Advent comes from the Latin adventus, meaning coming or arrival. It reminds us that the story of Jesus isn’t finished. The same God who entered the world once in humility will return in majesty.

This is the seventieth time my life and Advent have shared time and space. I don’t know how many Christmases remain for me on this side of eternity, but one of the dangers of things we know well is captured in the old proverb: familiarity breeds contempt.

That phrase traces back to the Roman writer Publilius Syrus in the first century B.C., who warned that “familiaritas parit contemptum”—overfamiliarity dulls our reverence. That’s the danger with Advent and Christmas: we can lose the weight of their meaning, and their power to move us.

Overcoming that kind of familiarity is one of the reasons I created Running the Play. Apprenticing ourselves to Jesus keeps our faith fresh. We intentionally adopt his way of thinking, acting, and being—training with him daily to become the kind of people who naturally do what he would do if he were living our lives.

Apprentices of Jesus who train with him daily are always running a play that takes ground from the enemy and moves the kingdom forward. There’s nothing more meaningful, satisfying, or eternally fruitful.

And it consistently yields childlike joy and wonder in me that never ceases to amaze.

Just as our childhood wonder grew each day closer to Grandma Jette’s visit, for Jesus’ apprentices, Advent is the holy waiting room of the soul—where expectancy turns ordinary days into sacred countdowns.

Run the play.
Defeat familiarity.
Live in sacred expectancy.

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🪶 Finding Our Place in the Story

1. How might a renewed sense of anticipation reshape the way you experience this Advent season?
2. Where have you grown overly familiar with the story of Jesus—hearing it without feeling its wonder?
3. What “play” is Jesus inviting you to run during this season of holy expectancy?

“Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his love endures forever.” – Psalm 107:1 (NIV)

Benjamin Franklin wanted the turkey—not the bald eagle—as our national bird. I get it.

I’ve been dreaming of turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, gravy, and pumpkin pie. Growing up, we were a turkey-on-Thanksgiving family. One year my wife bought a turkey breast instead of the real thing. I know—who does that? She’s no longer allowed to handle the grocery list.

Recently, feeling nostalgic, I revisited our digitized home movies and photos. I went looking for Thanksgiving feasts and follies, and there it was—a photo of Mom basting the turkey.

Our house was always full at the holidays. My parents welcomed family and friends, and my brothers will attest to the last-minute or uninvited guests who somehow always found a place at our table. But Mom would remind her four hungry boys that it was “family-hold-back time.” Our job was to make sure there was enough for everyone.

Family gatherings can be beautiful—and challenging. We’d be wise to serve up a generous helping of grace this year. Not just the grace prayer before the meal, but an atmosphere of grace that releases our expectations of ourselves and others. The amazing-grace kind.

“Disappointment is the child of unrealistic expectations.” — Ken Boa

So what will you give thanks for tomorrow? And to whom will you give that thanks? Let’s get this party started on the right foot (or turkey leg).

Use the comment link to share something you’re most grateful for this year.

Run the Play — Thanksgiving Menu:

No unrealistic expectations, served with a generous helping of God’s amazing grace.

… and turkey 🦃 😀

💬 Finding Our Place in the Story

What are you grateful for this year?

“No one can serve two masters. Either you will hate the one and love the other, or you will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and money.” — Jesus

Much of Christian fundraising today feels like used-car sales tactics with Bible verses slapped on. Ick.

Brace for impact — ‘tis the season for the annual barrage of church and nonprofit appeals promoting year-end giving. They give me the Ick.

Gen Z coined the term to describe that secondhand embarrassment or gut-level aversion when something just feels off. That’s exactly how many of these appeals land — manipulative and self-serving.

Just today, our snail mail delivered three donation requests from organizations we’ve never supported and one from a group we actually do. Every day from now through early January is “rinse and repeat.”

Then come the lunch and dinner invitations that always end with the same well-rehearsed pitch — a story, a need, and the inevitable “match gift” to sweeten the deal. Cue the arm-twist. More Ick.

This kind of fundraising is common but not biblical. Our culture’s fascination with money and influence has seeped into the Church, shaping our methods more than the Master. We rely on donor psychology instead of divine provision. The irony? Every dollar we chase still reads, “In God We Trust.”

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For, Not From

Much of this behavior is transactional — designed to get money from the donor. But the biblical model of generosity is transformational — partnership for the Kingdom.

Paul captured it beautifully when he discipled the Corinthian church:

“In the midst of a very severe trial, their overflowing joy and their extreme poverty welled up in rich generosity… Entirely on their own, they urgently pleaded with us for the privilege of sharing in this service to the Lord’s people.”
— 2 Corinthians 8:1-4

The Macedonian believers gave not out of guilt or pressure but out of grace. Even in hardship, they pleaded for the privilege to participate in God’s work.

Paul himself modeled this same posture:

“I have not coveted anyone’s silver or gold or clothing… These hands of mine have supplied my own needs and the needs of my companions… remembering the words the Lord Jesus himself said: ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive.’”
— Acts 20:33-35

This is fundraising reimagined — not a strategy to extract resources but a call to mutual transformation through generosity.

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Faithraising, Not Fundraising

So how did we drift so far from that mission and message?

A better way begins with a better mindset — one rooted in for-ness. With the right motives and a heart aligned with Scripture, we can emphasize:

• Relationship over revenue
  
• Transparency over pressure
  
• Trust over tactics
  

That’s what I call faithraising — cultivating faith in both giver and receiver.

When our fundraising reflects the Father’s heart, it stops being an Ick and starts being an act of worship. With a Spirit-powered renewal of the mind, even our methods can mirror the mission.

Run the play.
Sign me up for faithraising.

Finding Our Place in the Story

1. What motivates my generosity—transaction or transformation?
   When I give, do I see it as a way to support a cause, or as a sacred partnership in God’s work of shaping lives, including my own?
   
2. How can I cultivate trust instead of tactics?
   Whether I’m raising funds, serving, or leading, what would it look like to approach people with transparency and relationship rather than pressure or persuasion?
   
3. What would “faithraising” look like in my sphere of influence?
   How might I encourage others to see giving not as loss but as an act of worship that grows faith in both giver and receiver?

“...but I see another law at work in me, waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner of the law of sin… What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body that is subject to death?”     — Romans 7:23–24 NIV

Those high school years were tough. Report card days were worse. My parents’ expectations weren’t unrealistic—which made my grades all the more disappointing. Everyone agreed I wasn’t living up to my potential. The criticism and condemnation only deepened my frustration. We reap what we sow.

The writer of Romans knew this struggle:

“For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out… For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing.” Rom. 7:18–19

By God’s grace, I eventually discovered the antidote: substitute the lesser thing with something far better.

I didn’t study because I wasn’t motivated. It was painful, unrewarding, and reinforced by those dreaded report cards. TV, sports—anything fun—provided temporary relief. But when I finally experienced the lasting joy of hard-earned results, everything changed. I began trading the short-term “high” of avoidance for the deeper satisfaction of growth. I was hooked. How I wish that teenage version of me had learned this sooner.

Psychologists call this the Law of Substitution:
You can’t just stop a bad habit; you must replace it with a good one. Our brains resist emptiness. If we remove a behavior that once met a need—even destructively—that need will search for a new outlet. The key is to fill the void intentionally.

Scripture affirms this principle in spiritual formation:

 “You were taught… to put off your old self… to be made new in the attitude of your minds; and to put on the new self, created to be like God in true righteousness and holiness.” (Ephesians 4:22–24)

Not just put off—but put on.
Replace deceit with truth. Bitterness with forgiveness. Lust with love. Addiction with worship. That’s substitution in action.

What psychology observes in behavior, the gospel reveals in redemption.
At the heart of the gospel is the ultimate substitution:

“God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.”
— 2 Corinthians 5:21 NIV

That’s the divine exchange:
Our sin for His righteousness.
Our death for His life.
Our shame for His sonship.

It’s not just legal—it’s transformational. The cross shows how true change happens: not by suppression, but by substitution.

Just as Christ substituted Himself for us, the Spirit now works in us the same way. We “put off” envy, anger, and addiction—and “put on” love, gratitude, and self-control (Colossians 3:8–10). The new nature doesn’t erase the old automatically; it replaces it through practice and grace.

In addiction recovery, this principle rings true:
You don’t beat darkness by cursing it; you replace it with light.
You don’t gain freedom by willpower; you walk in the Spirit’s power—Christ’s strength for your weakness.

That’s the miracle of substitution.
“He must increase, but I must decrease.” (John 3:30)
Substitution—in slow motion.

Run the play. Not by willpower. Practice substituting Christ’s strength for your weakness. 

💬 Finding Our Place in the Story

Where in my life am I still trying to “stop” a behavior instead of intentionally replacing it with something redemptive?
(Think: What could I “put on” instead of merely “putting off”?)

How does viewing change through the lens of substitution—Christ’s strength for my weakness—shift my approach to spiritual growth or recovery?

In what area of my apprenticeship with Jesus is He inviting me to make a divine exchange—trading my striving for His sufficiency?